Pure Juliet Read online

  A solemn, luxuriantly haired male had been a silent observer of their exchange. Having purchased a copy of Freud’s The Future of an Illusion, he marched home and wrote a short story with which he was pleased. It was about two young people, tormented by unremitting lust, who slept together in a ‘grubby bed-sitter’. They were sadly disappointed by their encounter, which ruined both their lives. It got itself published in a little magazine, and in another realm, certain lesser angels, who should have known better, held their dazzling sides while they laughed.

  Arthur arrived at the meeting place in his usual observant state of mind, mildly interested to see how Juliet Slater would ‘turn out’.

  This was far from his first date. Although no Reg Porter, he had pleased certain girls since his sixteenth birthday by his good manners and his lack of grabbing, and was going steady with Brenda Lewis, who lived just down his road.

  True, there were female admirers of Reg Porter who described Arthur as wet; he did not like this, though he was still quietly determined to be what he was, rather than what others expected him to be. It was because he felt that it would give him more standing with Reg’s girls (whom he both feared and found boring, yet wished to impress) that he had, on impulse, invited this unusual Juliet Slater to see Star Wars.

  He had expected her to arrive late, and had timed the meeting with this possibility in mind, but at twenty-two minutes to seven there she was, caped and hooded, her thin face pink from the bitter wind and her eyes – gosh, they were smashing – glittering.

  ‘Hi, there,’ he said, advancing.

  ‘Hi,’ said Juliet.

  Some unconscious calling of youth to youth had prompted her acceptance of Arthur’s invitation. At home, she would have had to sit with Auntie, and she had also decided that some fieldwork, some looking out for coincidences in streets and shops and buses, might provide useful material.

  Arthur had taken some trouble to get seats in the second most expensive part of the house, but he did not expect Juliet to comment on this and she did not; nor did she look about her with any interest until the audience began crowding in; then her gaze swept over them, and the expression of her eyes changed.

  Takes no more notice of me than if I was invisible, Arthur thought resentfully. Either she was mental or she was the rudest girl he had ever met.

  ‘Don’t you like the movies?’ he asked at last: the house was full now and an electronic overture, of a nature suitable to the film, was thundering forth.

  ‘Only been once before, when I was a kid.’

  She turned the light-filled eyes on him, and a shiver touched his spine: she certainly was a funny-peculiar girl.

  ‘Bit unusual, isn’t it? Most kids go through a stage of going a lot.’

  ‘Went with my mum.’ (Oh. Yes, they had that ‘joke’ about the elephants. Probably a funny kind of mum, too. ) ‘Took me for a treat, like, but I wasn’t all that interested, so she never took me again.’

  ‘Oh . . . I see . . . What are your . . . hobbies, then?’

  By this time Reg Porter would have been in the full flow of a taunting, tantalizing dialogue, laden with hints and double meanings. But with this girl, Arthur’s own modest imitation of Reg could not get started.

  ‘Oh – readin’. I read a lot.’

  ‘Georgette Heyer, I suppose.’

  She was Brenda’s favourite author, together with the anonymous presenters of the articles in Over 21 and Honey. (Arthur’s attempt to ‘get her on to Jane Austen’ had met with a bewildered, ‘But, Artie, it’s so dull.’)

  ‘Who’s she?’

  Arthur stared, and was pleased. Here was a chance for some mind-improving, an exercise which gave him satisfaction.

  ‘Very popular romantic novelist. We sell about thirty a week of hers, in the shop. But I prefer Jane Austen.’ (A part of him also ‘preferred’ Isaac Asimov, but he did not think it necessary to mention this.)

  ‘We did about her at school, Jane Austen.’

  ‘Where was your school?’

  ‘Hawley Road Comprehensive – a dump, it was.’

  ‘In London?’

  Nod. ‘I got five As,’ she added suddenly, with that satisfaction she always felt when making the statement.

  ‘Crikey – you must be bright,’ commented Arthur respectfully; he had two. ‘What subjects?’

  ‘Oh – all science. The other stuff wasn’t interestin’; I done – did – badly in them.’

  ‘You must be very bright,’ he said again (but mental people sometimes were).

  ‘S’pose so . . .’ a shrug, and at that moment the lights began to dim. The film had been showing for over ten minutes before it engaged Arthur’s attention. He saw then that it was a marvellous construction, a miracle of technology. Millions of dollars had been expended upon devices, costumes, conflicts – and not one gleam of imagination, not one, decided Arthur, who was a reader, and proud of it. Watching, he was confirmed in his belief that Books Are Better.

  He moved his hand slowly towards Juliet’s, the position of which he had taken care to notice. It gleamed whiter than its actual tint in the immense glare from the screen. Brenda’s hands were rosy and had dimples over the knuckles.

  Gently he slid his own over it – gosh, it was cold! – not icy, just cool enough to be called cold, and faintly damp; not cosy at all.

  She turned and looked at him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Arthur was considerably taken aback.

  ‘Oh – nothing. Just thought we might hold hands.’

  Juliet slid her hand away.

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘Why?’ Arthur’s whisper was conventionally urgent, concealing relief.

  ‘Cause you aren’t an elephant,’ with a quick grin that warmed him towards her, in spite of the snub.

  The conventions appeased, Arthur proceeded to enjoy the film by criticizing it, while his thoughts turned occasionally to Juliet. Any girl thanked you for the seats: even Brenda, his steady, did. No. This was the last time, he decided, that he dated Juliet Slater, who, had there been a prize for dropability, would have won by many a head.

  But he had his manners, and would keep them until the end.

  ‘Come for a coffee?’ he asked, as the lights and sounds of the film died away, and there began a desperate scrambling among the audience to get out of the place while ‘The Queen’ was being pumped forth. ‘We’ve got time. Your last bus is ten forty-five.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  But he took her to the cheaper of the little town’s two cafés; the evening had cost him quite enough already, and his job at the Pickwick, the Owl and the Waverley was not paid at full-time assistant’s rate, as it was only temporary, a fill-up before he went into a small printing firm, owned by his uncle, in the town, where, he was warned (more frequently than he liked), he would start at the bottom and be expected to work his way up.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced, as they sat down in the hot, noisy, brightly lit place.

  ‘So’m I, but it’ll have to be sandwiches – they take about twenty minutes doing a hamburger in this joint. We’d miss your bus.’

  She gave her nod; and presently, when they were hastily eating and gulping a tepid brown fluid, she turned to take a prolonged stare round the room.

  ‘Nuisance,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘What did you say?’ For she had spoken with her mouth full.

  ‘ . . . don’t know . . . see, I wish I knew if all these here kids’ – for the café’s clientele was largely under eighteen – ‘if anything had happened to them like . . . a coincidence.’

  Arthur, chewing hastily, stared at her. It’s like taking a talking animal out, or one of her blasted elephants, he thought. Yet as her eyes fixed steadily upon his own, there was in them a light that never shone in those of any animal.

  ‘You’d have to ask them, I suppose,’ he said gently. (Or a very small kid. She’s like that too. But five A levels! )

  ‘Can�
��t stick talkin’ to people.’Sides, take me all the week.’

  How precious time was to her! He had noticed that: she darted everywhere, her walk was almost a run; she seemed to grudge the passing of every minute.

  ‘You’re crazy about coincidences, aren’t you?’ he said.

  The light in her eyes seemed to dim. Here was the usual ignorance that had driven her to run away to Hightower.

  Arthur observed the dimming.

  ‘Here, if we want that bus we must run for it,’ and in a few seconds they were racing down the high street. As Juliet jumped onto the bus, amidst a small crowd of Leete-bound night-owls, Arthur called, ‘Tell you what – I’ll collect coincidences for you and write them down. You come into the shop every week and pick them up – right?’

  She turned – the bus was already moving away – and waved.

  ‘What’s yer name?’

  ‘Arthur Robinson.’ (A shout.)

  ‘See yer.’ (A thin scream.)

  What a girl! Not a word about three-fifty on seats and coffees!

  His thoughts went with relief to Brenda, who was at this moment probably trying a new hair-do in front of the glass or painting her nails – or even (thought Arthur tolerantly) out with someone else. He was not jealous.

  9

  The workmen at the Cowshed having driven off to their lunch in a large car belonging to one of them, Frank was taking the opportunity to sweep the floor of his living-room, on which they had allowed much litter to accumulate. He was also quoting aloud poetry appropriate to autumn: ‘“A spirit haunts the year’s last hours / Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: / To himself he talks . . .”’ As I’m doing, he thought, vigorously driving before him empty cigarette cartons, fragments of plaster, whitish dust and greasy paper. He was content, though somewhere at the back of his mind lurked faint uneasiness at the fact that no other man within many miles was at that moment quoting Tennyson while sweeping with a twig broom the floor of a disused cowshed in which he proposed to live.

  To banish this slight sensation, he began to think of Juliet. I wish I could do something about that child: she bothers me. The best thing would be to get old Addy to put up the money to keep her at a university. (We won’t bother with grants.) I could do it, I suppose, but then there would probably be gossip, certainly in Wanby. Everybody’s so used to my being in love with the wrong person.

  Whistling, he put the broom away, and set about brewing some herb tea. As he did so, a thought hit him, solid as a brick and with much the same effect: I lead an unnatural life and I’m getting old maid-ish.

  Instantly, other thoughts leapt to his defence: Hell, why shouldn’t I? I’m comfortable. I’m not utterly useless – there’s the Society to prove that – and the belief that bachelors are ‘selfish’ is old-fashioned. I do no harm (that’s a feeble one, if you like) . . . perhaps I’m getting a bit bored with my own comfort. Perhaps I’ll meet a new mermaid . . .

  He was astonished at the force with which he thought: God forbid.

  His thoughts, as he sipped the dark-green liquid and stared out over his meadows, returned to Juliet.

  She’s virgin soil. I’ve never heard her utter a word showing she has been influenced by anyone or anything, except this mysterious something that demands so much solitude. And mathematics. Oh, and that Bach the other night.

  But the lack! There’s such a lack there: lack of ordinary human responses, human tastes, human desires . . . That would be something to occupy me, teaching Juliet to be human. I’ll teach her to look, and to hear, and to feel, until she’s a human creature.

  He was smiling as he went through to the little kitchen that had been added to the long, low shed. He felt full of energy and interest. It would be a Good Work.

  Perhaps there is something about an unusual female which arouses in males the desire to instruct and to change. It was well for Frank Pennecuick and Arthur Robinson that neither of them knew what they had taken on.

  Arthur was finding that his search for coincidences was quite as embarrassing and tiresome as he had expected.

  At the end of the first week, however, he had perfected a system; had bought a notebook; and was growing accustomed to sitting down at café tables or leaning on bars, and saying to strangers: ‘I say, excuse me, but I’m writing a thriller and the plot turns on a coincidence. I wonder if you can help me?’

  He did not want trouble. He chose the more unalarming-looking of the young, and the more soppy-looking of the elderly, avoiding members of HM Forces, and gangs of either sex. An hour a week was quite enough to give to his odd search. In a fortnight, his job in the bookshop would be up, and he would go into Uncle Bill’s office. Free time would be scarcer after that.

  Then, gradually, he learnt that no one is ‘ordinary’.

  Every individual he spoke to showed some narrow, delicate, almost colourless streak, personal as a fingerprint, that set them imperceptibly apart from everyone else. Even within the most apparently moulded type there appeared these variations, infant shoots of oddness and individuality. There had been the elderly man who accused him of nosy-parkerism, muttered about a free country, and threatened him with the police. This was the evening on which Arthur nearly abandoned the project. But the embryo novelist heard the shy notes and saw the faint gleams behind the halting sentences and the clichés.

  As for stupidity . . . perhaps he did not make enough allowance for the slightly alarming effect of clear dark eyes (not exactly glaring, but magnified by thick spectacles) fixed with severe attention upon the victim. Usually his spiel about the thriller and the coincidence was greeted with an open mouth and ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Eh? Say it again slower, son.’

  ‘I dunno what you’re on about.’

  ‘How very interesting! My nephew writes. He hasn’t had any luck so far with publishing, poor boy, but he isn’t discouraged. So you want to be a writer too, how thrilling! I wonder if you’d like to meet Andrew?’

  ‘Coincidences? Funny you should ask me that. Only this morning I was saying to Mrs Bender who lives next door to us no it wasn’t this morning it must have been Monday because I’d just come from the launderette well I was on my way back as a matter of fact and I ran into her just as I was going along Bowie Road . . .’

  From the mass of examples collected during one week, there shone out, large and lucent, one jewel.

  It came from a tramp, an old man with a flowing beard who was covered, or rather packed into, layers of rags, glimpsed by Arthur on his way home one cold evening as he hurried past a coffee stall.

  The handsome, ravaged profile outlined against the lights in the little place caught Arthur’s attention, and he paused; approached; ordered coffee; and addressed the towering ancient with his tale.

  There was a pause. Arthur noticed that the old man’s nose was purple and threaded with crimson veins. He was prepared for retreat. Anything: a blow, a roar of rage, a shout of laughter.

  ‘I know of one,’ said a hoarse voice at last, while bloodshot eyes were fixed dreamingly upon Arthur’s own. ‘It happened in Bulgaria to a man I knew. He murdered his cousin. Wrapped his body in a rug and threw it into the river. But the crime haunted him; yes, it haunted him, and he couldn’t sleep. He used to walk along the seashore at night, up and down, up and down,’ went on the broken, educated voice somnolently, ‘and presently he noticed something dark lying at his feet and rolling to and fro in the waves.’ Pause. ‘I suppose you haven’t such a thing as a cigarette about you?’

  Arthur, mesmerized, handed him a nearly-full packet.

  ‘Ah thank you – very kind – and it was the rug. The body had gone; the fishes had got that; but it was the rug.’

  He lit a cigarette shakily, and stowed the packet into his rags.

  ‘Thanks for telling me,’ Arthur said at last, and the old man gave a mocking wave of a long-fingered hand and turned his back.

  Arthur hurried away. It was not until he was nearly home that it struck him that the story might be made up. />
  He shut the gate of his home with a sensation of safety and relief. The rags, the great beard, the voice: all had seemed to open before him a chasm in which wandered souls once sure of themselves and safe but now preferring this twilight to the light of day.

  Juliet came into the shop on a busy morning with such an air of meaning to be attended to at once that Arthur’s sole customer, a sturdy lady choosing a nice book about dogs gave her a haughty glance.

  ‘Oh hullo. Be with you in a minute,’ Arthur muttered. When the lady had gone (having deliberately prolonged her choosing, to teach that girl a lesson ), he turned round to find Juliet at the other end of the shop.

  He hurried down to her, and held out his notebook.

  ‘Here – they aren’t much good, I’m afraid, except one I got from an old tramp. That’s a beauty. Hurry up – there’s another person waiting.’

  She had snatched the book from him and was already reading the carefully written pages, with an effect of eating them, so intense was her concentration.

  ‘Pure,’ he thought he heard her mutter, and saw her give a little nod, as he rushed off, thinking, Well, I’ll never know what that meant, so shan’t waste time wondering.

  As the second customer left, there wandered in a tall man, shabbily dressed in brown. Arthur did not approach with helpful enquiries; he had been told to encourage browsing, and this one looked like a browser.

  Instead, the brown man went straight to Juliet.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, and she said, ‘Oh – hullo,’ impatiently.

  ‘Are those the notes your friend was collecting for you?’ the brown man asked, while glancing pleasantly towards Arthur.

  ‘Yes. Not much use except for one,’ raising her voice and nodding at ‘your friend’. And she was at the door.

  ‘I suppose you can’t join us for coffee and tell us how you got this material, which I’m sure will be useful to Juliet,’ the browser said warmly, turning to Arthur.

  ‘Oh – thanks. But that’s impossible. I’m in charge, see, until the other assistant comes on at one. But thanks all the same.’

  ‘Some other time, then.’ He hesitated. ‘Juliet doesn’t mean . . . It’s just that she’s – well, a very unusual child, and one mustn’t expect ordinary behaviour from her.’