The Yellow Houses by Stella Gibbons

Author:Stella Gibbons [Gibbons, Stella]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Random House UK

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.

He was standing at the gate of Lamorna, actually waving to Mrs Wheeby as Cousin Fred’s car bore her away, while these inappropriate reflections drifted upon him; and they were followed by a too-clear knowledge of what Pat and Shirley and Sheila and Joan would have said had they then been able, God forbid, to see into his mind.

Suddenly, such a longing for Pat swept over him, as he turned away from the gate towards her dusty, desolate, noisy home, that he almost staggered beneath it.

‘Morning’, said the postman’s voice behind him. ‘Raw today.’

Wilfred turned blindly. A letter was being held out.

‘Oh . . . thank you . . .’

‘Bet you won’t be sorry when that lot’s gone.’

The postman, an elderly man, nodded upwards at the ruddy-faced, Edwardian-moustached, flowing-haired pair of builders lounging in the wreck of the front bedroom window and chatting, unintelligibly – except to each other – as they sucked down tea.

Wilfred went into the house with Mary’s letter.

Dear Dad,

Mr T. wrote to me saying we’re going to live at your Yellow House. Suits me.

Love in haste

M.

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