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.’
‘I don’t.’ And Arthur grinned.
The brown browser smiled too. ‘Yes, I know. But I think it possible that some day you’ll be proud of having helped her.’
Arthur looked steadily at him through spectacles which performed, for him, one of those warning or menacing effects produced by the markings on certain butterflies.
‘You her boyfriend?’ he demanded sternly, feeling protective towards Juliet Slater, and was reassured by a wholesome laugh.
‘Good God, no, I’m just a kind of elder brother or something. That respectable enough for you? Come to that – are you her boyfriend?’ on an unmistakable note of hope.
Arthur shook his head. ‘No fear.’
Frank smiled and turned away.
Juliet’s parents had no religious or, for that matter, tender notions about Christmas.
‘We-always-go-to-my-sister’s, see? A-bit-of-company,’ Mrs Slater had been saying, ever since Juliet could recall. Mr Slater refrained from complaint as long as he was allowed, for once, to drink too much, in the company of a brother-in-law as large, morose and habit-clenched as himself.
‘Don’t s’pose you’ll be comin’ home for it, then,’ stated, rather than questioned, Mrs Slater a week or so before the festival. It had been arranged between them that Juliet’s telephone call to the neighbour’s house should be made on the same day andat the same time every week, as this avoided Mrs B having to go next door to summon Mrs Slater.
‘No, Mum.’
‘People’ll think it’s a bit funny.’
‘Will they?’ Indifferently.
‘You’re welcome, Julie, ’spite of running off like that, you know that.’
‘Aunt Addy’d have a fit. She’s got this here nephew. And some other people coming to stay.’
‘Don’t she think it a bit funny, you not wanting to be with us Christmas-time and you our
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.’
‘I don’t.’ And Arthur grinned.
The brown browser smiled too. ‘Yes, I know. But I think it possible that some day you’ll be proud of having helped her.’
Arthur looked steadily at him through spectacles which performed, for him, one of those warning or menacing effects produced by the markings on certain butterflies.
‘You her boyfriend?’ he demanded sternly, feeling protective towards Juliet Slater, and was reassured by a wholesome laugh.
‘Good God, no, I’m just a kind of elder brother or something. That respectable enough for you? Come to that – are you her boyfriend?’ on an unmistakable note of hope.
Arthur shook his head. ‘No fear.’
Frank smiled and turned away.
Juliet’s parents had no religious or, for that matter, tender notions about Christmas.
‘We-always-go-to-my-sister’s, see? A-bit-of-company,’ Mrs Slater had been saying, ever since Juliet could recall. Mr Slater refrained from complaint as long as he was allowed, for once, to drink too much, in the company of a brother-in-law as large, morose and habit-clenched as himself.
‘Don’t s’pose you’ll be comin’ home for it, then,’ stated, rather than questioned, Mrs Slater a week or so before the festival. It had been arranged between them that Juliet’s telephone call to the neighbour’s house should be made on the same day andat the same time every week, as this avoided Mrs B having to go next door to summon Mrs Slater.
‘No, Mum.’
‘People’ll think it’s a bit funny.’
‘Will they?’ Indifferently.
‘You’re welcome, Julie, ’spite of running off like that, you know that.’
‘Aunt Addy’d have a fit. She’s got this here nephew. And some other people coming to stay.’
‘Don’t she think it a bit funny, you not wanting to be with us Christmas-time and you our
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