Bellman & Black by Diane Setterfield Page B

Young who brought the news. Never before had there been a reason for them to come to the mill; their appearance was so unexpected that only some out-of-the-ordinary occurrence could explainit. The possibilities were few, the look on their faces narrowed it down, and when they asked for William, the news was as good as out: Mr. William’s mother was dead.
    But William did not know.
    “Oh, William!” and “William, dear!” exclaimed the Misses Young in sorry chorus as they entered the room where he was.
    William turned a surprised and half-amused face to them. The Misses Young. At the mill. Whatever next! In their funny matching dresses and their overdone hats, eyes wide and something unfathomable in the way they looked at him. For some reason the older Miss Young was clutching a white bowl stained with red. Had they come straight from their kitchen? How peculiar!
    “How can I help you?” he prompted.
    Two pairs of eyes fastened on him. Let him understand! Let him at least start to understand!
    William was politely puzzled. Why were they goggling at him, as if they were waiting for something from him, when he was waiting for them?
    Old Miss Young opened her mouth to speak, but the absoluteness of his ignorance made it hard to begin. Mutely she offered the bowl, like an explanation.
    He was perplexed and did not take it.
    It was Paul who understood. He recognized the terrible compassion that means only one thing and rose from his seat.
    “Dora Bellman,” he said.
    Then the story was told. The Misses Young took turns in the telling, their voices fluttered and wavered, interrupted and overlapped, but the story emerged. A walk in the lanes—the wind getting up—such a wind, it nearly blew Susan’s hat off—a shortcut home—turning the corner—something on the verge—Mrs. Bellman! Poor Mrs. Bellman!—and the blackberries—and this white bowl—look!—unbroken, miraculously unbroken.
    They said nothing about having arranged their neighbor’s skirt to cover her calves. It was not seemly to mention it.
    William, like a bystander, witnessed his uncle receiving the news. It seemed to him that the world had taken a wrong turning: it needed only a word or a gesture from him to set it on track again, but he was paralyzed and his tongue was frozen, and so, temporarily, he was unable to restore the world to what it ought to be.
    Only when the old Miss Young turned to him with the bowl, so that he might see for himself, was his tongue released.
    “Yes,” he agreed. “I see. Not a crack in it.”
    ·  ·  ·
    That evening and for the next few days, Paul kept his nephew under his wing. He ceded to the Misses Young in their wish to be helpful, and it was clear that Will would not go cold or hungry or lack for clean shirts. Paul’s job was to find occupations for Will. It was not difficult. Decisions had to be made: Wednesday or Thursday for the funeral? Eleven o’clock? Which hymns? Letters had to be written to Dora’s brother at Nether Wychwood and other relatives. And then there were the visitors. Singers from the choir, workers from the mill, drinkers from the Red Lion, spinsters whose fences he had mended, men with whom he’d once had a game of cards, butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, and the sisters of all these, and the daughters. In fact Paul had not realized so many pretty girls lived in the town. Was there anyone that his nephew didn’t know? A hundred hands wanted shaking, a hundred tongues expressed their condolences. Thank you, said William, and Kind of you, endlessly.
    Between his uncle and the helpfulness of the Misses Young and all these other people, William was never alone, not for an hour, except to sleep. He went to bed with the distant, certain expectation that overnight the world would put itself right. He slept for long hours: endless, dreamless sleep, which did not refresh, and when he woke the world bewildered him by persisting in its wayward course. He felt weigheddown and dreary. A fog