The Wardrobe Read Online Free Page B
shadowy figures of the girls in the tree, fragments of the poem and the old lady’s face as she smiled at me. But that face was not a blur. Emily’s smile and the life in her eyes were strongly etched in my brain.
I made myself shower and eat a proper breakfast, and then the telephone rang. Again and again. The magazine editor, Sandy. The Sunday Times with an assignment for next week. But my mind wasn’t functioning on a normal level. I was haunted by the image of Emily and the fragments of the poem that hung in my memory.
Finally, I took the telephone receiver off the hook. The poem. I had to find the poem. Words. It was about words. And it was by Edward someone. Hopeless, I thought. How many English poets were there called Edward someone. Then I remembered. Harry knew him. A contemporary of Harry’s. Well, there was a starting point.
Less than an hour later, at the library, I found him. It. was incredibly easy. Flicking backwards through an anthology of English poets datinG from the year Harry returned to Australia, 1918, there he was. Edward Philip Thomas, a list of his works, and the poem was called ‘Words’. He had been killed in action at Arras in April 1917. Had Harry served with him in the Great War? Is that how he knew Edward Thomas?
I found the poem itself in a collection of war poets and, as I read it, a shiver ran down my spine. I had never before in my life read or heard of this poem. That is, not until last night. Now every word of the opening stanza Emily had quoted returned to me, and I could once more hear her gentle voice:
‘Out of us all
That make rhymes …’
I went home and noticed that I’d left the telephone receiver off the hook. I wondered briefly whether I’d lost a job as a result and then I thought, damn it, and I left it there. Upstairs, I opened the Arnott’s biscuit tin and sat down with Margaret’s letters.
I savoured every word as, hour after hour, I lived Emily’s daily existence. She obviously wrote of everything and anything except the loss of her baby girl, and Margaret tastefully kept her letters in the same lighthearted vein.
Dearest Emily,
A gas stove! My dear, you hadn’t even told me you’d been stoking wood fires all this time. Unthinkable horror. And a ‘Kookaburra’. How delightfully humourous. Mind you, I have discovered a picture of a kookaburra in my encyclopedia and it is such a fearsome-looking creature. Do they really laugh?
And then the wardrobe …
Oh, My Dear Emily,
How hysterical. To think that the first argument you and Harry ever had was all about a wardrobe. I am quite sure it is a hideous wardrobe and that it quite ruins your lovely bedroom, but Harry’s tenacity in getting it up there is to be admired. The picture you paint of his intricate pulley system and the neighbours risking life and limb to assist in the exercise is hilarious. And yes, I can imagine Harry’s fury when they tore out the balcony railing, but you really shouldn’t have laughed. Anyway, as you say, you are stuck with it now, so you may as well make the best of it.
It was shortly after the wardrobe episode that Margaret admitted to having a beau. Well, more or less. He was a lawyer, she said. His name was Geoffrey Brigstock. He was a very conscientious young man and he studied regularly at the library.
Geoffrey’s diligence was obviously a facade. The truth was he was smitten with the librarian. Not that Margaret said so herself. For someone so forthright she was uncharacteristically shy about her admirer, which led me to believe that she was equally smitten with him.
Dear Emily,
Yes, I do dine regularly with Geoffrey but I refuse to be drawn into discussion about him. I am sure his invitations are merely a courtesy in return for the assistance I have given him with his research at the library.
Then she rapidly changed the subject …
I have received the poem you sent. I agree, it is quite an inspiration for anyone with a love of the English language,
I made myself shower and eat a proper breakfast, and then the telephone rang. Again and again. The magazine editor, Sandy. The Sunday Times with an assignment for next week. But my mind wasn’t functioning on a normal level. I was haunted by the image of Emily and the fragments of the poem that hung in my memory.
Finally, I took the telephone receiver off the hook. The poem. I had to find the poem. Words. It was about words. And it was by Edward someone. Hopeless, I thought. How many English poets were there called Edward someone. Then I remembered. Harry knew him. A contemporary of Harry’s. Well, there was a starting point.
Less than an hour later, at the library, I found him. It. was incredibly easy. Flicking backwards through an anthology of English poets datinG from the year Harry returned to Australia, 1918, there he was. Edward Philip Thomas, a list of his works, and the poem was called ‘Words’. He had been killed in action at Arras in April 1917. Had Harry served with him in the Great War? Is that how he knew Edward Thomas?
I found the poem itself in a collection of war poets and, as I read it, a shiver ran down my spine. I had never before in my life read or heard of this poem. That is, not until last night. Now every word of the opening stanza Emily had quoted returned to me, and I could once more hear her gentle voice:
‘Out of us all
That make rhymes …’
I went home and noticed that I’d left the telephone receiver off the hook. I wondered briefly whether I’d lost a job as a result and then I thought, damn it, and I left it there. Upstairs, I opened the Arnott’s biscuit tin and sat down with Margaret’s letters.
I savoured every word as, hour after hour, I lived Emily’s daily existence. She obviously wrote of everything and anything except the loss of her baby girl, and Margaret tastefully kept her letters in the same lighthearted vein.
Dearest Emily,
A gas stove! My dear, you hadn’t even told me you’d been stoking wood fires all this time. Unthinkable horror. And a ‘Kookaburra’. How delightfully humourous. Mind you, I have discovered a picture of a kookaburra in my encyclopedia and it is such a fearsome-looking creature. Do they really laugh?
And then the wardrobe …
Oh, My Dear Emily,
How hysterical. To think that the first argument you and Harry ever had was all about a wardrobe. I am quite sure it is a hideous wardrobe and that it quite ruins your lovely bedroom, but Harry’s tenacity in getting it up there is to be admired. The picture you paint of his intricate pulley system and the neighbours risking life and limb to assist in the exercise is hilarious. And yes, I can imagine Harry’s fury when they tore out the balcony railing, but you really shouldn’t have laughed. Anyway, as you say, you are stuck with it now, so you may as well make the best of it.
It was shortly after the wardrobe episode that Margaret admitted to having a beau. Well, more or less. He was a lawyer, she said. His name was Geoffrey Brigstock. He was a very conscientious young man and he studied regularly at the library.
Geoffrey’s diligence was obviously a facade. The truth was he was smitten with the librarian. Not that Margaret said so herself. For someone so forthright she was uncharacteristically shy about her admirer, which led me to believe that she was equally smitten with him.
Dear Emily,
Yes, I do dine regularly with Geoffrey but I refuse to be drawn into discussion about him. I am sure his invitations are merely a courtesy in return for the assistance I have given him with his research at the library.
Then she rapidly changed the subject …
I have received the poem you sent. I agree, it is quite an inspiration for anyone with a love of the English language,
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