- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by Pamela Jo Keeley
What Light Through Yonder Window
Mrs CW Jones was the heart of the cul-de-sac. For example, there wasn’t an unruly lawn
in the neighbourhood. She arrived with a basket of bum-scouring homemade bran muffins
and an hour of chit-chat every day until the grass was mown. That ‘Tidiest Yard’ award was
owed to her. So when her next-door neighbour Mr Alfred Birtwhistle handed her his house
keys she accepted with Noblesse Oblige. Who better than she to ensure he returned from
holidays with everything just as he’d left it. Birtwhistle was a Father Christmas-looking sort
of man with a white beard, red lips, and a treasury of interesting facts he liked to enliven
conversations with. On this day his lake-blue eyes danced even more than usual.
“Alfie, I’ve never seen you look so alive!”
Mr Birtwhistle grinned ear to ear, “I’ve always said, as soon as I retire, I’m off to Greece.
And here I am about to embark on the trip of a lifetime.”
Mrs Phyllis Birtwhistle came out of the house and tapped her watch. She was a slight
woman dressed for travel in a chic no-iron pantsuit. Her newly permed hair was covered in a
matching silk scarf. Mr Birtwhistle gave her an enthusiastic wave back.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Alfie,” the heart of the cul-de-sac said, laying the keys
carefully in an apron pocket. “You’ll return to everything just as you left it.”
Mr. Birtwhistle plucked an unopened bud and laced it through the lapel of his blazer.
Holding a rose in front of him he joined his wife, who took it with a delighted look.
The first week, Mrs CW Jones collected the mail and watered plants without a bother, but
Sunday night she woke and saw a lonely light on upstairs, as if someone was awake and
couldn’t sleep. She threw on a dressing robe and hurried over.
“Helllooo.” She turned on the hall light.
“Phyllis?” Mr Birtwhistle’s voice was hopeful.
“No, it’s me, Alfie.”What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks Page 2 of 3
When her neighbour appeared at the top of the stairs, he looked thin and pale and very
disappointed to see her.
“I thought you were her coming home.” Mr Birtwhistle slumped covering his face. “OHH
I’m so alone.”
“Not a bit of it.” MRS CW Jones bustled in and got the kettle on.
“Now, tell me, Alfie, where is Phyllis?”
“Hospital,” came the whisper. “Car, out of nowhere, hit us.” Mr Birtwhistle broke down
again.
“Oh how dreadful.” Mrs CW Jones beckoned to the table where a pot of tea steamed. “Is
Phyllis badly injured, then?”
Her neighbour sat down but just stared down at his cup. “The doctors say she’ll recover if
she stays in hospital.” Then the distraught man’s voice brightened, “I’m sure she’ll be home
soon. I’ll be waiting for her when she does.”
“The light on in the bedroom at night – that’s you?” Mrs Jones scolded.
“You could have
let me know you’d returned home.”
“Mostly I stay at the hospital.” Mr Birtwhistle wrung his hands. “I’m only here at night. I
want to bring her home. I carried her across that threshold as a bride.” He pointed at the door.
“And you will again,” Mrs Jones reassured. “I’ll see to the house, you can spend your days
at the hospital with poor Phyllis.
After that when the light in the window woke her, she would slip next door and inquire
after Phyllis. Mr Birtwhistle wanted to talk of nothing else. When he thought she was close to
coming home, he was his old jocular self. But then he’d describe how her condition would
change, and the day they could be together was further awayWhat Light Through Yonder Window Breaks Page 3 of 3
On those days he ignored Mrs CW Jones despite her bright talk about the roses still in
bloom this late in the fall. Head in his hands he moaned over and over, “I don’t like being
alone. My darling must come to me.”
The end of summer brought lots of work for Mrs CW Jones. Children played hookie,
lawns were covered in fallen leaves, so it was several weeks before she realised the light had
not shone into her room at midnight. She never read the local paper herself but collected it
regularly for the Birtwhistles. Though when she saw the top of the familiar permed head
rolled up, she was curious enough to break the rubber band and open to that page. When she
realised it was an obituary, “Poor Alfie” escaped her lips. But then she dropped her teacup. It
said right there that Alfred Birtwhistle had been killed instantly in the accident. But how.
She’d spoken to him every night.
She thought of all the tea she’d brewed and had been left undrunk. Poor Alfred had been
white as a ghost all summer. She’d thought from all the time in the hospital.
Mrs CW Jones let the newspaper page soak up the rest of the article that said though
expected to recover, poor Phyllis had suffered a setback every time the doctors said she was
getting better. The obituary said she’d fought the angel of death valiantly, but he had won in
the end. Remembering Mr Birtwhistle’s determination to have his wife by his side again
made her shiver. He hadn’t wanted her to recover, that would have left him alone. Her
neighbour had pulled her back to him no matter how hard she’d fought to live.
Looking towards at the empty house, she wondered if Mr Birtwhistle had carried his wife
over the threshold the second time. Even though it was a sunny afternoon, a goose walked
over her grave. Glancing up at the upstairs window she thought she glimpsed a familiar perm
the other side of the chintz curtain, then angry, haunted eyes staring out. Putting her hands to
her ears Mrs CW Jones tried to block out the voice of Phyllis Birtwhistle calling to her.
---
What Light Through Yonder Window
Mrs CW Jones was the heart of the cul-de-sac. For example, there wasn’t an unruly lawn
in the neighbourhood. She arrived with a basket of bum-scouring homemade bran muffins
and an hour of chit-chat every day until the grass was mown. That ‘Tidiest Yard’ award was
owed to her. So when her next-door neighbour Mr Alfred Birtwhistle handed her his house
keys she accepted with Noblesse Oblige. Who better than she to ensure he returned from
holidays with everything just as he’d left it. Birtwhistle was a Father Christmas-looking sort
of man with a white beard, red lips, and a treasury of interesting facts he liked to enliven
conversations with. On this day his lake-blue eyes danced even more than usual.
“Alfie, I’ve never seen you look so alive!”
Mr Birtwhistle grinned ear to ear, “I’ve always said, as soon as I retire, I’m off to Greece.
And here I am about to embark on the trip of a lifetime.”
Mrs Phyllis Birtwhistle came out of the house and tapped her watch. She was a slight
woman dressed for travel in a chic no-iron pantsuit. Her newly permed hair was covered in a
matching silk scarf. Mr Birtwhistle gave her an enthusiastic wave back.
“Don’t worry about a thing, Alfie,” the heart of the cul-de-sac said, laying the keys
carefully in an apron pocket. “You’ll return to everything just as you left it.”
Mr. Birtwhistle plucked an unopened bud and laced it through the lapel of his blazer.
Holding a rose in front of him he joined his wife, who took it with a delighted look.
The first week, Mrs CW Jones collected the mail and watered plants without a bother, but
Sunday night she woke and saw a lonely light on upstairs, as if someone was awake and
couldn’t sleep. She threw on a dressing robe and hurried over.
“Helllooo.” She turned on the hall light.
“Phyllis?” Mr Birtwhistle’s voice was hopeful.
“No, it’s me, Alfie.”What Light Through Yonder Window Breaks Page 2 of 3
When her neighbour appeared at the top of the stairs, he looked thin and pale and very
disappointed to see her.
“I thought you were her coming home.” Mr Birtwhistle slumped covering his face. “OHH
I’m so alone.”
“Not a bit of it.” MRS CW Jones bustled in and got the kettle on.
“Now, tell me, Alfie, where is Phyllis?”
“Hospital,” came the whisper. “Car, out of nowhere, hit us.” Mr Birtwhistle broke down
again.
“Oh how dreadful.” Mrs CW Jones beckoned to the table where a pot of tea steamed. “Is
Phyllis badly injured, then?”
Her neighbour sat down but just stared down at his cup. “The doctors say she’ll recover if
she stays in hospital.” Then the distraught man’s voice brightened, “I’m sure she’ll be home
soon. I’ll be waiting for her when she does.”
“The light on in the bedroom at night – that’s you?” Mrs Jones scolded.
“You could have
let me know you’d returned home.”
“Mostly I stay at the hospital.” Mr Birtwhistle wrung his hands. “I’m only here at night. I
want to bring her home. I carried her across that threshold as a bride.” He pointed at the door.
“And you will again,” Mrs Jones reassured. “I’ll see to the house, you can spend your days
at the hospital with poor Phyllis.
After that when the light in the window woke her, she would slip next door and inquire
after Phyllis. Mr Birtwhistle wanted to talk of nothing else. When he thought she was close to
coming home, he was his old jocular self. But then he’d describe how her condition would
change, and the day they could be together was further awayWhat Light Through Yonder Window Breaks Page 3 of 3
On those days he ignored Mrs CW Jones despite her bright talk about the roses still in
bloom this late in the fall. Head in his hands he moaned over and over, “I don’t like being
alone. My darling must come to me.”
The end of summer brought lots of work for Mrs CW Jones. Children played hookie,
lawns were covered in fallen leaves, so it was several weeks before she realised the light had
not shone into her room at midnight. She never read the local paper herself but collected it
regularly for the Birtwhistles. Though when she saw the top of the familiar permed head
rolled up, she was curious enough to break the rubber band and open to that page. When she
realised it was an obituary, “Poor Alfie” escaped her lips. But then she dropped her teacup. It
said right there that Alfred Birtwhistle had been killed instantly in the accident. But how.
She’d spoken to him every night.
She thought of all the tea she’d brewed and had been left undrunk. Poor Alfred had been
white as a ghost all summer. She’d thought from all the time in the hospital.
Mrs CW Jones let the newspaper page soak up the rest of the article that said though
expected to recover, poor Phyllis had suffered a setback every time the doctors said she was
getting better. The obituary said she’d fought the angel of death valiantly, but he had won in
the end. Remembering Mr Birtwhistle’s determination to have his wife by his side again
made her shiver. He hadn’t wanted her to recover, that would have left him alone. Her
neighbour had pulled her back to him no matter how hard she’d fought to live.
Looking towards at the empty house, she wondered if Mr Birtwhistle had carried his wife
over the threshold the second time. Even though it was a sunny afternoon, a goose walked
over her grave. Glancing up at the upstairs window she thought she glimpsed a familiar perm
the other side of the chintz curtain, then angry, haunted eyes staring out. Putting her hands to
her ears Mrs CW Jones tried to block out the voice of Phyllis Birtwhistle calling to her.
---
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