Wilfred did not truly enjoy her tales. Other people’s business, Pat would have called them; and his own verdict was that Mrs C. made them seem like some TV play and sort of took the seriousness out of them. Because that incident, that she made so funny, meant the break-up of a marriage . . . But she was enjoying it. You could see she was. Not that she ever said a word that was really downright offensive.
And although Mr Taverner and Miss Dollette only looked mild over the stories, saying little, Wilfred knew that they disliked the display.
For it was display, and a relishing, and (he suspected) a distortion.
P’raps she’ll take herself off. Can’t say I’d be sorry. Kind, and pulls you in a funny kind of way. But I wouldn’t break my heart. More peaceful without her.
Well, I’ve had a bit of a think and a bit of a chat and you’d best get down to it, my lad. – Now, have I got a really posh bit of notepaper? No I haven’t. Trust me. I’ll get dressed and pop round to Cole’s.
There was a light tap at his door. ‘Mr Davis?’ said the voice of Miss Dollette.
He went across and opened it, thinking: She’s the sort for me, really. Not dangerous. And before he could feel surprise at the last word appearing in his thoughts, Miss Dollette was saying: ‘Oh Mr Davis, I thought you might perhaps be able to make use of this?’ She was holding out some writing paper of a deep cream tint, and some matching envelopes.
‘Why Miss Dollette, are you a thought-reader or a good fairy? I was just this minute going to pop out to Cole’s, I’ve got a rather important letter to write.’
‘Oh, then I’m glad I . . . happened to come across this . . . no thought-reading . . . that’s – that would be rather a burden, to tell you the . . . but as for the other . . .’ She spoke almost in a whisper as she was turning away. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve wanted to be since I was three years old. A good fairy.’
Dressed, he sat at the table staring at the writing paper. Get on with it, man. You’ve only got to ask the boy to come and see you. He bent over the table.
Dear Yasu,
I call you this, as my Mary always does and it seems more friendly. Thank you for your letter. I appreciate you asking my permission. But I am sure you will realize that I must see you and talk matters over. So will you come and spend the night of the sixteenth and then we can have a good long chat? Give my love to our Mary.
Yours sincerely
Wilfred G. Davis
PS I particularly appreciate your thoughtfulness
asking me to go with you both to Japan.
There, that’ll have to do.
He did not read it through but stamped the envelope, and went out to the pillar box on the corner of Moultie Avenue (known inevitably to the local young as Mouldy Avenue), and posted it.
No sooner had he heard the faint sound signalling that it was irrevocably on its way than he wished he had written differently. He began to dread the boy’s arrival (a Japanese), and decided he must have had one of those blackouts people seemed to have so conveniently nowadays, even to think of going to live in Japan. While as for handing his Mary over to a foreigner . . .
Wilfred G. Davis you must have been mad, and he wiped his forehead. Oh well, I can always phone and say I’ve changed my mind.
But that won’t change theirs, he thought despondently, strolling home through the May breeze. The next thing’ll be keeping the engagement party dark from Sheila and Co.
*
Mrs Cornforth was coming towards him down the sunlit passage, in her red and yellow dress, singing softly an air he knew came from some opera: sunny, Italian music.
‘Gorgeous warm day,’ she called, and he explained about Tasu.
‘Oh that’ll be marvellous – what fun! I’m dying to see him – I’m sure he’s simply gorgeous to look at. It’ll be perfectly all right about a room –’
‘I’ll pay, of course,’ Wilfred said stolidly.
She shrugged. ‘Just as you like. It only goes into the Do Gooders Box.’ At that moment Miss Dollette came out of her room, and Katherine swooped round with a swirl of coloured skirts. ‘Darling, here’s Mary’s boy asking to come here for a night on the sixteenth. It’ll be all right, won’t it?’
‘We shall be very glad to see him,’ was all Miss Dollette said, smiling, and went on her way with Katherine following.
Wilfred, having said ‘Thank you’, was brought up short at the door of his room by the ringing sound of Katherine’s voice from the head of the stairs.
‘Oh why not, Felicity? I’d adore to – and they adore flowers.’
A pause; he stood with his fingers on the handle. Miss Dollette must be saying something.
‘Of course it wouldn’t. He’d expect it. Oh well, even if he didn’t, it would be such a lovely surprise.’ Another pause, and then the resonant voice in real anger – ‘Oh what a coward and a prig you are! Don’t you ever want to do anything different?’
After that, he heard no more. The two went down the stairs, and he realized with a little shock of shame that he had been eavesdropping, and went into his room and shut the door.
Wanted to put a great bunch of flowers in his room, I suppose, he mused. Kind of her but I wish she’d – keep out of things. Now let’s see, when’s the sixteenth? Cripes, day after tomorrow. Better get in some sherry, I suppose.
27
Samurai combat
When he opened the front door, Wilfred’s first impression was one of beauty and hauteur, two things not often encountered on the doorsteps of Torford. The young man wore a long grey overcoat fitted to a slender waist. He stood very still, against the background of pale, deserted houses and evening light; his hair just touched his wide shoulders.
‘Good evening,’ he said, and his beautiful face broke into a dazzling smile. ‘Here I am, Yasuhiro Tasu, as we arrange. I had a good journey, thank you for your kind enquiry. It is a very nice evening. Mairly is quite well. I send – bring – you her dutiful love.’
‘Thanks,’ said the prospective father-in-law dryly.
In a few seconds the visitor had used up every sentence his host had prepared, to fill those first awkward moments of arrival. ‘Come along in. Have you had tea?’
Wilfred felt conscious about the last word. He and Pat had always used it in the sense of a large meal, with meat or cheese, bread-and-butter and cake, eaten about six. Dinner or supper could be the terms used by this young hero for his last meal of the day, for, in addition to the race difference, Wilfred felt one of class.
‘Oh yes, oh yes, thank you.’ Yasuhiro, carrying a small suitcase, was following him into the house, ‘on the train . . .’ The flute-like, yet unmistakably male, voice died away, then resumed in a different tone: ‘Most beautiful house I have seen in England. It is very beautiful. Congratulate you on your taste, Mr Dad.’
Wilfred, amused and pleased, turned a smiling face over his shoulder. ‘I mustn’t take the credit, you know. It isn’t my house. Some friends let me have a room here.’
‘Peaceful harmony, like ancient music or calmness of the forest,’ continued the oh-so-alien voice.
‘I’m glad you like it.’
Yasuhiro kept up an easy babble about the houses in the road and their derelict state (‘oh yes, the bombing. Must let the by-gones be the by-gones, necessary’), their age and their architectural style.
While relieved at not having to bring out his own limited store of small talk, Wilfred did wonder if his guest always talked so much?
It would send me round the bend, he thought. But it’s better than shyness. Perhaps he’s nervous.
But his first impression convinced him that Yasuhiro could never be nervous, in any conceivable situation.
Mary had certainly picked up something – except that it was he who had picked up her. Yes. That was what he must remember. He, Wilfred Davis, was the father of the chosen one, and this boy had come here expressly to get his consent to their marriage.
‘Want a wash?’ Wilfred blurted, at the door of Yasu�
��s room.
‘Thank you, thank you, I am quite clean. But loo on the train wasn’t. I am astonished that the British people can endure – bear, stick such dirtiness.’
‘Too many people and not enough staff nowadays . . .’ Wilfred answered vaguely. ‘My old dad worked on the railways,’ and he waved the guest into his room, where the evening sunlight sparkled on the sherry decanter that had been one of Pat’s prides.
‘Most beautiful again,’ Yasuhiro murmured, gazing around. ‘And Solomon-seal and tradescantia flowers arrangement very un-us-u-al. (Daring mixture – has no meaning, I suppose? Of course of course no.) Excuse that I stare. I know it is not the custom in England. I should say “nice-place-you’ve-got-here”,’ with a sidelong glance and a smile that Wilfred thought of as more natural.
‘Sit down, Yasu, and take your coat off.’
‘But . . . perhaps I show you my heart,’ gracefully and rapidly stripping off the coat to reveal a suit of palest grey which caused his prospective father-in-law to think Cripes, that must have cost a packet.
‘You’ll have some sherry, won’t you?’ Wilfred thought that his Pat would have been pleased with him; he was doing the honours well. And he was pleased when the boy stood, attentive, inclining slightly, until the glasses were filled and he himself was seated.
‘Yes, I show you my heart-thoughts – if you are kind to listen,’ Yasuhiro went on.
‘Fire away.’
‘Ah – like a gun. British colloqui-al-ism.’
‘Yes – well – it means – you know – get started, tell me.’ (Heart-thoughts. I like that. Expressive. But Mary said he writes poetry.)
‘It doesn’t sound polite, perhaps. What I will say.’
‘I can take it,’ Wilfred said playfully.
‘Mairly has told me you are the kindest of fathers. Different in Japan. Fathers often what West call severe. It is our custom. But here, easy to hurt a kind heart.’
‘That was nice of you, Yasu, to worry.’
‘And when I arrive here, all is har-mo-ni-ous,’ he went on, looking around at the golden-white walls and shining furniture, ‘and – I am surprised.’
‘I like it myself,’ Wilfred confessed. ‘But when Mary’s mother was alive, we had things different in our house. She liked a bit of colour.’
For an instant an older man seemed to look out of Yasuhiro’s eyes.
‘Understand,’ he said gently. ‘Happiness with wife covers all shapes and colours with beauty.’
‘That’s just it,’ Wilfred exclaimed. Then, suddenly becoming embarrassed, ‘Here, I’m forgetting my manners,’ and he held out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Do you smoke?’
‘No oh no!’ Yasuhiro exclaimed, so vehemently as to startle Wilfred. ‘I am a follower of Mishima. Fitness of body, iron of soul. We do not smoke. Bad, bad habit.’
‘All right, son – glad to hear it – you don’t mind if I do?’ drawing out his baccy pouch and reaching for his pipe.
‘Of course of course, all habits permitted in house of the honourable host,’ Yasuhiro answered, with his social smile. ‘You arrange charming flowers yourself?’
‘Lord, no, I can’t arrange flowers.’
‘Family Tradescant breed these flowers. Unusual name. I look for name in dictionary in disgraceful Public Library. Names interest me.’
‘Mary said you were working very hard at your English. But Yasu –’ Wilfred looked down at the fingers pressing the tobacco into his pipe. ‘Why do you call the Public Library disgraceful? I’ve found them pretty good, especially in the last ten years, much better than when I was a boy, fifty years ago.’
‘Allow me to say honourable face does not look so ancient.’
This was the kind of remark that Japanese made in books, and Wilfred, while suspecting mere politeness, felt more at ease. After all, one had read the Mr Moto stories.
‘Oh, young in heart, you know, young in heart.’ But he was not going to be deflected. ‘Why is it disgraceful, Yasu?’
Yasuhiro’s lashes went down for an instant, then swept up. ‘Favourite word. Mairly say that I use it too much and in wrong sense. For me means – it means bad, ugly, wrong. Most of all, ugly. Those libraries us-u-ally ugly places.’
Wilfred contemplated giving some information about spending the ratepayers’ money, then decided against it. He changed the subject.
‘All right if you come down to . . . supper with my friends, Yasu? It’s nearly time. They’d like to meet you. But if you’d prefer a bite up here alone with me, just say so.’ His heart sank at the prospect.
‘I am pleased to meet your friends, thank you. But to have meal alone with you would be enjoyable. Honourable host decide,’ with a quick little bow.
‘Then downstairs, I think. Livelier for you.’
‘What honourable host decides pleases me.’
Wilfred, glancing at the clock, wondered if such politeness went on all the time in the boy’s home in Japan. A bit of a strain, he decided. And those ambassadors or whatever they were – talking about some peace treaty or other in Washington while their chaps were actually bombing Pearl Harbor. Can’t trust ’em. But there must be some decent ones, I suppose. He rose. ‘Let’s go down, shall we?’
Yasuhiro got up in one movement, suggesting a spring, and Wilfred almost grinned – pretty dull for the boy and he must be hungry – no wonder he sprang.
But then Yasuhiro stood aside while he went through the door, and the impulse to grin was replaced by embarrassment, for no one had ever deferred to him like this in his whole life. The people who had come to see him at the Town Hall, in his position as Rates Supervisor, had invariably been intent upon their own rights or wrongs, and determined to show him that they were not afraid of him. It’s only manners, he thought, but I like it – from Mary’s boy.
The three in the kitchen were all occupied, Mr Taverner uncorking wine, Miss Dollette putting out napkins, and Katherine Cornforth setting in the middle of the table a white porcelain bowl filled with crimson nasturtiums and their leaves. As Wilfred and Yasuhiro came in, she looked up and smiled brilliantly, then swept forward with hands outstretched.
‘Well! At last,’ she exclaimed. ‘Yasu himself. Mary’s told us so much about you, and we’re all terribly glad to have you here.’
Yasuhiro’s answering smile was as brilliant, but without warmth; his bow, though low, was stiff.
‘Pleased and most honoured to be here,’ he said.
Introductions followed, and two more ceremonious bows, but no more outflung hands, to Wilfred’s relief.
The meal, one suitable to a summer evening, began in easy silence; Wilfred realized, for perhaps the first time in his life, how much of talk is due to a nervous fear of quiet, and also how composed Yasuhiro was now, eating shrimps and salad.
After supper, Katherine said that of course Yasuhiro would like to go round the garden, because the Japanese were so marvellous at gardens.
Dammit, that’s – that’s cheek, Wilfred thought.
‘Come on, Yasu.’ She slipped her arm through his and began to draw him through the little scullery to the back door.
‘I see that garden is beautiful as house,’ he said, allowing himself to be led away. The place where the plates are washed, he thought, as they passed through the little room opening off the kitchen. No machine for that washing. Do they make the peasant-father wash them with his hands in exchange for his room and food?
‘Now – own up! You expected to see some ghastly thing like a photograph in a gardening catalogue, didn’t you?’ Katherine lightly shook his arm.
‘I have seen the house. So I did not,’ was the smiling answer.
‘Felicity,’ turning her head, ‘what’s the name of our tree?’
‘Elder,’ Miss Dollette softly supplied, from where she was lingering at the door in the afterglow.
The ripple of the Tor was audible, the last light fading from the sky above the black houses beyond the meadows and the railway line; a few lights, and here and there
the bluish glow from a television, shone from the windows.
The tree leans above the stream to give protection and shade, even as Great-grandfather leans over me where I dash and sparkle in the sunlight of my youth, Yasuhiro was thinking. Oh, my heart weeps silently for home!
‘Most pleasing,’ he repeated, ‘and that flower, the Seal of Solomon, is that its name?’
‘Yes – it loves the shade,’ Miss Dollette put in, raising her voice slightly, for Katherine had taken them into a stroll round the oval lawn, and they were at the far end of the little expanse. ‘There are some white violet buds gone to seed, but it’s too dark to see them. Funny little round black things. You wouldn’t expect white violet buds to––’
‘Felicity darling!’ Katherine interrupted imperiously. ‘Can’t you go and entertain Wilf or something? I’ve got something simply frightfully important to say to Yasu.’
Miss Dollette turned at once, silently, and went indoors, where Wilfred was in the middle of a low-voiced appeal to Mr Taverner.
‘I can see she only means to be kind, of course, but I’ve got to talk to him and it’s so difficult, him not being English and all that, we’ll need all the time we’ve got. I can’t understand it, Mr Taverner – Mrs Cornforth isn’t like those friends of Pat’s, nosey or anything. I don’t mean to be unkind . . . her heart’s in the right place of course, but––’
‘Of course. It’s very tiresome, dear man. But calm down. He’ll get away in a minute. And les défauts de ses qualités, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know, Mr Taverner. I got a place at what was then Torford Grammar School, but I never could study French.’
‘I’m sorry, Wilfred. I only meant that if Katherine weren’t so warm and eager to help people, she wouldn’t be capable of buttonholing a complete stranger like that.’
‘I’m sorry I spoke out, Mr Taverner, but it’s Mary’s whole future.’
‘Well, give them another five minutes. Then we’ll break it up.’
The Yellow Houses Page 28