Pure Juliet

by Stella Gibbons

  Juliet’s feelings carried her so far as a low-voiced: ‘Not half.’ Then, still staring, she added: ‘Could I have another window at that end,’ pointing, ‘so’s I can see that tree?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll get that done,’ he promised, feeling the strongest satisfaction.

  Juliet had not yet learned to say ‘Thank you.’ But she had learned to admit that she wanted to see a tree. He had taught her that much.

  Late that evening, as he wheeled his bicycle to stop outside his own door, he glanced across at her house and saw a light in her window, shining out into the blue dusk.

  She had moved in.

  The days rushed on. Thirty invitations had been sent out. It would be a company just large enough to appear cheerful. Two little distant cousins of Clemence’s, still too young to be touched by liberating influences, were delighted by being appointed bridesmaids. A cake, made from strictly wholesome ingredients on Frank’s instructions, was mixed and baked by one of Mrs Massey’s few domesticated friends, and St Mary’s was adorned, on the evening before The Day, by the ladies who always ‘did’ the flowers for the church – with weeds.

  ‘Weeds, my dear, out of the hedges, and bits and pieces from that little wood where the picnickers go.’

  ‘They won’t stay up,’ wailed the exhausted flower-arrangers, as they supervised their completed efforts at about seven that evening, ‘they just droop. And you need hundreds of them to look anything, it’s simply impossible to make a group or a pattern. We had armfuls brought in by the Sunday School children – had to pay them ten pence a bunch, if you please. When I was young children picked flowers for pleasure. And all day it was “Is this here all right, Miss?” in case it was poisonous. And of course Wayne Palmer had to eat a berry and say it was deadly nightshade – he would. And Mrs Duff Potter had to rush him over to casualty at St Alberics General, but fortunately someone knew the stuff doesn’t fruit until October, and anyway Wayne remembered afterwards that he spat it out. And after all the fuss, that collection still doesn’t look anything. Oh, I can tell you it’s been murder. Absolute murder.’

  Whether it ‘looked anything’ depended upon the eyes that looked. The dim hue of the foxgloves was repeated in the stained glass of the little windows in the ancient church, huddled in its yew-shaded churchyard, where birds darted in search of the crimson berries. The pale, watery light in the church touched to a deeper green the foliage of buttercup and ragged robin. From the dark beams of the roof a carved face peered out here and there, ambiguously smiling as if undecided whether to follow God or the Devil, and the air smelled of former censings (for the Reverend Aiden Blount was High) and the ghosts of myriad flowers.

  Massed below the blue and water-green windows were tiny pink and white and greenish-white blossoms of which none of the ladies, many of whom were ‘keen gardeners’, knew the names; and the altar glowed with the cool emerald of leaves and grasses, and the snow of meadowsweet.

  Mrs Massey, with tart mirth, had assured a crony that she had no intention of appearing in cheesecloth or denim; she would wear lilac nylon over two purple petticoats and sport the smartest cap that Harrods could offer.

  Her suggestion that Juliet should appear as chief bridesmaid, in order to show her gratitude for all that was being done for her, had been firmly rebuffed by Frank.

  Clemence in the midst of distracted activity, explained: ‘Juliet isn’t the sort who has to show gratitude, Grandmamma.’

  ‘Oh indeed. Why not, pray?’

  ‘Because she – is – she has – oh I don’t know. Unique. Look here, I really must dash.’

  ‘You’ve caught her habit of flying off, now,’ disconsolately.

  ‘Oh Grandmamma, please don’t, I’m so happy,’ Clemence said absently, as she stood ticking off an item on a list.

  Yes, she was – she supposed. She was sitting in the car with Dr Masters, on her way to be married to Frank, breathing the scent of her bouquet of white pinks imported from France, and beneath her attempts to remember the order of the marriage service and what she had to do, there was indeed a surprised, still, happiness.

  Fifteen minutes later she saw him, tall and elegant in brown velvet, grave and familiar and kind, her best friend. She had so trained herself during the past crowded weeks to repel negative thoughts that the question crying at the door of her mind, Is he as happy as I am?, was heard only as a faint whisper. And the hour swept inexorably on.

  Juliet was standing, poker-straight, between Mrs Massey and her own mother, the former having taken Rose under her wing and waived convention, and led her to a place among the bride’s relations.

  Juliet was dressed in natural shantung, with embroidery at collar and cuffs so chaste as to be hardly visible; her hat, an unbecoming girlish droop of fine straw and matching grosgrain ribbon, was of the same natural tint that she had gradually come to prefer. She had steadily resisted the efforts of Mrs Massey, who had taken her shopping, to select brighter colours. (‘Then do have something softer, child, and more becoming. You’ll look like a Rich Tea biscuit.’)

  The faint rustling made by thirty people in the dim, sunny light ceased; the priest stood very still, and the service started.

  Juliet began by listening and looking; then her thoughts drifted away. She was aroused by a sharp poke in her ribs and ‘Juliet!’ from Mrs Massey, followed by a murmur from her mother on the other side: ‘Julie – people are tryin’ to get out.’

  Juliet glanced round to see, over a brilliantly printed plump shoulder, a row of indignant faces. ‘The Wedding March’ was wavering out on St Mary’s ancient and historic organ, and Clemence’s white shape was disappearing through the door out into brilliant sunlight.

  ‘Happy the bride what the sun shines on.’ It was a shy mutter from Rose.

  ‘I beg your pardon – oh yes. Yes, indeed, couldn’t have had a better day,’ Mrs Massey said graciously, resigning herself to sharing a car bound for Frank’s cowshed with this person.

  But dismay was almost lost in incredulity. Juliet’s mother? Not a trace, not a hint, of the remotest likeness. Perhaps the father? Not here; working probably.

  Working, indeed; after a scene in which he had begun by forbidding his wife to attend a ceremony got up by a lot of blasted snobs, and had ended by his giving grudging permission, with Rose in tears.

  ‘Oh all right, then. You go, if you’re so set on it. Sooner you than me.’

  ‘It isn’t that, George, but they been kind to Julie. And all that money – it looks downright ignorant not to. And that Mrs Massey did send an invite.’

  ‘I said : go if you want to.’ He paused at the door; it was six o’clock on a June morning, the bird was trilling to the sun, and all the room’s colours glowed. ‘S’pose me tea’ll be ready?’

  ‘Get along with you, you know it will.’

  Mrs Slater wiped her eyes on her housecoat, and Juliet’s father made a vague gesture – intended to convey forgiveness, condescension towards female weakness and farewell and went heavily out.

  Rose was left to the labour of looking up a train to St Alberics (Oh dear, have to get one of them country buses ). The difficulties of organizing a twenty-mile journey were for her almost insuperable. But a quarter of a century with George Slater had slowly drawn out, and strengthened, a largely unconscious power of will, fortified by a patience which could, when she had set her heart on something, successfully work together. She had been like a mediocre tennis player matched for years against a champion, and gradually she had learnt to hold her own. Sometimes, rarely, she won a game.

  And when she alighted at St Alberics station, wearing an outsize raincoat of turquoise blue over a brightly patterned dress, and a hat composed of pink petals, and stood looking about her for that bus, there was a great car all over with white ribbons, and a chap in uniform looking round for someone – who turned out to be her!

  She didn’t half enjoy that ride to the church. And it was Julie who had thought of the car! (‘Don’t tell your mother that I sugg
ested it; that would spoil the surprise,’ Mrs Massey had said.)

  Juliet felt a faint sensation of pleasure at seeing her mother’s familiar form among all these strangers; and as they came out of the church she turned to smile at her and made her second remark since they had met:

  ‘How’s Bertie-boy?’

  ‘Oh, he’s cheeky. That’s what he is. “You’re cheeky,” I tell him.’

  Mrs Massey wondered for one incredulous moment if Bertie were some favoured youth. But reflection convinced her that he was more likely to be a dog, or some dreadful cat which ought to have been put down years ago. She rustled herself into the car. Juliet’s mother looked no less dreadful than the hypothetical cat but at least possessed some manners (‘Thank you for the invite, ever so kind of you’) and also made comments on the weather, which avoided awkward silences.

  The hedges burgeoned with bright poppies, and the wheat rippled. Frank and Clemence, hands clasped, speeding through this miniature landscape deflowered by Man yet still as lovely as a good dream, turned occasionally to smile at one another.

  What a funny sort of place, was Rose’s silent comment on Frank’s collection of whitewashed sheds, as the company alighted at a gate leading into his meadows and began to file, not without raised eyebrows, along a narrow path through grass heavy with dew. Looks like a lot of old barns.

  ‘Mr Pennecuick is a great believer in living simply, and not having more than he needs,’ Mrs Massey, picking her way after Rose, explained. ‘As I expect Juliet has told you he is a wealthy man, and there is a large house some five miles away, belonging to his late great-aunt, that could have been used for a big reception. But’ – she shrugged – ‘you know what men are.’ She did not at all believe that Rose did. How could she, looking like that? But the fat face under that appalling hat, half turned over the thick shoulder, showed a gratifying attention.

  ‘Fancy – I’d like to see that,’ the face said shyly.

  ‘I hear it’s going to be sold to some cranky society for making us all eat boiled grass. Of course, it would have been more suitable to keep it up, but nowadays, even for a wealthy man . . .’ She shrugged.

  Rose was beginning to feel faint apprehension for Julie’s future. Living in a lot of barns and eating boiled grass! Perhaps that twenty thousand pounds wasn’t real. Yet this old lady seemed sensible enough, if she did wear a queer hat too young for her. The bride was dressed proper. But it was a funny set-up, and Rose was glad George hadn’t come. She would never have heard the last of it.

  And no carpets! Ten minutes later, standing by a long table laden with unfamilar foods, she thought she had never heard of such a thing. She stared slowly at the thirty animated, and mostly elderly, faces surrounding her. Several of them glanced at her curiously. She ate another of those little things: tasted of ham and cream this time and very good it was; and she wondered how ever she was to get back to that station and catch the train in time to get George’s tea.

  No one spoke to her. And there was Julie, standing in a corner and looking miles away, Just as she always had from the time she was a kiddie. No more manners than a bluebottle, her mother thought resignedly. But she also felt a faint bond of companionship with her child. Two of us – both out of it.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Slater, my wife and I are so pleased that you could come.’ It was the bridegroom, coming up to her with the bride beside him. Nice face he had, really, and her silk was real, you could tell. Ever so happy she looked, too. Ah well, let her. It didn’t last long, and Rose’s eyes slowly moistened.

  Clemence was getting used to this break with convention, the newly married pair circulating among the guests instead of the latter filing before them. ‘I’m sorry Mr Slater couldn’t come,’ she said, making her manner warmer than usual because Juliet’s mother was tearful.

  She was a little shaken by the unexpectedly firm reply: ‘Oh him. He never wants to do anything what other people do.’ (Just like someone else I know, mused the new Mrs Pennecuick.) ‘’Sides, he’s workin’ today. This here’s good stuff, Mr Pennecuick,’ holding up her glass of the wine which had temporarily banished her shyness. ‘Home-made, is it?’

  ‘Yes – from parsnips – I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘Fancy – I’ve seen home-made wine on the television but haven’t never had it before.’

  Followed a pause – filled with the cheerful screeching of that ugliest of sounds, the human voice in volume, and the smell of delicious conventional food which Frank had arranged to be served, to please his bride.

  ‘I’m sure General Penley— Would you care to meet him?’ Frank began, but Rose’s shrinking away and her mutter showing him that she would not, he ended with: ‘Well, perhaps if you will excuse us . . .’ And the two moved away.

  General Penley had got hold of Edmund Spencer. The General, red-faced and blue-eyed and typical-looking, had a shy reverance for poets; Edmund, who had at first refused Frank’s invitation, had a far from shy dislike for what he thought of as blimps.

  There was much to satisfy the General at young Pennecuick’s wedding: food was very good; this stuff was actually drinkable; bride looked pretty and happy – but, nevertheless, there was something . . . General Penley, as not seldom, was unable to express his thoughts, but it was there all right. Peculiar, cranky, no carpet, no comfort . . . all those weeds in glass bottles . . .

  Edmund could have told him that there were present those rarest of luxuries: beauty of light, flowers that not been tortured into blooming in the wrong season, and true love. But the mere thought of saying this to anyone present except the bridegroom sent up the corners of his long, beautiful mouth.

  ‘You known Pennecuick long?’ the General asked, looking around at the faces familiar from many a conversation about gardening or gadgets over neighbourly dinner tables.

  ‘Yes.’ Edmund’s voice, always faint from nervous exhaustion, was now nearly inaudible.

  ‘School together?’

  ‘No. Frank was at Harrow.’

  ‘Ah. You’re not a Harrovian.’

  The General was not inquisitive – he genuinely felt admiration for this titchy red-haired chap who proclaimed himself a poet, a creature whom the General had always wanted (behind his satisfaction with his military career) to be.

  ‘Where were you, then?’

  ‘I don’t expect you’ve heard of it . . . sir.’

  The chap’s accent made the last word sound as though he were a waiter. Suit made him look rather like one too: hired probably.

  ‘One of the lesser-known places, eh?’

  ‘The Charles Darwin School, Luton,’ Edmund invented desperately; some fifteen years of kindly interrogation by the gentry had not given him enough confidence to relate the details of an education which had ended at fourteen.

  ‘Oh – ah – yes – never heard of it, I’m afraid – excuse me, someone over there I must talk to . . .’ and the General marched away. Pity. He had hoped the chap might talk about poetry.

  Those corners of Edmund’s mouth turned down slightly in a bitter smile.

  ‘Oh hullo, Mum.’

  ‘Julie, I got to be going. That train goes at four, and you know what Dad is if his tea’s not ready.’

  ‘Oh all right.’ She glanced round. ‘Eddy, here’s my mum wants to get to the station. You’ll take her, won’t you?’

  Edmund looked fleetingly at Mrs Slater’s bulk.

  ‘I – don’t think your mother . . . how do you do?’ with a bow ‘ . . . would be comfortable on the back of my motorcycle.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Rose exclaimed, in more than dismay.

  ‘But the cars are waiting. If you’ll come with me,’ smiling, ‘I’ll find you a nice one.’

  ‘All right then. Cheerio, Mum,’ nodded Juliet. She had dragged off her hat and hung it on the wall above a cluster of peacock’s feathers, and her freshly washed hair rayed about sallow cheeks unbecomingly flushed by parsnip wine.

  ‘Cheerio, Julie.’

  ‘Give my love to Bertie-
bird.’

  ‘Him! He’s cheeky, that’s what he is. So long, then. See you, Ju.’

  ‘P’raps I’ll send you a postcard,’ Juliet smiled.

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ her mother retorted, and waddled away after the little chap. He seemed all right, but she wouldn’t half be glad to get home.

  Julie seemed just the same, for all her new clothes and the money. Leaning back in the luxurious car, surveying the pretty country going by, Rose could not decide whether this was a comfort or not. One thing she did know: she herself was ever so lonely. But she was used to that.

  At half-past three Clemence came out of Frank’s austere bedroom wearing the dove-coloured suit and frilled blouse of broderie anglaise that had, in defiance of convention, been hanging for the past week in his wardrobe. Her brown curls clustered under a close cap of cream silk adorned with a single white camellia, and she looked calmly happy.

  Bless her, she’s been such a good girl, earning for us both and putting up with my crotchets, thought her grandmother (who did not really believe that she had any crotchets), and thank heaven I need not worry about money again as long as I live.

  ‘So odd,’ many of the guests were muttering. ‘Not going abroad . . .’

  ‘I know. I did suggest it, but he came up with some nonsense about there being quite enough new impressions to absorb without having to gape at sights,’ Frank’s new grandmother-in-law explained, not minding the oddness because it was not caused by lack of funds. ‘But there you are.’

  General Penley so far forgot social customs and military discipline as to grunt, and Mrs Massey felt, with gratification, that he shared her views.

  There was the usual, always touching, little ceremony with the bouquet. Then the big car glided away, with Clemence’s face, made charming with happiness, laughing through the window.

  The only discord was provided by the two little unliberated bridesmaids, sulking in a corner because no photographs had been taken, and their prolonged drive home would cause them to miss Star Trek.

  Edmund and Juliet stood at the door of Frank’s house after the last guest had gone, with the July dusk hardly begun; silent, gazing at the elongated, lazy shadows lying across the grass damp with dew. Edmund at last observed that there was all that washing-up.