Harriet

HARRIET

JILLY COOPER

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

    IT started to snow as Harriet was writing the last paragraph. Looking up she saw the flakes tumbling out of a sullen, pewter-grey sky, swirling and chasing each other, drifting into the branched arms of the trees. With a yelp of excitement she put down her pen and ran to the window. The flakes were small and compact. It was going to settle. Now they were belting down, and suddenly the towers of Oxford were encapsulated in a flurry of white flakes, as though someone had violently shaken a snow scene in a glass ball.

    She went back to her essay, copying out the last two sentences with a flourish, then she wrote her name at the top of the first page: Harriet Poole, carefully closing up the Os, because she’d read somewhere that it was a sign of weak character to leave them open.

    She had got up at six to finish her essay, having spent all week re-writing it. Anything to avoid the humiliation of last week’s tutorial. Her tutor, Theo Dutton, who chain-smoked and, showed no mercy, was famous for his blistering invective. When she had finished reading out last week’s essay he had asked her three questions which entirely exposed the shallowness of her argument, then, tearing up the pages with long nicotined fingers, had dropped them disdainfully into the waste paper basket.

    ‘That was junk,’ he had said in his dry, precise voice, ‘you merely copied out other people’s ideas with varying degrees of accuracy. Read Shakespeare rather than books about Shakespeare. Look into your heart and write. You’re trying too hard; relax; enjoy what you read or dislike it, but don’t deaden it on paper.’

    Her eyes had filled with tears. She had worked very hard. ‘You’re too sensitive, Harriet,’ he had said, ‘we’ll have to raise your threshold of pain, won’t we? A large dose of bullying each week until you build up an immunity.’

    His hard, yellow eyes gleamed through his spectacles. Hewas smiling, out she wasn’t sure if he was fooling or not. He always made her feel faintly sexy, but uneasy at the same time.

    ‘Now,’ he had said briskly, ‘for next week, write an essay on which of Shakespeare’s characters would be best in bed and why.’

    Harriet flushed scarlet.

    ‘But I can’t…’ she began, then bit her lip.

    ‘Can’t write from experience? Use your imagination then. Shakespeare didn’t know what it was like to be a black general or a Danish prince, did he?’

    ‘Hamlet wouldn’t have been much good,’ said Harriet. ‘He’d have talked too much, and never made up his mind to. until it was too late and one had gone off the boil.’

    Theo had given a bark of laughter.

    ‘That’s more like it. Write something I might enjoy reading.’

    Well, there was her essay, and it had taken her all week. She had read nothing but Shakespeare, and thought about nothing but sex. And she felt light-headed from exhaustion, a sense of achievement and the snow outside.

    She was also starving. No one was up. The landlady and her husband liked to lie in on Saturday. Downstairs among the letters scattered on the floor lay one from her boyfriend, Geoffrey. Reading it, she wandered into the kitchen, her jeans, too long when she wasn’t wearing heels, swishing on the linoleum.

    ‘Dear Harriet,’ wrote Geoffrey, on office writing paper, ‘I am really fed up. I can’t get down this weekend, but I must finish this report and hand it in to the M.D. on Monday.’

    Then followed a lot of waffle about pressure of work, grabbing every opportunity in the present economic climate, and doing it for both their sakes.

    ‘So pleased you have finally gone on the pill,’ he ended up. (Harriet had a vision of herself poised like a ballerina on a tiny capsule.) ‘I’m so fed up with being parked outside your bedroom every night like flowers in a hospital. I want you so much darling, I know I can make you happy. I’ll be down next weekend, early Friday night. Meanwhile keep yourself on ice. Hugs and kisses and other things, love Geoffrey.’

    Harriet felt a great wave of relief, then felt guilty. One really shouldn’t contemplate losing one’s virginity to someone one felt relieved one wasn’t going to see. Virginity should be lost gloriously. Geoffrey wasn’t glorious, just solid and very, very persistent.

    Now that he wasn’t coming down, she could lapse a bit, and not bother about dieting until Monday. She opened a tin of baked beans and put a slice of toast under the grill. After her tutorial with Theo, she could go to the library and get out a couple of trashy novels - she deserved a break after all that Shakespeare - and later go to the new Robert Redford film, and see it round twice, and eat a whole bar of Crunchie, and perhaps an ice-cream too. The weekend stretched out like the snow beginning to cover the lawn.

    After eating every baked bean she felt fat, and decided to wash her hair in Theo Dutton’s honour. There was no shower in the bathroom. It was either a question of scalding your head under the hot tap or freezing under the cold, which was much colder because of the snow.

    As she alternately froze and scalded she pondered once more the problem of her virginity. All her friends were sleeping with their boyfriends, and she suspected that if she’d really fancied Geoffrey she’d have succumbed to him months ago. If Robert Redford, for example, came to Oxford in a play and bumped into her outside the theatre or met her at a party, she’d be his in a trice. She was conscious of so much love welling up inside her. If only she were beautiful and not so shy, she might attract some beautiful man to give it to. She couldn’t be bothered putting conditioner on her hair after she’d washed it. Theo wasn’t that attractive.

    Dripping, she went into her room. Her papers and books were scattered all over the floor. She wished she were one of those people who could transform a room into a home with a few feminine touches. But she loved her room, messy as it was, and even if she didn’t have a great love in her life, the days at Oxford had their own happiness. Theo Dutton, when he wasn’t being vile, calling her his star pupil to another don who’d dropped in to borrow a book, a muddled feeling she had of the importance of intellectual things, music, writing books herself, being reviewed one dizzy day in the Times Literary Supplement, ‘Miss Harriet Poole in her first novel shows sensitivity and remarkable maturity.’

    The snow was covering the lawn and the red roofs now. Two children, shrieking with delight, were scraping it off the top of a car to make a snowball. On the ledge of the window lay a moth. Harriet picked it up - she had read somewhere that human hands burnt insects’ feet like hot coals. It was too cold to put it outside. Running out of the room, she parked it gently in her landlady’s maidenhair fern on the landing. At least it would have something to eat. She spent so much time worrying about dogs being put out on the motorway, and horses being sent to the slaughter house, and children in orphanages. What on earth was she going to do when something really terrible happened to her - like one of her parents dying?

    The snow had now nearly hidden a cluster of snowdrops that had courageously sprung out of the dark earth. Snow on snow, thought Harriet; perhaps she should write a poem about it. Crouching in front of the gas fire she got out a pen and began to scribble.

    An hour later her hair was dry and she realized she was going to be late. She pulled on a red sweater because it brought some colour to her sallow cheeks, red tights and a grey skirt, which bagged slightly. She must get some new clothes, but her grant never went far enough.

    She tried on a belt, then took it off because it emphasized her spare tyre. She really shouldn’t have eaten all those baked beans; perhaps it was being on the pill for a week that made her feel so fat. The red tights had a ladder, but her black boots covered that. Her duffle coat had two buttons missing. The snow, like life, had caught her on the hop.

    Aware that she might want to brood over Geoffrey’s letter later, she put it with her essay in a blue folder. Outside the house, she caught her breath as the frozen wind cut through her like a knife. Her bicycle, its red paint peeling, lay against the ivied wall. The snow, now four inches deep, turned yellow where a dog had lifted its leg on her front wheel.

    As she pedalled past the park snow was settling in the dead leaves and hollows of the chestnut trees. In the church- yard the stone angels had white mobcaps on their heads. The frozen puddles didn’t crack beneath her bicycle wheels. As she headed towards the Banbury Road, the snow stepped up the pace, exploding over her in rockets, filling up her spectacles, blinding her.

    Grimly battling on, she thought about Geoffrey’s letter. So pleased you’re finally on the pill. Oh dear, but that was next week. Who knew but the world might end tonight? She turned a corner. Suddenly a dark blue car came out of a side road, swerved frantically, made a dizzy glide across the road, caught the wheel of her bicycle, and the next moment she was flying through the air on to the grass verge, her glasses knocked off, her possessions flying. The car skidded to a halt. The driver jumped out. He had dark gold hair, and his face was as white as the snow.

    ‘Christ I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I should have looked. Are you O.K.?’

    Harriet sat on the verge, trembling and wondering if she was. The base of her spine felt agonizingly jolted. Her skirt was nicked up; her long red-stockinged legs in their black boots sprawled out like a colt; dark hair tumbled over her face.

    ‘I’m all right,’ she gasped. ‘It was my fault. I should have rubbed the snow off my glasses. I couldn’t see where I was going. I’m most terribly sorry.’

    The words came out in a rush. Often, when she spoke, she had to hang on to a word to steady herself.

    ‘No one usually comes down this road,’ he said.

    ‘It’s a short cut. I was going to a tutorial. Oh God, where are my glasses?’

    ‘Here they are.’ He picked them up and polished them for her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve gone awfully white. Can you walk?’

    He took her hands and pulled her gently to her feet, and, when she swayed slightly, put his arm round her. Harriet put on her spectacles and, looking at him, suddenly realized it was Simon Villiers and blushed scarlet.

    ‘Where’s my essay?’ she muttered.

    He retrieved it from a hollow in the verge.

    ‘Pity you had it in a folder! The ink would have run in the snow. Been a marvellous excuse not to hand it in. Look, I really think I’d better take you to hospital.’

    ‘I’m all right. I must go to my tutorial.’

    Simon looked at her buckled bicycle. ‘Well you won’t get there on that,’ he said ruefully. ‘I’ll get the garage to come and pick it up.’

    There were flakes of snow gathering in his blond hair. ‘What you need is a slug of brandy. I’ve got some in my digs. Come back, and I’ll ring up and say you’re ill.’ He helped her into his car.

    ‘You don’t have to bother, really you don’t.’

    ‘Shut up,’ he said gently. ‘Women are always being silly about inessentials.’

    Inside the car he lit a cigarette and gave it to her. Harriet thought this was such a smooth gesture, she hadn’t the heart to tell him she hardly smoked. The cigarette was very strong and made her cough. The heat was turned up overpoweringly, so was the wireless.

    ‘Do you really have to go to this tutorial?’ he asked, when he’d finally got the car out of the snow.

    She nodded.

    ‘Where is it?’

    ‘Hallerton Street, No. 44.’

    ‘Theo Dutton?’

    ‘You know him?’

    ‘He tutored me my first year, until he realized I was past redemption. Not surprised he snapped you up; he always corners the pretty ones.’

    He sat lazily beside her, driving with one hand. He was wearing dark grey trousers, a black shirt, and a pale blue velvet coat like Peter Rabbit. His eyes ran over her in an amused, speculative, slightly condescending way.

    ‘I wish you’d take your glasses off again,’ he said. ‘You’re eyes are far too sexy to be hidden. I must say it’s a most unorthodox way to meet, but I’m very glad we have. What college are you at?’

    ‘St. Hilda’s.’

    She noticed he didn’t introduce himself. He assumed rightly that everyone knew who he was.

    ‘Why haven’t we met before?’

    ‘I’ve been working.’

    ‘Theo keeping you to the grindstone?’

    The car skidded slightly. Harriet jumped out of her skin. Simon laughed.

    ‘Better keep my eyes on the road. Mind if I stop for petrol?’

    As he got out to speak to the petrol pump attendant, Harriet surreptitiously turned the driving mirror and had a look at herself. Not too bad; thank God she’d washed her hair.

    She couldn’t believe it. Simon Villiers picking her up. She stole a quick glance at him, marvelling at the blond hair falling on the collar, the delicate aquiline features, the slightly cruel, beautifully shaped mouth, and tawny complexion without any trace of pink in it. Most amazing of all were his eyes, sleepy, and bluey-green with the dark lashes so thick and close together that they gave the illusion he was wearing eye-liner.

    She was so dazed she forgot to put the mirror back and Simon nearly backed into a passing car.

    ‘This journey’s becoming pure Marx Brothers,’ he said, replacing the mirror.

    She didn’t look at him, feeling that beastly blush staining her cheeks again.

    ‘Come and have a drink after your tutorial.’

    ‘Oh I don’t… I mean you don’t have…

    ‘There’ll be other people there,’ he said.

    Oh God, she knew what they’d be like, models and actresses down from London. He read her thoughts.

    ‘No one very alarming. I’ll look after you. Please,’ his voice dropped, caressing and husky, let me make some reparation for nearly killing you.’

    They drew up outside Theo’s house.

    ‘You’ll come.’

    ‘Yes, I’d like to.’

    ‘Don’t mention me to Theo. He’ll give me a lousy press.’

    As he drove off in a flurry of snow, she realized once again that he’d automatically assumed she knew where he lived.