The Yellow Houses

by Stella Gibbons

  What else did you expect? was Mary’s unspoken thought.

  ‘And now I suppose I’ll have to set about letting that room. Oh well. I shan’t hurry myself. It’ll need a good turn-out before I show it to anyone.’ Mrs Cadman paused. ‘It isn’t one of the best rooms, of course.’

  Mary made some kind of an acceptable noise and escaped up to her own room. It looked cold and shabby in the winter light. She stared round, rather stonily. She had pains, and disliked telling Mrs Levy, who was apt to transfer any situation to Hamburg in the 1920s. Girls in Hamburg before the war had had pains, and starvation, and only ten marks a week. Gretl Tuber, the forewoman, had write, yes write. Well did Mrs Levy remember. But what had Gretl Tuber done? She had vorked.

  Mary decided that she would bring back a bunch of anemones that evening to brighten the place.

  (It was not until the next occasion that she realized that Mrs Levy had meant writhe.)

  But life in London, she decided, lying comfortably under the eiderdown, wasn’t as exciting as it had been. She had no friends now that the tiresome Sylvie had Run Off; and not enough money to go to a disco . . . I might find some club, though, she mused. I can’t be the only girl in London with no friends and I have nearly forty pounds in the Post Office. Only I don’t want to blow my savings and join a club – I don’t know why. As for getting another job – though it’s nice not having to work mornings – yes, now that, I might . . .

  No, commanded a voice within her, clear as a telephone bell, STAY WHERE YOU ARE.

  Oh well, s’pose it isn’t so bad, she thought, her half-intention deflected so firmly that she hardly realized it had existed. At least I do know old Levy, and she isn’t too bad.

  The truth was that Mary was a corner-maker, as irrevocably as her father was an egg-putter.

  Her flight from Torford had been caused by the strongest desire in her nature: to find a husband. Torford had only been boring because she felt that it held no boy for her; London had only been thrilling because it had more chances of finding one.

  Oh well, she thought, p’raps something will turn up, and at least I’m not tramping round in this wind with green hair and a broken airliner bag and torn clothes and no job.

  At that precise moment, the object of her thoughts was sitting in a stifling hot kitchen/living room, half a mile away, eating fish and chips out of a newspaper and swallowing with them the sharpest ticking-off of her life.

  Mum, the perpetual consumer of tea and fags, the eternally reliable – had Turned Nasty.

  ‘Now you listen to me, Sylvia Higgins. I haven’t said all that much, so far. Let her learn, I’ve thought. Well, seemingly you haven’t. I’m telling you straight, next time you’ve had it. I got enough on me plate.’ (Down went the smoke, into the lungs coated with tannin.) ‘This time, you go off and you don’t come back. You stay ’ome, and you get yerself a job, and you pay me ’alf what you earn, and you take up again with Chris Pollitt –’

  ‘Mum! He’s wet!’

  ‘And what are you, I’d like to know? Bone-dry, I s’pose. Look at yer hair, look at yer cloes – enough to frighten King Kong . . . His dad owns that shop and come a year or two, Chris’ll be managing it. He’s always asking about yer –’

  Sylvie hooked a finger through a strand of green hair and twiddled it.

  ‘Now you get out o’ that chair and you put on that –’ throwing a plastic apron at her – ‘and you get weaving on that washing-up. I’m off to work. We don’t want me bloody well on the Assistance as well as your dad.’

  A time both dull and exhausting now began for Wilfred.

  Long before the final settlements were signed, Mr Dill took to marching into the place (this was how Wilfred put it to himself) ‘to see what wanted doing’.

  ‘What’s got to be done in such a hurry?’ Wilfred asked surlily. ‘The place looks all right to me.’

  ‘Oh it isn’t a bad little shack as places go, but it badly needs modernizing . . . that’s coming down for a start.’

  Mr Dill jabbed a finger, suggesting one of his own beef sausages, at the wall dividing the dining room from Pat’s dearly loved lounge. ‘Mrs D.’s set on having one large room. Better for entertaining. And a picture window in the best bedroom. That she must have.’

  Wilfred said nothing. He didn’t want anything, except to be settled and have a bit of peace with Mary.

  ‘A new bath,’ announced Mr Dill.

  ‘That bath was new three years ago!’ cried Wilfred, aroused. ‘A brand new pink bath –’

  ‘The wife doesn’t go for pink. And we may have to run up another room in that loft. I been having a recce.’

  Wilfred knew this. The lumping and swearing had been audible in the kitchen. He took down his raincoat. It was sleeting, and when it sleets in Torford, it sleets.

  He spent one of the most depressing afternoons of his life, walking at a determinedly brisk pace from street to street, looking for rooms.

  There were simply no small, cheapish, cosy rooms to be had. At about four o’clock, he turned homewards as determinedly as he had set out. It had just occurred to him that he could have kept at least warm and dry by using the car. But the car had never played a large part in his life, and he had simply forgotten it in the press of his worries.

  I’m sick to death of this, he thought. But I won’t give up until I’ve done every part of the town – except where Dad is. I couldn’t stand that now. Funny, when I like going there. But there’s him, of course – oh well––

  ‘Hullo, stranger! Where’ve you been hiding?’

  He turned, just as he was entering his own road. It was one of Pat’s sensible, sharp-eyed, cheerful friends. As ‘hiding’, in the sense of deliberately avoiding these women, was precisely what he had been doing for months, guilt was added to his irritation and dismay.

  ‘Oh . . . hullo, Shirley . . . nice to see you . . . yes, it is a long time . . . Oh, I don’t know. Haven’t been out much, I suppose.’

  ‘Now that’s naughty, Wilf. I guessed you hadn’t. I was only saying to Maurice the other Thursday – no, it must have been the Wednesday, because I’d just come in from my Flower Arranging class . . . I haven’t seen Wilf for months, I said. I bet he’s just lying down under it. What you want to do is to get out, see people, distract your mind, join a club – the Liberals are always clamouring for members, I can give you the address – but I suppose you couldn’t, of course, being Labour. Or even come round and see little us! You’re always welcome, you know that.’

  ‘Yes . . . I do . . . thank you. It’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Oh, kind – rubbish . . . Who are these new people you’re running around with?’ Shirley’s eyes had become suddenly sharper; they were fixed on his own. ‘Big woman, always wears a pinkish coat, and a long chap in a greyish raincoat? Don’t they live in Hardy Crescent?’ It was a pounce. ‘I’ve seen you in his car.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ Wilfred’s words died away. Presumably she meant Mrs Cornforth – but big and pinkish? Katherine, who made him think of An Idyll and ‘La Belle Dame’? And her favourite scarlets and crimsons . . . Katherine? And greyish? The familiar raincoat that seemed to glow?

  ‘New friends,’ he found himself saying, as lightly as Mr Taverner himself.

  ‘Oh? Interesting? I adore meeting interesting people; you know me. Come and have a coffee and tell me all about them – on me, of course!’

  In another minute, he thought, she’ll have got me.

  ‘It’s very nice of you, Shirley, but I can’t – I’m – I’ve got someone coming to see me and I’m late now – I was just –’ he looked at his wrist.

  ‘Oh? Anyone exciting?’

  ‘A medium . . . I’m trying to get in touch with Jack the Ripper.’

  He realized the implications of what he had said when he saw Shirley’s astounded stare.

  ‘Well, really, Wilf,’ she said, crimsoning but managing a laugh. ‘Look us up soon, won’t you? I did call once or twice but you always seemed to be out.�
�

  ‘I’m sorry . . . The fact is I’ve been a bit under the weather.’

  He knew that she had called; he had twice seen her sturdy silhouette through the glass panels of the front door as he lurked in the kitchen.

  ‘You must cheer us up . . . the Big Man didn’t let Pat linger on for years, you know, like some do . . . bye-bye.’

  ‘Bye-bye,’ said Wilfred savagely.

  Why must great fat women talk like toddlers? And why must they call God Almighty the Ancient of Days, the Big Man?

  And what’s wrong with Shirley and Sheila and Joan and the rest of them? he demanded guiltily of himself as he shut the front door. They’re kind, they’re sensible, they’re good wives and mothers, and not so thick as you’d think. She knew I meant I wished the Ripper would get her, when I said that . . . not really, not really, of course . . . It’s awful, the feelings one has buried inside oneself . . . but I can’t stand it. Give me Mrs Wheeby any day.

  His search the next morning in the region of large old houses, with spacious gardens, was no more successful. Twice, an au pair girl heard his enquiry for rooms with an uncomprehending stare ending in giggles; several houses were let out in separate rooms, but could not accommodate three; some, on closer inspection, were falling into ruin; and some had the staring word DEVELOPMENT on boards in their gardens.

  At last, about the time the cold January sun was going down the yellow sky, he turned homewards. He felt ashamed at having thoughts about hot tea as early as half past three in the afternoon, but they were there, so why not admit their existence?

  Doesn’t mean I shall give way to them, he thought, walking quickly past the glaring, blazing shops through the delicate winter light. Mustn’t start pampering myself.

  Another thought which had quietly taken possession of him was that he would leave the finding of rooms to Providence. Perhaps Providence could manage it. Certainly Wilfred Davis couldn’t.

  It’s daft, said part of his mind. Well, we’re told to trust in Providence, aren’t we? said another part tartly, which could not face any more tramping about in fruitless search. So you shut up! And I’ll take myself home a doughnut. Have it hot. (Pat was always afraid I’d put on weight.)

  Mrs Wheeby was planted in his kitchen. As he opened the front door he saw her bulky shape, standing by the table.

  ‘Oh there you are, Mr Davis. I was just beginning to wonder where you had got to. It’s nearly dark. I hope you’ll forgive my having unlocked the kitchen door. I noted you keep the key hanging on that drawer-knob in the hall – not wise, if I may venture to say so. They could see it through the letter-box. – Now you’ (pause, gasp) ‘will never believe what has happened. Quite providential.’

  He saw that she was holding an opened letter, and her downy cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes behind the thick lenses were shining.

  ‘I’m sure you must have heard me speak of Fred, Fred Garston, my husband’s second cousin. Such a coincidence. He and I were chums when we were all teenagers. But I haven’t heard from him – not to say heard –’ (pause, gasp) ‘for sixteen years, though we always exchange cards at Christmas and Easter. I attach importance to that, Mr Davis. It shows someone really has you in mind, if they send at Easter as well. – Now you just read that,’ and she handed him a letter.

  In clear, old-fashioned handwriting Cousin Fred proposed that Cousin Edith should come to share his house in Chelmsford. It was getting too big for him. They could each have their own half, because he knew she liked a bit of peace and quiet as much as he did, and they would manage nicely. Would she excuse him not giving her longer notice, but the idea had come over him rather suddenly, and would she please let him know soon. And he was hers, affectionately, C. F. Garston (Fred).

  Wilfred put the letter down on the kitchen table. Providence had stepped in, right smartly. But would Mrs Wheeby bow to Providence’s arrangements?

  He fixed his eyes on her anxiously as she began her steam-roller tactics.

  ‘Well, Mr Davis, what do you think? I’m most eager to have your opinion, and of course I haven’t forgotten my promise to stand by you through thick and thin. But the truth is, financial matters do not improve’ (pause, gasp) ‘as the years go by, and Fred has always been well-to-do. He comes from a well-to-do family, and I have no doubt at all he intends me to go as his guest. The fact is, Mr Davis, he was sweet on me when we were both eighteen; and I think if Mr W. hadn’t come back from India at that time he would have Proposed. My dear mother always believed so, to her dying day. Now what’s your opinion, Mr Davis? I’m really anxious to hear it.’

  ‘Do sit down Mrs Wheeby, won’t you? I was just going to make some tea – perhaps you’ll share it with me?’

  Providence had done him so handsomely – and so quick off the mark, too! Old suitor, comfortably off, second cousin of late husband, own house in Chelmsford, sufficiently far off for Wilfred not to feel obliged to go rushing round there at a minute’s notice if the scheme went awry! His only fear was that the splendid gift might, so to speak, flutter off before he had caged it.

  Now don’t overdo it, he warned himself, as he took down the teacups.

  Mrs Wheeby had seated herself, and was studying him with a touch of anxiety. He began to speak slowly, as he plugged in the kettle.

  ‘Well, Mrs Wheeby, my first thought is that I shall be sorry to have you so far away as twenty miles. But we must . . . we must use our heads, not our hearts, mustn’t we? And there is no doubt at all, that I can see, that you would be much more comfortable. I don’t mind admitting to you, now that this offer has come up, that I’ve been out room-hunting most of this week, and had no luck at all.’

  ‘Well, I never thought you would, Mr Davis.’

  ‘. . . And of course, it’s been all the more worrying, Mrs Wheeby, because of finding somewhere suitable for yourself and Mary . . .’

  ‘I think you’ll find Mary won’t be on your hands for long. Much improved in looks and thinner too. More attractive nowadays.’

  ‘. . . and so, on the whole, I must say it seems quite providential . . . though perhaps you would have liked a bit longer to think it over . . . Cousin Fred seems in a bit of a hurry, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Only because of my promise to you, I do assure you, Mr Davis. Only because of that. I feel every confidence in Fred, and I don’t mind him being in a hurry – affections formed in youth, you know, have a way of lasting – yes, every confidence.’

  ‘Well, I shall miss you, of course.’ Wilfred paused. But the situation seemed to be moving so surely towards the position designed for it by Providence that he felt he might safely indulge in a little kindness. ‘I had quite looked forward to . . . to . . . our all setting up housekeeping together.’

  ‘Oh, I was positively dreading it.’

  Wilfred retained enough control not to turn and stare at her.

  ‘Yes, really dreading it, Mr Davis. I’ve lived in your house for nearly two years, and it’s been ever so much better since Mrs Davis died.’ (Well! Plain-speaking indeed. Astounding Wheeby.) ‘But we don’t really know each other, not the way I know Fred; and I’m sure I never could resist putting in a word about Mary now and then, if we all lived together. I can tell you now’ (pause, gasp) ‘I was really shocked by her unkindness – going off and leaving her father with her mother not six months dead – job with auntie or no job with auntie!’ (Wilfred quivered inwardly.) ‘Downright heartless, I thought, though I did send her a birthday card. But we’ll say no more about that, and I hope you’ll find somewhere really your style. You know, Mr Davis, there are the whales and Dicky – and my ways are not yours and Mary’s ways.’

  Wilfred smilingly set before her a cup of tea.

  ‘So I shall write to Fred this very night. Let me see, the last post goes at seven. I will just drink this up quickly, and get down to the pleasant task.’

  ‘But you mustn’t go out in the cold, Mrs Wheeby. It’s bitter this evening. You’ll let me take it for you, won’t you? I can be there a
nd back in no time.’

  ‘Well that’s very kind of you, Mr Davis, but you are kind. You always have been.’

  They sat sipping their tea in silence.

  Hallelujah, thought Wilfred. Hallelujah.

  16

  The golden offer

  Wilfred took to Cousin Fred. It would not have mattered if he hadn’t, he supposed, yet he would not have liked to see his old brick of a Wheeby handed over, for the last years of her life, to a bully or a sponger.

  Cousin Fred was tall and bald – he might have been any age between fifty and seventy – and silent, with an infrequent smile which was pleasant on a usually solemn face.

  ‘It’s a relief to me, knowing Mrs Wheeby’s going to be settled with a relation,’ Wilfred confided to him while they were waiting in the hall for Mrs Wheeby to come downstairs. ‘We’ve become friendly in the last six months – me being on my own, you see – and her in the same boat.’

  Cousin Fred nodded.

  ‘Edith has always been Rather Original,’ he said in a lowered tone, with a glance up the stairs. ‘Now I like that, Mr Davis. At nineteen, Edith was quite unlike the other young ladies in our little circle. Outstanding. I shall enjoy her company. I always have enjoyed it.’

  So long as you’re prepared for just how Original Edith is, thought Wilfred, but said no more.

  Clearly Cousin Fred was taking to live with him, not a stout old woman of well over seventy, but an Outstanding Girl of nineteen, with large grey eyes and a lot of – but it wasn’t possible to guess what colour that hair had been before it turned to white silk.

  Mrs Wheeby reported, in quiet approval, on her new home.

  ‘It is really commodious, Mr Davis, and a conservatory. I am fond of a conservatory. Fred specializes in fuchsias, and I am to have my own sitting room, and Fred is having a second bath and toilet put in on my floor’ (pause, gasp) ‘and a regular man comes in to help with the garden once a fortnight, and a regular woman comes in every day to clean thoroughly – at least, she is supposed to clean thoroughly . . . “I cannot imagine, Fred,” I said to him, “where you find these people . . .” When I remember the difficulty Mrs Davis had . . . I am certain, Mr Davis, that Fred’s having been a regular eater of health foods for forty years has much to do with it . . .’