Free Pure Juliet by Stella Gibbons Page B

as he watched, had turned slowly towards the piano, and as the themes proceeded, growing ever more complexand interwoven, and giving an ever-increasing beauty to the simple opening theme, her gaze did not move from the player’s hands. She was listening – listening as she had listened to the song of the robin.
    It was the first time, except when she had looked at the robin, that she had shown attention to anything but her own unguessable thoughts.
    The beautiful sounds ceased. Clemence allowed her hands to rest on the keys for a moment. Then she turned to her audience:
    ‘That’s only the first movement. Shall I go on?’
    ‘Rather heavy, isn’t it?’ from Dolly.
    ‘Very pretty, and thank you, dear, but what I’d really like is some Mendelssohn. I’m so fond of him,’ said Miss Pennecuick.
    Clemence found some Mendelssohn in the rosewood chest, and played on for another half hour. Juliet was again staring into the ferns: not listening, now, he thought. But she had been listening: listening more intently than most people do in a lifetime.
    At ten, Sarah arrived to help her mistress to bed, and greeted Mrs Massey with a respectful near-sparkle.
    Mrs Massey was her ideal of what a lady who was ‘getting on’ ought to be. Nicely dressed and fond of a laugh, and no ailments. Quite cheered you up, to have her in the house. Not but what Miss Addie didn’t dress nice , Sarah mused.
    Those remaining by the fire tactfully refrained from watching the piteous exit and, as the two disappeared, Mrs Massey turned determinedly on Juliet. ( Contributing nothing, but nothing, to the evening’s entertainment, which, heaven knew, had been dull enough !)
    ‘Now,’ she began, ‘ you can tell us your plans. What are you – Seventeen? At seventeen’ – two stout arms spread wide – ‘I felt the world was at my feet!’
    Juliet looked away from the self-important old face. Her own expression made Frank think of an animal being poked out of its hole by a stick.
    As no one said anything, Mrs Massey retreated in excellent order by snapping, ‘It wasn’t, of course. But I felt that it was, and that’s the important thing. What do you want to do – to become – to be ?’
    ‘Dunno.’ Juliet looked at the floor.
    ‘Don’t know! But you must have some idea. What are your hobbies, interests, tastes? Do you like this “punk” music?’
    ‘Nope,’ decidedly.
    ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose . . . but how do you intend to earn a living? I had played in a Number One tour of Our Miss Gibbs when I was your age.’
    ‘Had j’oo?’ It might have been the original production of Phèdre for all the interest Juliet expressed.
    ‘Plenty of time, Juliet,’ Clemence put in. (Frank must be irritated to see the girl baited.) ‘The important thing is to know what you want.’
    ‘Maths and physics are all right,’ Juliet said after a pause. ‘I got A levels in all them subjects.’
    ‘“Those subjects” dear,’ from Frank.
    ‘Those subjects.’
    ‘Then why,’ demanded Mrs Massey, ‘didn’t you go to a university? All those As and Os – so confusing – oh for the good old days when young people went to a university when their parents could afford it, and didn’t when they couldn’t.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Didn’t when they couldn’t. Afford it,’ snapped Mrs Massey. She disliked having to repeat her pronouncements.
    ‘My dad wouldn’t have it. Set on me getting a job he is . . .’
    Juliet’s voice, already faint, died off into a mumble. But this time, one hand went slowly up to her mouth and two fingers stroked her lips, As though Frank thought, to hush them into silence. So she’s a liar, is she? I’d thought as much. We’ll certainly have another walk.
    But no one else seemed to have noticed the slip.
    ‘Don’t see meself stuck in some factory all day,’ Juliet went on smoothly, lighting a cigarette and shaking out the match with force.
    Mrs Massey saw no reason why someone with that accent should