The Yellow Houses

by Stella Gibbons

  Wilfred was silent, sitting with her before the television; he had invited her down to see a programme about dolphins. He waited, knowing that some Wheebyism would follow.

  ‘You see, Mr Davis, Fred is not inwardly poisoned, and people can feel it, and therefore they know that he will be a good employer.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see, Mrs Wheeby.’

  Mrs Wheeby paused. Her eyes, fixed upon the faces of the celebrities on the screen, slowly became pebbly, but whether because of the kind of faces they were, or because of her next sentence, was not clear.

  ‘I hope, I very much hope’ (wheeze, gasp) ‘that I shall not have any trouble with Mrs Bedford. That is Fred’s cleaner, Mr Davis. Mrs Bedford.’

  Wilfred neither hoped nor feared. If she did, he knew who would win.

  The desolate month drew on, in the icy spring light, with the earliest shivering flowers. Doggedly, Wilfred continued to search for two bed-sitters, and to find nothing. Mrs Wheeby’s preparations for her departure rolled on, and Mr Dill bullied him into letting the workmen start on knocking down the thin partition separating Mary’s room from the room over the porch.

  ‘Dressing-room for me; very “with it” the wife is,’ Mr Dill said.

  Since’s Pat’s death, it had never been cheerful to return to Lamorna; now, with the dust, and the trampled garden, and the ceaseless whine from the men’s transistor, Wilfred almost preferred his fruitless tramps through the bitter streets. He put off turning homewards as long as possible, pushing open one more gate, lingering to inspect a last house that promised cosiness and cheapness, before turning slowly away and moving through the lengthening January evening, towards the Commedia dell’Arte.

  It was not his idea of a place you dropped into for a cup of tea, having a black and gold front and ‘all this Italian nonsense all over the place’. But it was warm, and he could get a hot doughnut there, and he had taken to dropping in after his afternoon search.

  On this particular evening, he pushed open the massive glass and chromium door with fretful thoughts, and worked his way in between table and banquette.

  A small elderly lady came up to the glass door and began to push at it; a waitress loitered up to Wilfred’s table; and finally, behind the small elderly lady there loomed the familiar tall figure in the white raincoat.

  Wilfred’s spirits lifted. He sat up, smiling, while Mr Taverner pushed open the door easily, with a long arm over the elderly lady’s head, and held it for her.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the waitress, shifting her chewing gum.

  ‘Two, no, four doughnuts, please, and may we have them hot.’ Mr Taverner slid into the seat opposite to Wilfred, looked round him, and began to laugh. ‘What an absurd place . . . and TEA,’ he hallooed after the waitress ‘– hot, hot and very hot, and bad for our poor nerves.’ The waitress disappeared smiling – sourly, but it was a smile.

  Wilfred felt, comfortably, that although he might not see Mr Taverner for a week or so, they always resumed their friendship as if there had been no break.

  ‘Well, how have things been going? Katherine tells me that she has telephoned you “again and again”, but always without any luck.’

  ‘I’ve been out every afternoon,’ Wilfred said shortly. He didn’t want to start relating his experiences; it would sound like grumbling – and Pat had been so down on grumbling.

  ‘Oh . . . well, no doubt, being Katherine, she telephoned once . . . however . . .’ Mr Taverner paused.

  ‘I’ve been looking for rooms,’ Wilfred blurted out. ‘For Mary and me and I can’t find a thing. Not a thing.’

  Mr Taverner looked sympathetic but the tea and doughnuts now arrived.

  ‘You see,’ Wilfred went on, ‘Mrs Wheeby – you remember Mrs Wheeby?’

  ‘Of course. What do you take me for?’ Mr Taverner nodded, sucking a finger burnt by hot jam. ‘Nothing more bracing than boiling jam on a January afternoon,’ he confided. ‘Greed was ever my besetting sin.’

  ‘I suppose I could have taken some makeshift place for myself, and then when Mary came up – but they were all so depressing, Mr Taverner! I just couldn’t think what to do. You see, Mrs Wheeby being . . . but what do you think has happened?’

  ‘She’s off your hands, I hope?’ smiling.

  ‘Yes, that’s just it.’

  Wilfred began to tell about Cousin Fred, going into details with enjoyment. That tongue, on whose taciturnity Sheila and Shirley and the rest had rallied him (when they remembered to, for they were accustomed to apparently dumb, or at least monosyllabic, men) now rattled along. Mr Taverner listened, sometimes throwing back his head in laughter. It was a happy story; Wilfred realized this while he was telling it.

  ‘And just at first, you know, I thought at last she’s out of the way, and things’ll be all right . . . but I haven’t seen a single place, not one, under ten guineas a week; and when they were clean they . . . they . . . sort of glared at you – if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I know very well.’ Mr Taverner nodded.

  ‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do, and that’s a fact,’ Wilfred ended. ‘It seems hopeless.’ The word came out before he could prevent it.

  ‘Come and live with us in the Yellow House,’ Mr Taverner said.

  Wilfred stared at him.

  The warm, dim place was quiet; there were only two other people drinking coffee in the further shadows, and outside the windows, Torford’s rush hour was going past, its roar muffled by the plate glass. Mr Taverner’s expression was easy, his faint friendly smile comforted; it might almost have been that he was joking. Yet Wilfred felt that he wasn’t; in fact the offer had not really surprised him.

  Hadn’t he thought I’ll leave it to Providence, and hadn’t Providence provided Cousin Fred? Now Providence had come up with this.

  The pause lengthened. He was seeing in memory his bedroom at the Yellow House, with the white-rose walls and cane furniture.

  ‘Look here,’ he broke out, ‘there’s Mary, you know. She’s got to have somewhere. With me, I mean.’

  ‘Mary too, of course. The more, as they say, the merrier. You know there’s plenty of room.’

  Wilfred nodded. That faint sensation swept him again like cold air: stars, vast space, immense vistas. It passed.

  ‘You’ll let us pay something, of course, won’t you?’

  ‘Four quid a week for you, two for Mary when she’s there – I take it she won’t always be.’

  ‘But, Mr Taverner, that’s . . . ridiculous. You know it is. I never heard such . . . (As you say, she won’t always be there.) But four!’

  ‘An aunt left me a goodish fortune a couple of years ago,’ Mr Taverner gabbled. Every line in his face was smoothed out, his eyes were clear as the Cornish sea. ‘And Katherine and Felicity have enough to canter along on – (not jog, I wouldn’t say jog), and . . . we would so like to have you.’

  But Wilfred felt that it was his duty to make Mr Taverner fully aware of what the plan would mean.

  ‘Another thing . . .’ he began slowly. ‘Could your ladies manage? It means extra work, and it’s a big house. You did say you have some help?’

  His voice trailed off, as there sprang into his memory, with an astonishing clarity, the faces of the two creatures he had seen, or imagined he had seen, kneeling before the grate in the room he had assumed to belong to Mrs Cornforth.

  Had those – those – things . . . been, unbelievably, clearing away the ashes and re-laying the fire?

  Mr Taverner was pouring himself a second cup of tea. His heavy eyelids were lowered. Now he swept them up, and looked limpidly at Wilfred.

  ‘More tea? No? Yes, a couple do come in to help’ (exactly the same words!) ‘– you needn’t worry about that.’ For all the clarity of the look, the word brazen sounded somewhere in Wilfred’s mind.

  Mr Taverner went on: ‘You wouldn’t mind the place being what many people would call haunted? You remember – I told you. (I’m using that word because I can’t think of another that wou
ld cover the odd goings-on, though it doesn’t fit, in my book, what seems to go on in the Yellow House.) Would you mind?’

  Wilfred hesitated. He felt strongly that he must speak the truth.

  ‘A bit,’ he muttered at last. He wished that the question had not been asked; yet it would have seemed worse, somehow, if Mr Taverner had kept silent.

  ‘I give you my word . . . I’d say my solemn word, only I’m never solemn . . . that there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to it; we all have.’

  Mr Taverner stirred his tea, into which he had put, as usual, large quantities of sugar.

  Yes, but none of you are ordinary people.

  The words remained unspoken, and Wilfred made his decision in the manner of peace-lovers the world over: suddenly, without thinking out the matter any further.

  ‘All right, then. Yes, and I can’t thank you all enough.’

  On a fine morning in the middle of January, Derek got into the 1938 car, now in order after a fortnight’s absorbed work on it by himself, and, with Mr Taverner beside him working the map, began to drive straight across England towards the mountains of Wales.

  He had made a faultless first excursion at the wheel, with Mr Taverner, nearly a week ago.

  ‘I’ve nothing to teach you; your mate was right,’ the latter had said on their return to the Yellow House after the car had been backed into its shed.

  ‘Wot say?’ Derek asked dreamily.

  ‘You do have a genius for cars.’

  ‘A natural, eh?’ Derek, who seldom smiled, did so now, and his face became a younger boy’s, good-natured and sweet.

  ‘Like to drive her down to Wales on Wednesday?’

  The smile broadened. ‘Bit risky.’

  ‘So is everything,’ Mr Taverner pronounced.

  ‘Well – no licence, I meant.’

  ‘Oh, that. We’ll take a chance.’ Mr Taverner shook his head. ‘Naughty Lafcadio . . . all the same, we will. You’ll have to have some lessons, for form’s sake, and take your test, of course.’

  ‘Think I’ll pass?’ Derek grinned.

  ‘I know you will, and first time.’

  ‘T’isn’t many blokes do that, not nowadays.’

  ‘You will.’

  Now they were on their way.

  Strengthened by kindness and good food and praise and sleep and new clothes and a job ahead, Derek looked, not only a different boy, but the same boy made happy; his body seemed more solid inside the sheepskin jacket that was a present from Miss Dollette, his very hair blew thicker in the wind, and his skin was clearing.

  The merciless motorways, the shaped and levelled roads running between fields under frost, the leafless woods, fell behind them until, as the brief yellow evening was closing in, they spun steadily across the delicate, space-age majesty of the Severn Bridge; and half an hour later saw their first roadside notice in Welsh.

  Down, down they went, as the dusk deepened, between seemingly endless rows of small, pale brick houses all looking alike in the cold glare of the street lamps, past little café after little café glowing cosily, until they saw it – violet-grey to the pale horizon, with the occasional lonely red star of light from a ship shining far out: the sea.

  ‘That is not my idea of Proper Sea,’ Mr Taverner said severely. ‘Proper Sea is Cornwall. This is only the boring old Bristol Channel.’

  ‘Looks all right to me – what I can see of it. Smells all right too . . . oh, there’s waves . . .’

  They were rolling in, white in the last faint light, beyond a long dark stone causeway spreading half around the bay. Mr Taverner, who had insisted on taking over the driving to give Derek the rest he said was necessary, turned to the left along a pleasant road running between old-fashioned houses and a little park facing the sea; leafless now, but it would look pretty in the spring. He put the brake on gently, and drew in to the pavement.

  ‘Here we are.’

  It was a small garage and petrol station, standing on a corner next to a little house with lights shining in every window. It was painted yellow; the same clear yellow as the house in Torford.

  A nondescript kind of man came forward leisurely, wiping his hands on a rag.

  ‘Hullo, Guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Hullo, Derek,’ and soon they were in the house, and being made welcome by a dumpy little wife and an equally dumpy half-baby, half-toddler (‘a boddler – cross between the two,’ Mr Taverner explained). And then they were sitting down to supper in a bright little room with the television on, and appetizing smells in the air.

  Derek was not silent or shy; he boasted a little about the prowess with the car, glancing at Mr Taverner for confirmation; and Mrs Stanton filled his plate again while she listened admiringly, and with just enough incredulity to add spice to her listening; and the boddler in its high-chair splashed a spoon in the bowl of mush, and then put a wet hand on Derek’s, making him laugh. It’s like it was at home before Dad died, he thought, confusedly, for he was tired with the unaccustomed driving.

  They sent him up to bed early, Mr Taverner saying that he himself would be staying there for a few days ‘to settle you in, dear boy’, and would see him in the morning. ‘We’ll have a walk along that causeway after breakfast.’

  Derek looked out between the flowery curtains, before getting into bed; the sea was invisible, but that great darkness beyond the lamps shining in the little park – you could tell it was there. And listen; between the perpetual Saturday evening drone of passing cars, there it was: the sound of the waves, the waves breaking on the shore. He drew in his head, and shut the window, then looked round his little room.

  Christ, he thought, but Christ – why are they all so bloody kind to me?

  He hesitated a moment. Then, as if making up his mind, he strode across the room and ran down the stairs to the room on the next floor that was Mr Taverner’s, where he had just said goodnight to him.

  This little house, like the one where he had stayed in Torford, seemed larger inside than it had looked from the road.

  He tapped. At once the door opened and there stood his friend, smiling.

  Derek stammered at once, not giving himself a chance to draw back: ‘Just . . . came to say . . . thanks for everything, Laf. Thanks. I’ll . . . I’ll be all right now, and I’ll send a card to Mum. I’ll be all right.’

  Funny he never said anything, he thought, as he climbed the stairs again. But he was pleased; you could see that. All the lights on – very bright it was in there, and that scent. Remember? I thought it was a bird, first time . . . must be one of those aftershaves . . . might get one of them. He always uses it. Get the same.

  And, being nineteen, and for the first time happy since that afternoon six years ago when his father had taken him to see Arsenal play the Villa, he began a soft clear whistle. Under his breath; a soft, clear, happy young man’s whistle.

  ‘Does he understand?’ asked Mr Stanton. The three were sitting round the fire in the living room, Mrs Stanton with some knitting in hand for the boddler, who was (temporarily – you never knew) asleep upstairs.

  Mr Taverner shook his head. ‘No. But I feel he might, one day. One or two things he’s said.’

  The other nodded. ‘I thought so. Well, he’ll do, I’m sure of that. Good old Guv’nor . . . you never made a bloomer yet.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Taverner modestly, ‘so far. No, it’s in our lot, at Torford, that I’m afraid one’s blowing up.’

  Mr Stanton stared at him in quiet dismay, and he nodded. ‘Oh yes. Very dangerous indeed. She wasn’t ready. I know that risks have to be taken, but sometimes I feel it’s damned hard on me. But never mind that now. Jess,’ he turned to Mrs Stanton, ‘you can find him a girl, can’t you?’

  ‘That was just what I was thinking about,’ she said, after a moment’s pause, listening, her needles poised. ‘Jean Evans, working at the Marina Café just round the corner. Seventeen. Very nice. She’s got a regular, but I think that’s on the turn . . .’

  ‘Like milk.’
Mr Taverner nodded. ‘Well, I know you’ll do what you can.’

  She looked across at him and smiled.

  ‘He’s a sweet boy . . . he’ll be safe here, with George and Timmy and me and the cars.’

  Mr Taverner did not smile. ‘Safe . . . the big word. Not yet, but all right, Jess,’ and he told them what Derek had said to him upstairs.

  ‘Nineteen years on the receiving end,’ he concluded, ‘and a legacy of goodness-only-knows how many generations of resentment and underdoggery. But he got it out – he got out the word Thanks. I could have hugged the child.’

  He stood up, and stretched his long arms above his head.

  ‘Splendour of God, but my body’s tired . . . shall we all go to bed?’

  ‘Remember how tired we were at Verdun, Guv’nor, just before the end?’ asked Mr Stanton, with his hand on the light-switch. Mrs Stanton was putting away her knitting.

  ‘That,’ Mr Taverner answered, ‘is one of the things I have not been allowed to forget.’

  17

  A death

  Mrs Wheeby steamrollered ahead with her preparations for departure to Cousin Fred’s, keeping steadily to Dicky’s hours throughout the cancelling of the Daily Telegraph, the renouncing of her daily half-pint of milk and, finally, the witnessing of her small armchair, few books, and some ornaments and photographs being carried into a van with Removals upon it.

  ‘For I couldn’t trust any of the smaller objects to the Post, Mr Davis. These are treasures.’

  Then it was Wednesday, and she had gone.

  Dicky’s silvery roulades and the whales (ah, that vast, gliding shadow!) and their other-worldly singing had gone with her. During the long, mooning days – days existing as it were in a pause – Wilfred often thought about the world whence came those long, lifting and descending cries. It was . . . there. If his body could have survived the weight of a mile’s depth of water; if his human sight could have penetrated the clear, black-green darkness; he could have seen the vast bodies moving through their kingdom, tasted its salt, felt its currents sweeping him along.