The Ice Cream Parlour: Part 9

One bright March morning, Stella woke to the screeching of gulls. The curtains in the girls’ room were lemon coloured, embroidered with tiny buttercups and daisies. Their gauzy fabric diffused the sunlight and the whole room seemed to glow with the beauty of a still life painting. Stella stood up and crossed to the window. The gulls were wheeling and gliding, woozy with the warmth of spring, their white wings gilded by the sun. 

She had not left the flat in months. She could not bear to meet people, their smug pitying expressions offended her and the crassness of their well-meaning questions made her silently seethe. What exactly was the appropriate answer to ‘How are you?’ or ‘Any news?’ She hated everyone. They had been spared. Her family had not. It made her sick with bitterness. However, there was no greater gift than the first Spring morning after a long winter, and as Stella stood in the saffron sunlight, she found herself longing to be outside. She peered down into the street. It was deserted. Her only company would be the gulls. She crept into the bedroom where John was sleeping and pulled out the first clothes she found in her wardrobe: a pair of jeans and a green sweater. They hung loosely on her, as if she were a girl in a fairy tale dressed in the clothes of a giant. She crept downstairs, unlocked the shop door and slipped into the street. 

The sheer sensuality of the moment made her swoon. She could smell the salt tang of the sea in the cool air. The pavement was smooth and cold under her bare feet. The glittering sunlight made the red bricks of the colliery buildings glow and cast chunky black shadows across the street. She looked in both directions, trying to decide if it was safe to walk a little. She had a foolish compulsion to race up the street through the alternating shards of sunlight and shadow, leaping from one to the other like a child splashing in puddles. 

Something caught her eye. Something was moving to her right. She stepped back, melting into the shadow of the building. It was a flash of red. A fox was trotting down the street towards her. The lustre of his coat glowed like a bonfire when he was in the flaring sunlight, but he vanished altogether when he stepped into shadow. It was almost supernatural, he was there, he was gone, he was there, he was gone. Stella pressed herself against the shop door. She made herself completely still, completely invisible. The fox was closer, she could see his amber eyes and the black spiky whiskers springing from the softness of his white muzzle. She did not breathe as he passed her. He saw her. He stopped for a few wonderful seconds. He looked at her. His ears flattened slightly and he crouched low to the ground for a moment, but then he relaxed as if he recognised Stella’s gentleness and vulnerability. They looked at each other for a moment underneath the swooping gulls. For Stella, it was magical; a moment that held within itself the wildness and wonder of the world. Then the fox shook himself and nonchalantly continued his journey down the street.

When the fox had left, Stella felt more alive, more awake than she had in months. Her body was tingling, her heart was racing, her thoughts suddenly seemed as clear and sharp as the morning light. She had seen something, experienced something so wonderful it made her ache. For once, the ache was not caused by the ugliness of the world, but by its impossible beauty. 

She started to walk a little way up the street. I’ll pass the next four shops, she told herself. Just four shops and then I’ll go back. She found herself counting her steps as she walked, and the memory of the girls and how they would do that, for a second threatened to overwhelm her and send her quivering home. But she persisted. First, she passed the bakers. The smell of baking bread made her mouth water. Soon the window would be laden with loaves and floury stotties and the sticky iced buns topped with cherries that Silvia loved so much. She passed Miss Parker’s Wool Shop, Parsons’ Butchers and the hardware store. The shops stood square and silent in the sunlight like a stage set in an empty theatre, waiting, patiently for the actors who would bring it to life.

Stella turned and walked back home. Four shops, 578 steps. She felt satisfied and at peace. She crept back up the stairs to the flat and lay down on Silvia’s bed. She thought about her morning adventure, the tangy salt air, the shards of jutting light and shadow, the courtly fox and the squabbling gulls. She turned these memories over and over in her mind, examining each carefully, holding it to the light as if it were a piece of unearthed treasure. Then she slept.