The Yellow Houses

by Stella Gibbons

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Cadman.’

  Mary went upstairs thinking about the telephone call to Japan. An hour! It wouldn’t take an hour to ask how Great-grandfather was and get the rest of the family news. Could he have been explaining something to them? Listening at midday, all those thousands and thousands of miles away on the other side of the world? After nine o’clock, when he had talked to her, and knew that he was forgiven?

  ‘Mary –’ Mrs Cadman’s voice came softly up the stairs. ‘It was me gave him your number, dear. Mr Grant told me he was asking where you were – seemed a bit upset. (Well, that never does any harm.) Mr G. thought it was a nerve. But I thought, oh well, a little oil on the wheels, you know.’

  ‘That was all right, Mrs Cadman.’ Mary paused, then added: ‘Thanks very much, as a matter of fact,’ and smiled.

  Mrs Cadman was smiling too, as she almost tiptoed down the stairs, the sunlight making a contemporary version of the halo around her plastic rollers. And Mary, opening the tin of pilchards, was thinking how sickening it was to have two old women poking into her beautiful love story. Kindly meant, of course, and simply sickening . . . And oh, what had the telephone call to Japan been about?

  24

  The photograph

  They were climbing a broad hill, crowned by a beech in brilliant green leaf with a seat beneath it.

  ‘There we will sit,’ announced Yasuhiro suddenly, pointing. But an elderly lady exercising two dogs was also making for it. ‘Now we run,’ he added, and leapt away, Mary following, enjoying the race but ashamed of this frank grabbing.

  ‘Ha! We win!’ he announced, flinging himself onto the seat. ‘Go away, go away, dogs, back to the shameful place where you live,’ to the two young boxers who had finished the race with them and wanted to make friends.

  ‘Carlo! Benita! Come here at once,’ called the elderly lady, and they bounded away.

  ‘I like this Heef,’ Yasuhiro announced in what Mary now recognized as his social voice (doesn’t want to start talking seriously), surveying the bright, green-gold prospect. ‘But too many beastly peasants.’

  The landscape was dotted with strolling figures, many elderly like the lady of the boxers, but others young: bearded and Chinese-moustached, or with flowing hair and ample skirts billowing in the wind.

  ‘People must get a breath at the weekend, Yasu.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Fair enough, as you say here. But does not mean I must like. Appearance affronts me. (I learnt that word yesterday – affronts.)’

  ‘Good for you . . . you’ll find it useful.’

  He slowly turned his eyes on her.

  ‘What you are meaning, Mairly? Sarcasm, perhaps? Ah yes. You mean I am too often affront?’

  ‘(Affronted.) Well, you do rather go on about peasants. Other people have a right to exist, you know.’

  ‘I do not say they haven’t . . . But also I have a right to be affronted. (Western democracy!) Dirty, looking poor, no shape to outline of them. Important to Japan. Shape and outline – same thing? I must think about meaning during next week.’

  ‘You do that, love,’ Mary said smoothly, wishing to steer the conversation into less impersonal waters.

  ‘You see, Mairly,’ he swept on, ‘these peasants are not beautiful. Spoil landscape. Yes, spoil.’ His tone was hard, his eyes flashing. The artist was awake and exasperated.

  ‘Everybody can’t be beautiful,’ she snapped. ‘How about me?’

  ‘Different.’ His hand shot out and gently took her own. ‘You are beautiful to me. Do not care one solitary damn (also learnt this yesterday) what other people think.’

  Mary was silenced again. She made no coy protestations. They sat for a moment in silence while his gaze rested arrogantly upon her white, downcast eyelids, then she tried again.

  ‘Well, tell me what you’ve been doing this weekend?’

  He looked out over the bright landscape, then began slowly:

  ‘Last night, Mairly, it is Saturday night, I made a telephone call to Great-grandfather in Japan (it was daylight there, you know when night here – “small hours” is the name). And why do you think I do this, Mairly?’

  ‘How on earth should I know? Did you want to know how he was?’

  ‘Was what?’

  ‘(Oh dear.) His health, I mean.’

  ‘Not truly. Will die soon, and we all know this; he too. No. I telephone to him to break news. Break, like you break an ugly stone because is perhaps bad news – bad news for them my family. Wait.’ He put up a hand. ‘Confused thoughts in heart – human feelings fighting with giri – and I forget my English.’ He drew in a slow, deep breath and expelled it. Mary sat with lowered head, looking at her linked fingers. Her heart was heaving.

  ‘No. I telephone to him to tell him not to make any more arrangements for me to marry.’

  Now Mary did look up, startled, and met the triumphant sparkle of his eyes. He nodded.

  ‘Yes, that is what I say to him, Mairly. And I do this because, I tell him, I marry you.’ As he said the last word, he put out his hand again and took hers as if he were about to lead her out onto a path that they would follow together. Into the misty, mountainous land of danger, where he lived?

  She looked down at the long, ivory fingers, and tried to catch at her feelings. Here was what she wanted. But she was drowned in love. She could not think clearly. Did she want it now? There was a pause.

  She made what was, so far, the strongest effort of her life.

  ‘That’s . . . I mean . . . thank you, Yasu, love,’ she said faintly. ‘But . . . I’m not . . . absolutely certain that I . . . want to marry you.’

  ‘Not marry me, Mairly,’ he exclaimed loudly, withdrawing his hand. ‘But I see you in the shop. I love your face, like a Japanese girl in an old fairy story. I follow you to unworthy Rowena Road. And now you are not wish to marry me?’ His English had become almost unintelligible, and she found this unbearably moving.

  ‘Oh Yasu, love, don’t be hurt. Don’t be angry. Aren’t you just a bit – afraid – to marry someone not Japanese?’

  ‘You learn husband’s country customs. Woman’s duty.’

  ‘Well, yes. If I married you, of course I should. It isn’t that. It’s just that I – I don’t like some of the customs.’

  ‘What customs? You explain me,’ and he put his arm around her shoulders and parted the veil of her hair; and then she felt his fingers begin, gently and with feather-like delicacy, to stroke the nape of her neck. It was lulling; she seemed to be moving towards sleep. But she roused herself.

  ‘That old – I mean Mishima, Yasu. I don’t like you being so – so devoted to him. All that stuff about dying for Japan. And I thought that business about the head-chopping-off was simply awful. And as for that other carry-on – simply disgusting . . .’

  She faltered, for he was nodding in a satisfied manner.

  ‘Of course, of course. Sweet gentle woman.’

  ‘You see, I think it’s bad for you, Yasu.’

  ‘How can it be bad for young man to admire virtues of samurai?’ The fingers stopped their stroking abruptly, and he stared.

  ‘Well –’ Mary gulped and struggled on. ‘Suppose – we were married, and you were still mixed up with that Shield Society, and they tried to hijack a plane or assassinate the American ambassador or something, and you got killed –’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Understand. Fear for husband. This is right for a woman. But for me, glory of death – for Emperor and Japan.’

  ‘I don’t care about glory or the Emperor or Japan!’ She drew away from the warmth of his body and the faint spice-like scent that always clung to his clothes. ‘I care about you and – and any children we might have. Your great-grandfather’s always talking about you having a son. Be nice for him, the son I mean, having his father killed by the police, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Glory of Japan,’ repeated Yasuhiro. But he said it mechanically, and his fingers resumed their stroking while he stared away over Hampstead Heath.
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  ‘What did he say on the phone? When you told him,’ she said in a moment, more quietly.

  ‘Said must see a photo of you.’

  ‘Oh well. I’ve only got snaps.’

  ‘Snaps no use,’ decidedly. ‘Must have good, large photo.’

  ‘Is that all he said, Yasu? Just about the photo?’

  ‘Said also was not surprised I want to marry Western girl. Said he did . . . expect this. I tell him, you see.’ He bent towards her and she felt his breath on her cheek. ‘I tell him my human feelings, Mairly. In my heart is much, much loving for you, and I tell him that. Also that you are sweet, gentle, not mobogirl.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  She spoke languidly, leaning against him.

  ‘Modern girl.’

  ‘I love you too, Yasu,’ she said softly.

  There followed a mutual inclining of the two dark young heads, and a kiss.

  ‘There’s Dad,’ she said in a moment. ‘I’d have to leave him . . . and he’s . . . he’d be so lonely. So surprised, too, he’ll be when I tell him about – everything.’

  ‘Of course of course. Understand. And I ask his agreement. And then, if he like, he come with us, live in Japan.’

  ‘Oh Yasu! Would you? He’s only got me now. It would make all the difference. You see, some of your customs are so . . . strange.’

  She just managed to substitute strange for dotty.

  ‘The family of husband and wife are important, both. But husband’s family most important of course of course. Is Honourable Dad all the family you have?’

  ‘There’s Aunt Beatty. That’s Dad’s sister. But we only keep up with her at Christmas and Easter.’

  ‘Ah. Then we think of her no more. Is old and will soon die.’

  ‘She isn’t old. She’s five years younger than Dad and he’s only sixty-seven. You really must stop saying that kind of thing, Yasu. Right out, like that. People don’t like it, in England.’

  ‘But is true. Sixty-two ancient, love –’

  He inclined his head towards her again.

  ‘All the same,’ said Mary, when the kiss was over.

  ‘Kissing a Western custom, not Japanese. But good,’ said Yasuhiro, all sparkle. ‘I tell you what we shall do, Mairly. Two acts. It is the moon of May. Now she is young. After our work, each evening, we walk together on this Heath and talk. You tell me about your human feelings. I tell you my own. Right? (A young man in the Free Library told me this use of word today. Colloquial.)’

  ‘Right,’ said Mary. ‘What’s the other “act”? (“Thing” is better. “Act” sounds a bit funny.)’

  ‘(Thing.) Oh – send large good photograph of yourself to Great-grandfather.’

  Yasuhiro studied eight hours at his English in the languages school and at the local Public Library. (On the latter, his comments were a mixture of contempt and wonder.) He also stalked the streets of Soho looking for a theatrical costumier’s where he could hire a Japanese dress for Mary to be photographed in. Mary had suggested that she might save trouble by wearing his dark blue robe with the silver storks and chrysanthemums.

  ‘Make trouble,’ Yasuhiro cut in sharply. ‘Insult to Honourable Great-grandfather for woman to wear man’s dress. His present to me.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You are sarcasm at me, Mairly. Please shoot down the bird of anger that is flying in your heart. Because you are woman, gentle and sweet, I love you.’

  ‘Oh well. So long as you do.’

  ‘I do, Mairly. Oh so very.’ The little skirmish ended in an embrace so strong that her senses were shaken.

  The next evening he showed her, with an expression of distaste, a white cotton kimono almost covered in green, orange, purple and blue storks, bridges, pagodas and little men in wide hats, accompanied by an obi of shocking pink.

  ‘Is worn by dancing peasants in some play called The Mikado (insult, I think). The man tells me, in the shop. I tell him it is a horrible horrible robe, and he is surprised. I shall take it back to the shop. Very disgraceful taste. And affront Great-grandfather.’

  Fortunately, at another, smaller theatrical hire shop, recommended by Mrs Cadman, all kindness and curiosity, he found a plain light blue kimono with a white obi; and when Mary had gone upstairs with it and come down transformed, he nodded.

  ‘Good. Very well, Mairly. Now he see only your face and beautiful hair. No silly men in hats or horrible colours.’

  ‘Aren’t I going to have some of those gorgeous hairpins? I was looking forward to that.’

  ‘Of course not. Of course not. Going too far, as you say here. Un-necessary. Now tomorrow, we find respectable shop and have the photograph taken.’

  The result, when collected by him some days later, looked startlingly Japanese. Mary hardly recognized herself, so strongly did the dress seem to emphasize the length of her eyes and the calm of her expression (Yasuhiro had been present at the sitting, and would not allow her to smile). As she looked at this grave young woman, who might have been quite twenty-five, she felt a bewildered sensation, as if she had taken some paces forward into Yasuhiro’s own country.

  25

  Deadlock

  On this morning in early winter, the flower arrangement in the niche consisted of one white iris, a purple-flushed bud, and a spray of grey-green eucalyptus leaves flown in from Australia. The charcoal smouldered in the brazier adding its humble, familiar warmth and faint smell to the blaze of the central heating and that of the sunlight, chill and wintrily-bright at this season, beating against the closed screens.

  Admiral Kouei-fei Tasu’s daughter-in-law had brought in the letter and the parcel a few minutes ago on her morning visit, putting them down on the sleeping dais before him and then making her obeisance with what his eyes, though dim even with the assistance of the miraculous new glasses, could detect as an unseemly haste. She was wearing Western dress, and her hair in a Western style, and she knew that he disapproved of both. She was anxious to get out of the room.

  Such signs of the decline of his authority in the family were increasing daily. Strong and helpless anger swept across his spirit, then a deep sadness. He killed both feelings as if they were mutinous sailors, and turned to the letter and parcel.

  ‘Now –’ he murmured. ‘Now I shall see.’

  He opened the letter first.

  Ha, the boy had not made the mistake of repeating what he had said, ten days ago, over the telephone. That would have been a waste both of time and precious space in the letter. He knows that it would have annoyed me, thought the old man, and that I wish for news of him. He does not know that I famish for news. It is imprudent and cramping to the growth of their spirit, to allow the young to know how much we love them.

  Honoured and most beloved Great-grandfather,

  Now that your heart-child has talked with you, his spirit is calmer, though large raindrops hang from the petals of the azalea, showing that a storm has passed. The struggle between my duty to the family and my human feelings has been fearful, as if demons fought. This dutiful one has begun to talk with the chosen girl about the differences in our customs and beliefs. Yes, her beliefs. Condescend, dear and most honoured one, to bend your warrior spirit to an understanding of this fact, hard as a stone: it is necessary as the downward flow of water that I explain to, and – pray do not avert your noble head – even argue with this girl of the West. Their women, as you know, expect such condescension; and perhaps this particular humble stepper-out upon the path of life may so condescend, because he is the stronger. Also I know – again, bend your honourable spirit to understanding! – that she would actually refuse to marry me if I did not so argue and explain. That would crack my weak and unworthy heart.

  Dear and venerated one, you have sometimes turned your ears from the contemplation of wisdom, where you sit in the cool and scented shade, to hear from this beginner, of the Shield Society. He knows that in your wisdom, hanging like a fruit of perfect ripeness from the tree of your years, you believe that the fu
ture way for Nippon lies along the paths of trade and commerce rather than that of the samurai. But he knows, for love gives insight when it is true love, that this belief is bitter to you, eaten as a sour herb is, for medicine, rather than as a sweet fruit for delight. O noblest of warriors, guide of my days and pillar around which my heart’s affections twine, you suffer – you! – and eat this herb for the good of Nippon.

  How will your venerated spirit respond to the fact that Mary Davis shares your own opinions about the Shield Society, but more strongly?

  ‘Ha – good, good,’ the old man muttered. ‘In age the heart grows cowardly. Love rules in the place of honour. (Alas.) Hi-jacking, assassination, civilian bombings, all are desirable in a conflict, but my deadly fear is that he will die or be maimed.’

  He read on, eagerly.

  Her reasons are admirable: a woman’s. She fears for my life, and sees in the mirror of her mind the fate of our future sons, growing up in the storm of life without the ruling hand of a father. Will your stainlessly upright warrior soul contrive to believe that, reason as I may, I cannot bring her to share my views? Stranger yet, strange as the mist shapes that arise from the lake at evening, I find this difference, and even her stone-hearted will

  – the expression used was the strangest in the very wide choice offered by the writer’s native tongue –

  attractive. Her obstinacy draws me, as the fisherman in the moon pulls the tides of the sea. It is as if I had discovered a new star in a familiar constellation, finding will and thought in a gentle, loving woman. I confess this only to your beloved self, and humbly wonder whether in the course of your varied path through life you yourself have come upon another such case?

  Here the Admiral uttered a short sound, remote yet warm, as if the spirit of affection itself were amused.

  Condescend, O most honoured Great-grandfather, to inform me at your leisure whether there is dismay in the family, considerable or overwhelming, at my choice. I will not venture to insult the goodness of your heart by asking you to speak for me.