Miss Hargreaves (10 page)

‘I am rested now,’ she said, not long after Henry had gone. ‘I am now fully prepared to meet your parents. Is it too much trouble to ask for a
fire
in my room? I am not fussy; I abominate fuss. Is there a south aspect to the room? I hope so. And tell me has the harp arrived?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The harp’s come. But I’m afraid, Miss Hargreaves–’

‘Call me Constance, dear, when we are alone; perhaps not before others, perhaps not. But when we are alone, relax, I beg you; behave naturally. What were you about to say? You are afraid that Dr Pepusch will keep your parents awake? Not at all. I play him asleep every night.’

‘Oh? You play him asleep? Really?’

‘Always. Eccentric, perhaps! But Orpheus achieved much with the lute and I in my small way do what I can with the harp.’

‘Oh, really? I call that topping! What I was going to say was I’m afraid, well, I’m rather afraid we shan’t be able to put you up.’

‘Put me up? What does that mean, dear? A touch of slang?’

‘Give you a room — well, I mean, you can’t stay with us!’

‘Oh.’

(Have you ever considered the word ‘oh’? Have you? How it is full of an infinite variety of meaning? How it can be at moments the most sinister-sounding word in the whole language? ‘
Oh
.’ In italics without an exclamation mark. ‘
Oh
.’ Like that.)

Her sweet smile dried. It did not suddenly vanish. It dried up on her face like a crack in a sweet old apple. Into her eyes fell a steely glint. For the first time I began to be conscious of a feeling of fear.

‘Mother is ill,’ I said hastily. ‘She’s got’–(what was infectious?)–‘scarlet fever,’ I added. ‘We have to be very careful.’

‘
Scarlet
fever?’

‘Well, not exactly scarlet; but fever, anyway. You never know, you know. She’s got an awful rash. I’ve made all arrangements for you to stay at the Swan. Best hotel in Cornford. Five stars. You’ll like it.’

‘But I feel sure I have
had
scarlet fever!’

‘You can have it again. Besides, it may be smallpox.’

‘Well–’she shrugged her shoulders displeasedly. ‘I suppose I must do as you suggest. But why should I not come and
nurse
your dear mother?’

‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘She’s funny.’ I spoke in a lowered voice. ‘She’s difficult with strangers. In fact —’I touched my forehead and sighed. ‘There has always been,’ I added quietly, ‘a slight streak of–irregularity in our family.’

I hoped I might scare her away, you see.

‘So there is in mine,’ she said at once. A wild light came into her eyes. Like a flash the possible truth came home to me. She was an escaped lunatic. ‘Calm,’ I said; ‘be calm, Norman. You’ll have her in a strait-jacket in no time if you play your cards properly.’

‘That is why,’ she added, ‘I play the harp. Music hath charms, as Dr Pepusch will tell you. Let us go now, dear; I am tired of this place. Take me to this hotel.’

I rose. ‘Give me your arm, dear,’ she said. ‘Give me your arm.’ I gave her my arm–ungraciously, I am afraid. Together we walked on to the platform. Before us, on a goods-truck, towered a pile of luggage. Miss Hargreaves had obviously come prepared for a long stay. There were hat boxes, two massive black trunks stamped ‘H’, several smaller cases, a gladstone bag, a leather portfolio labelled ‘music’, three butterfly nets, a large hip-bath peering rudely through half-torn brown paper, and, on top of the lot, Dr Pepusch in his cage, still covered by the black cloth.

Miss Hargreaves surveyed her belongings thoughtfully. ‘Not quite so much this time.’

‘What are the nets for?’ I asked.

‘Butterflies.’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘Not that I ever catch any,’ she observed. ‘But still–one likes to be prepared for
everything
.’

(Had I made her a naturalist? I couldn’t remember.)

Slowly we ambled out into the yard, the porter dragging the luggage-truck behind us. I hailed a taxi.

‘Can’t take that there bath,’ said the taxi-driver, a lugubrious sort of fellow.

‘Always
so
tiresome about the bath,’ complained Miss Hargreaves petulantly. ‘After all, it is not a very
big
bath, is it?’

‘Can’t manage it with all this ’ere stuff as well,’ said the driver.

She tapped the ground impatiently with one of her sticks.

‘Well, well! Order another taxi. There is nothing to prevent our having two, is there?’ She turned to me. ‘These people are so lacking in imagination,’ she remarked.

After a lot of arranging and assembling, the two taxis drove off; Miss Hargreaves, myself, Sarah, Dr Pepusch and various small bags in one: the bath and the two large trunks in the other.

‘And now we will have a nice little supper,’ she said. She rubbed her hands together and smiled at me. I thought of the dance; Marjorie waiting for me, getting angrier and angrier, old Henry telling her all about Miss Hargreaves.

‘I’m afraid I can’t have supper with you,’ I said. ‘I really must get back to mother.’

‘How disappointing! I have travelled so far. You cannot leave me the moment we meet. It is cruel.’

‘It can’t be helped.’

‘It
can
be helped.’ Again that steely glint came into her eyes. ‘I insist that you stay. Surely your sister can look after your mother for a little while? Ah, I can see what is really in your mind, dear. After so tiring a journey you think that I should retire early. Dear Norman! So kind so thoughtful! How delightful Cornford is! Oh, that beautiful spire!’

We were coming through the North Gate into the Close.

‘I am going to enjoy this,’ she said. And again she rubbed her hands together and smiled at me.

‘I’m sure you are,’ I said wretchedly.

Just as we drew up to the Deanery, the Dean came out of his front door and stood under the arches saying goodbye to some friends. Miss Hargreaves fumbled quickly for her lorgnettes.

‘The Dean?’ she murmured. I nodded. She tapped on the window. ‘Stop a moment,’ she commanded. ‘I must have a word with him.’

‘Not now–please, not now,’ I begged.

But already she was getting out of the car and walking quite briskly towards the group under the Deanery arches. Surprised, the Dean looked up. I heard her talking.

‘My dear Mr Dean, pray excuse me. But on the privilege of my first visit to your Cathedral town, I feel that I must make myself known to you.’ She handed him a card which the Dean could not very well avoid taking.

‘My Uncle Grosvenor had a great attachment to Cornford,’ she added.

‘Oh? Indeed?’ said the Dean. He turned pointedly to his friends. ‘Well, good-bye, good-bye. Yes, we must certainly do something about those frescoes. Good-bye.’

‘Sing unto the Lord! Sing unto the Lord!’

I jumped aside nervously, wondering for the moment who had shrieked out the harsh notes. It was, of course, that damn cockatoo. Miss Hargreaves laughed gaily.

‘What is that?’ asked the Dean.

‘Oh, it is only Dr Pepusch,’ she explained. The Dean glared over to the taxi and now noticed me. I slunk back trying to make myself invisible.

‘Is that you, Huntley?’ he snapped. ‘Was that you crying out?’

‘Oh, no, Mr Dean. Not me, not at all. I–’

‘Well, good night to you,’ said the Dean coldly. He turned, walked under the arches and shut his door loudly. Miss Hargreaves came back to the taxi and got in.

‘Sing unto the Lord!’ croaked Dr Pepusch, more in a minor key this time. It was funny, but that bird was never so certain of himself when Miss Hargreaves was near by.

‘Yes, dear;
yes
,’ she said indulgently. ‘So you
shall
sing unto Him. He’–she addressed me–‘he is so proud of his
Venite
. He has not got it quite right yet. I taught it to him while we were at Hereford. The chant is by Samuel Wesley. I only hope that he understands what it
means
. I like you, Dean; a fine, scholarly, upstanding clergyman. He was Balliol, was he not? I hope he is not a modernist.’

We left the Close through Princes’ Gate, drove up Canticle Alley and thus came into the High Street. In a few minutes we should be at the Swan. By now the other taxi had disappeared ahead of us.

Quite suddenly, out of the void of my half-fearful gloom a mad and wild idea lurched into my head; a burst of my old inventiveness, tempting me on to destruction. Another leap on to the ever-tempting Spur.

‘And how is Agatha?’ I asked.

(I suppose you understand that I hadn’t the slightest idea who Agatha was? No good asking me why I do things like that. I’m made that way, as I told you earlier.)

‘Sinking!’ she replied promptly. ‘Rapidly sinking!’

For the moment I was silenced; almost appalled by the immediate and totally unexpected response to my question.

‘Tch! Tch!’ I clicked sympathetically. ‘But still,’ I added gravely, ‘it was bound to come, sooner or later.’

‘Yes. We all sink, sooner or later. The bar must be crossed by all.’

‘Does she suffer?’ I asked. (I was now enjoying it.)

‘Cruelly.’

‘You will miss her.’

Miss Hargreaves touched her eyes with a fine lace handkerchief.

‘Yes, indeed, I shall miss her–almost as much as I miss poor Seraphica Archer. I expect a telegram at any moment to say she has passed. I cannot pretend I shall be sorry. Protracted suffering is hard to understand. But it will be an old–a very old tie severed.’

‘You will find it distressing,’ I ventured, ‘to return to Oakham without her.’

‘I shall not return,’ she said simply.

‘Oh? You–will not return?’

‘No. I am closing Sable Lodge. I shall live in Cornford.’

‘Oh.’ I relapsed into an awful gloom.

‘
You
, dear’–she turned to me, touched my arm and smiled what the novelists call a ‘brave’ smile–‘you, dear, will have to take Agatha’s place.’

The Swan is one of those old-fashioned, vast, rambling hotels where neither the food nor the service are particularly good. But it’s so old-fashioned, and has been patronized by so many clergymen, that nobody has ever dared to criticize it. Miss Hargreaves, however, did not find it entirely to her liking.

We were standing in the hall, surrounded by her luggage. Mr Stiles, the manager, a rather pompous fellow (I remember he was dressed in staggering plus-fours that evening), was holding forth on the question of birds. Miss Hargreaves took very little notice of him; through her lorgnettes she was carefully examining some ancient oak panelling.

‘We don’t really reckon to take birds,’ said Mr Stiles. ‘And then there’s the question of this bath–we’re very well fitted up here, you know; hot and cold water in every–’

‘What does he say?’ Miss Hargreaves asked me.

‘He says they’ve got hot and cold water in every–’

‘I dare say–I
dare
say.’ Miss Hargreaves acidly tapped the panelling with her stick. ‘But the question of the bath is one upon which I am not prepared to enter into controversy.’

She bent down and rapped the panelling with her knuckles.

‘Worm!’ she exclaimed to me. ‘I knew it! It really is shocking how people treat these priceless old things. Norman, perhaps we can find another hotel–’