Pure Juliet Read online

  ‘Well.’ Nurse Judson swallowed her indignation. Was the girl made of ice? ‘You had better be off. It’s’ – she glanced at her wrist – ‘after twelve.’

  She turned again to the bed and slowly, with the gentlest of movements, drew the coverings over the face. She did not look again at Juliet, and the latter, subdued by the events of the last minutes, went slowly to the door.

  Out of the corner of her eye, as she turned to go, she saw Nurse Judson kneel briskly down, and sink her neat head into hands clasped upon the counterpane.

  Praying, thought Juliet, skimming along the dim, hushed passage. So that was another thing you did when someone died.

  ‘Yes, just before twelve last night,’ said Nurse Judson, following Rosa with the morning tea into Mrs Massey’s bedroom. ‘I had gone out of the room for a few minutes to make myself a cup of tea. Miss Slater was there. She says it was very quick – these cases so often go off quicker than we expect, or else they linger . . . I’m going to phone Doctor now. I have . . . made her all tidy.’

  ‘Very sad, poor dear Addy.’

  Mrs Massey allowed the words ‘a merciful release’ to remain unuttered. It wasn’t a merciful release. Except for the weakness of the last years, Addy’s life had been very comfortable. Plenty of money – though, poor dear, she had never known how to spend it and always three or four servants. If a vague idea went through Mrs Massey’s mind that a body untouched by the body of a man – and a heart that had suffered a pain other than physical pain, from its stored-up treasures of love unreturned – could be a burden that it was a mercy to be freed from, she dismissed the thought with the familiar: Poor Addy, no one ever looked at her.

  She went on at once: ‘Well, thank you very much, Nurse. I’ll just drink this, and I’ll be down.’

  ‘Yes . . . I expect Doctor will want me to be off – I’ve another case this afternoon.’ Nurse Judson saw no reason why healthy old ladies of eighty-odd should linger in bed, and she knew she must force herself to have a word with Dr Masters about her ten-minute absence from the sickroom. ‘Don’t cry, it upsets people,’ she added sharply to Rosa, who was sniffing. ‘Nothing to cry about . . . good long life . . . every comfort . . . and she was a believer.’ (Mrs Massey looked remote.) ‘Well, good morning to you, Mrs Massey.’

  Mrs Massey saw with relief the door shut upon Nurse. Now she had the management of Hightower and its inmates to herself – at least until Edward Masters and that sloppy Frank arrived. And for the moment, there was Rosa to be comforted, and that little chit to be kept a watchful eye on and instructed in the proper way to behave.

  ‘Don’t cry, please, Rosa, there’s a lot to be done. Just hand me my dressing-gown – thank you, my dear.’

  And Mrs Massey climbed zestfully out of bed.

  She was too well mannered and sensible to make a show of grief. If any such temptation assailed that part of her nature which relished drama, she rebuffed it with the realization that no one was going to believe in hysterics about poor old Addy.

  When she had finished telephoning Dr Masters, and received his soothing reassurances about that ten minutes’ absence, Nurse Judson drove briskly away in her little car.

  *

  Juliet awoke late, which was unusual. She was instantly irritably aware of what had happened, and conscious that she must let her parents know – in case I have to —

  But the thought go home refused entry to her mind. Frank’ll see I’m all right replaced it.

  Nevertheless, while she dressed she could not cease from wondering if Auntie had known all along about everything. The advantage taken. The scheming. The long-nurtured plan to use Hightower as an escape. The lies about her family.

  Most disturbing of all, had she known the truth expressed in her last sentence?

  She’d never get over that, not her, Juliet thought, sweeping the brush through her hair.

  As she ran downstairs she felt an air of activity in the house. There was a sense of someone about to arrive or depart: the bells door, telephone and servant had it their own way; they were in command except along the passage leading to Miss Pennecuick’s room. There the silence began.

  ‘Gently, please,’ Mrs Massey, seated in majesty before the coffee pot, instructed as Juliet darted into the breakfast-room. Her voice was deep, a finger raised. ‘This morning is not like other mornings.’

  ‘Sorry and all that.’ Juliet helped herself to porridge and cream.

  A meaningful pause. ‘Good morning, Juliet.’

  ‘Oh . . . mornin’,’ spoken with her mouth full.

  ‘Really, my dear, if only you could realize what a help in life good manners are to a girl. I have always found it so.’ Mrs Massey crunched into a piece of toast, and picked up the Custodian. ‘Now, the one thing you have to remember this morning is not to go running off somewhere; we may need you. There is nothing to be done until Mr Pennecuick arrives and . . . the officials. I shall be in the drawing-room if I am wanted. I suggest that you go into the garden and find some flowers for our dear old friend. She would have liked that.’

  Juliet, skimming towards the garden, had become pale. She did not want to look again at Auntie’s dead body, and as she pulled up narcissi, dandelions, anything she could find, she looked forward to Frank’s arrival. Soft as he was, he was better than the old bitch (meaning Mrs Massey).

  Re-entering the house and wondering how to avoid going into that room, she met Pilar.

  ‘Oh, Mees . . . you have flowers too. This afternoon I go by the bus into St Alberic with Antonio to buy a good bunch from us all, me and my brothaires and sistaires.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Juliet mumbled, and thrust the ragged cluster at her. ‘Put these with yours, will you?’

  ‘You cannot to see her,’ Pilar said at once, sympathetically. ‘Me too. I fear to look on the dead. And’ – her voice sank – ‘that man is there now. He just come.’ Her face darkened over, like a small sun eclipsed by a cloud.

  ‘What man?’

  ‘The man . . . who do all the arrangements.’

  ‘Oh. Well, course we can’t go up while he’s there,’ said Juliet hastily. ‘Put ’em in water, will you? Cheerio,’ and she made headlong for her room and her table, thinking, I’m not going in there unless someone shoves me.

  Death, and the uncertainty of her own future, and even a slight sensation of regret for silly old Auntie, broke, that morning, through the delicate web of ideas in her head.

  At last she put books aside, snatched her cape off the door, and hurried downstairs. But, hurry as she might, she saw Frank in discussion with a man in a black suit standing outside that door. She rushed on towards the drawing-room and Mrs Massey.

  Mrs Massey looked up over her spectacles from an article on abortion. Her expression was disapproving – as well it might be, but not for the obvious reasons.

  ‘Going out?’

  ‘Yes. I got the flowers. Thought I’d go and phone me mum.’

  ‘Surely you can perfectly well do that from here?’

  ‘I want a breath of air.’

  ‘Oh very well.’

  Mrs Massey, who was awaiting Frank’s descent to hear what had been arranged, was giving only half her attention to Juliet with her mind on a most interesting article, to be read next, on transvestitism, and Juliet hurried on to the much vandalized telephone box at the crossroads in Leete, and was relieved to find it unoccupied.

  ‘Mum? It’s me, Julie.’

  ‘Oh hullo, love. You all right?’

  ‘I’m all right. It’s her – Miss P. She’s passed on.’

  ‘No! Fancy! Poor old lady. I hope she didn’t suffer much. When was it?’

  ‘Didn’t suffer at all, not what I could see. Went out like a light.’

  Juliet’s voice did not change, but vividly through her mind’s eye there passed a picture of that last mournful stare, and she heard again the final sentence. Impatiently, she dismissed both vision and words. But then there followed a disturbing conviction that she would remembe
r both for the rest of her life.

  ‘You comin’ home, then? You know you’ll always—’

  ‘Shouldn’t think so. Frank, you know, Frank says—’

  ‘—you’ll always be welcome in your own home, but your dad says I got to make you understand that if you come, you got to get a job. Though if you been left a bit of money, I s’pose—’

  ‘How’s Bertie-bird?’

  ‘Oh, he’s cheeky. “You’re cheeky,” I tell him. “Aren’t you cheeky?”’

  Juliet forgot her mother at once, marching home with her woollen cap (knitted by that same mother) pulled off and her great brow, already marked with the faintest of thought-lines, bare to the scented air. The sweet wind entered her nostrils and, for once, she thought of nothing.

  Irritation returned when she had to press the bell at the gate. She prepared to dart past whoever opened it (at least it would not be Sarah who was prostrate in her room).

  It was Antonio who stood there, wearing the air of solemn importance which he had assumed since the death of his mistress.

  He fell into step beside her. ‘All is arranged,’ he announced. ‘The burial is on the day after tomorrow. Wednesday the day is. And tomorrow the family come.’

  ‘What family? Oh yes – Frank did say something.’ The ones what might make trouble.

  ‘Is a cousin of the Senora. Mister Barrow. And his two daughters come, Miss Barrow and another Miss Barrow. All very old, I think. We all go to the burying, and I come home first to arrange much lunch because all will be very hungry. Then in the afternoon the man of business read the will.’

  ‘Oh yes – the will.’ They were nearly at the front door.

  ‘We wish to hear that, because we think perhaps she leaves us some money. A very kind old lady. But still’ – up went his eyes – ‘we have no home in England. Bad, bad. In Spain, much secret police, no work, not much food. We like to stay in England.’

  Juliet nodded absently, and was making for the stairs when he added, ‘La Senora Massey wish you go to her in the drawing-room.’ Juliet turned irritably.

  Mrs Massey, to an observant eye, appeared to have swelled. This was because Frank, in telling her the arrangements for the funeral, had thanked her cordially for her calmness, authority, reliability and unselfishness in taking charge of Hightower. (It had occurred to him that bossiness and enjoyment of drama had also been exercised, but naturally he did not refer to these qualities.) And Mrs Massey had swelled.

  ‘There you are, Juliet, you really must not run off like this, you know—’

  ‘I told you – I went to phone Mum.’

  ‘At these times one never knows – now please don’t hover like that, sit down, and I will tell you about the arrangements.’

  ‘Antonio told me. It’s on Wednesday and some old cousins of hers are comin’.’

  ‘Then he had no business to,’ retorted Mrs Massey. ‘Those young people are too fond of gossiping.’

  (She ignored an inner voice reminding her of sundry cosy exchanges with Pilar.)

  ‘Must I go?’ Juliet blurted, taking out her cigarettes.

  Mrs Massey stared for perhaps half a minute.

  ‘Most certainly you must go,’ she pronounced at length. ‘Not only would it be considered very, very strange and ungrateful if you did not, but I should think that you would wish to.’

  Juliet was silent, lighting a cigarette.

  Mrs Massey was not usually observant, but she noticed that the girl’s hands were trembling slightly.

  ‘I never bin to one,’ Juliet said. ‘A funeral.’

  The old friend of the family was ready to be the consoling angel; what she would not endure was opposition.

  ‘Yes, well, but there are such things as duty and affection, you know. You may give me one of those,’ indicating the cigarettes.

  Juliet, who had anticipated a tirade against the risk of cancer, was surprised, but held out the packet and even supplied a light, and for some moments they smoked in silence.

  Then Mrs Massey said: ‘Have you any black clothes?’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘But I suppose you have a black wrap or jacket or something. Even nowadays, when full mourning has gone quite out, it is customary to wear some sign of grief and respect. Go up to your room at once, please, and see what you have that is suitable. And don’t get buried in those books . . . I know what you are.’

  This was the last thing Mrs Massey knew.

  But Juliet fled, glad of the excuse. In a few minutes she was back, announcing: ‘Not a sausage.’

  ‘I sent you to look for something black, not a sausage.’

  ‘I mean, I haven’t got nothing black.’

  ‘“Anything black”. Then you must go into St Alberics with one of the girls this afternoon. Ring the bell, please.’

  After a prolonged discussion, in which Juliet did not join, it was arranged – with many warnings about not dawdling, not staring in shop windows, not spending more than two pounds fifty, not wasting time gossiping with acquaintances. Pilar was the chosen escort.

  Juliet sat on her tuffet, smoking and musing, in a mingling of dreaminess and furious impatience.

  ‘Juliet! Are you asleep? I have spoken to you twice.’

  Juliet looked up, with the old, familiar sensation of sullen near-despair she had known since childhood. No one understood.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You will catch the two-thirty bus, and have a black scarf here in time for tea. You will wear it with the plainest dress you have – not those trousers, please. Now there is only half an hour until luncheon – why don’t you sit down and read the paper? There has been a terrible disaster in—’

  But Juliet was at the door. Even half an hour could be used in following that train of thought, and she was not interested in the disaster in the paper.

  Another girl, coming down to meet the Barrows at teatime, might have anticipated a trio ‘on the make’, their rapacity showing in their faces. Juliet, the black scarf knotted clumsily about the neck of her T-shirt, had no such thoughts.

  A grey skirt, too long and not in perfect freshness, swung its cheap folds about her calves; her hands smelled strongly of ‘Blue Grass’. She was still in thrall to that drifting, dreaming speculation which promised to be fruitful; her brain seemed to be divided into two parts: the one unwillingly busy with people, situations, annoying details and voices; the other floating easily, luringly, in ‘strange seas of Thought’.

  ‘Ah, there you are. Phyllis, Althea, George, this is Juliet Slater, poor Addy’s young friend.’

  Juliet looked at the old man and the two scraggy old trouts, which is how she saw the Misses Barrow. She nodded and muttered ‘Hullo’, at which Mrs Massey glanced briefly at the ceiling.

  ‘Now you can make yourself useful. Pass Miss Barrow the cake, please,’ indicating Althea with a nod.

  The elder sister glanced up wistfully at the odd, plain girl. Poor child, she looked lost and lonely. Perhaps this time . . . Anthea Barrow had never managed, somehow, to get on with young people, but perhaps this girl was missing poor Addy, and there might be a chance.

  Phyllis Barrow looked at Juliet’s hair. Here was youth. Youth to be disliked, disapproved of and envied. It was a scandal if a common little thing like this was going to get a lot of Addy’s money. The empty heart seethed in jealousy and pain.

  Queer girl. Looks clean, thought old George Barrow, chewing egg sandwiches. Hasn’t got that forehead for nothing . . . Like to talk to her, if I get the chance . . . But Phyllis wouldn’t like that . . . If only my girls had had brains . . .

  Voices were subdued, there were smiles, but no social laughs. Everyone was aware of the thing lying upstairs in that shockingly shaped box smothered in flowers.

  Mrs Massey was not giving in to corpses, though of course one must behave properly towards them, and she kept up a flow of pleasant commonplaces, seasoned as usual with enough tartness to make them entertaining.

  She was aware of an occasional a
dmiring glance from the old man, who realized the triumph of her social sense over the primitive fear stalking the house. She was conscious, too, of her own pale skin and elegant dress. Vanity, thought Mrs Massey, is one of the great supports in life, and she rippled, rather hoarsely, on.

  *

  In the evening, the return of Frank slightly lifted from Mrs Massey the burden of maintaining civilization; his easy, natural behaviour was soothing to everyone.

  But how tiresome he was with the chit, sending her off to her room soon after dinner, ‘because tomorrow will be a tiring day’.

  When Juliet had disappeared, after a curt ‘Night all,’ Mrs Massey gave a small and chilly laugh.

  ‘One feels one should apologize – but you can see what class she comes from. Poor Addy, she was sadly taken in.’

  ‘She has pretty hair,’ Althea said timidly.

  ‘That is a gift from Providence, and no credit to her,’ said Mrs Massey, who never hesitated to introduce this vague entity when she needed backing up.

  ‘Yes, her manners are bad,’ said Phyllis, smoke wreathing out from her large, sour face. ‘No father, I think you said?’

  Frank remembered the monumental figure seated in the bed, and thought that, in the physical sense, Juliet had too much father.

  ‘No father, and four brothers and sisters,’ he lied smoothly.

  ‘Addy picked her up in some park or other, feeding squirrels. Just the sort of thing . . . well, she’s gone, poor dear soul, and one mustn’t. But anyone could have seen with half an eye that the girl was on the make,’ Mrs Massey said.

  ‘At fourteen?’ Frank snapped, and Mr Barrow, who was secretly on Juliet’s side because of her hair, said hastily that she looked clever.

  ‘You’re quite right, she is, she got five A levels,’ said Frank. Heavens! How plain the two poor women were! He thought, suddenly, and with pleasure, of Clemence’s slenderness and brown curls.

  Mrs Massey observed that good manners and attention to dress were of more use than A levels, and this led to a discussion between the men on contemporary education.

  So the evening passed. A slight rain was drifting through the foliage of the elms, and the darkness smelled sweet of new grass, and budding wild flowers and wallflowers and iris in the great garden.