Miss Hargreaves (28 page)

Miss Hargreaves nodded sleepily.

‘A capital suggestion,’ she murmured. ‘Five blankets. And put a glass between the sheets to see they are properly aired. I like water–Vichy, if you have it–and a Bible by the bed. Authorized Version. Mr Huntley, please see to everything.’ Her eyes were drooping; already she was nearly–asleep. ‘Three pillows,’ we heard her say, ‘and buttered eggs at ten. I hope the water is soft.’

‘Don’t you bother,’ I said to the Major. ‘Anything will do.’

‘Anything will certainly
not
do,’ snapped Miss Hargreaves, suddenly wide awake.

‘Well, I’ll go and see to the beds,’ said the Major. ‘I suppose,’ he said to me, ‘you’re her chauffeur, or something, aren’t you?’

Before I could deny it he had left the room.

I woke with a start. Over the misty river the autumn sun was streaming into the room. Blackbirds and thrushes were singing. A cherubic gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck a quarter to seven.

At first I couldn’t place my surroundings. Then I saw Miss Hargreaves curled up peacefully asleep in her chair and all the wild events of yesterday rushed back to me with what they call sickening reality.

I rose, stretched, and wandered to the window. I remembered suddenly that it was one of the mornings when I was supposed to be at the Cathedral to play the organ. I remembered also that there was an early bus from Cookham to Cornford at seven-ten. If we hurried there would be just time to catch it.

It was queer that the Major had never come back. Or perhaps he had, and finding us both asleep, had decided to leave us. My whole instinct was to leave the house without seeing him again; but it didn’t seem right. After all, he’d been very decent to us. It was up to me to thank him, at any rate, and try to offer some sort of explanation.

Without waking Miss Hargreaves (let sleeping dogs lie, I thought), I went upstairs, thinking I’d try to find the Major’s room. There were three doors on the landing. I opened each one gently, but the rooms were empty, all the furniture covered up as it had been downstairs last night. I tried another wing; the attics; then downstairs smoking room, dining-room, boudoir. But it was no good. There wasn’t a soul but us two in the house.

‘Extraordinary thing!’ I said. But I couldn’t pretend. I was sorry. It simplified matters, the Major not being there. It meant I should be spared trying to explain our trespassing in his orchard.

I returned to the drawing-room and found Miss Hargreaves standing by the open bookcase, turning over a volume of Jorrocks.

‘Major Wynne isn’t here,’ I said. ‘We’d better scoot pretty quick. We can catch a bus if we hurry.’

‘Why this ridiculous hurry? Is there no morning tea?’

‘Oh, don’t be absurd!’

Without making any reply she walked over to a chair, sat down, and started to read.

‘Come
along
,’ I cried impatiently. ‘We’ve only just time to catch the ’bus.’

‘
Bus
? I am not accustomed to travelling in buses. Ring a garage and order a car–a large one. I cannot bear being cramped. Do it at once. I abominate–’

Before she could say ‘fuss’ I rounded on her.

‘Are you
crazy
?’ I shouted. I was mad to get out of the house in case the Major should return. He might have gone for an early dip in the river, for all I knew.

She ignored me completely. ‘Where is the toilet?’ she asked. ‘And
why
is there no tea?
What
a place!’

‘Look here,’ I said, ‘you’ve got us into this fix–’

‘Fix?’ she said. ‘I do not understand. Who is in a
fix
?’

‘You’ve got us into it,’ I went on, ‘and you’re going to let me get us out of it in my way, not yours.’

Very slowly she walked to the shelves, returned the book to its place, took off her spectacles, put them away in her bag, and finally addressed me.

‘Mr Huntley,’ she said gravely, ‘it seems that I had the misfortune to spend an entire night in this room with you. Do not assume–do
not
assume that such close proximity to my person for so long a period entitles you to any
sort
of familiarity. Kindly ring the garage and instruct me as to the geography of the house–if such a poor place
has
any geography. There need be no argument.’

‘Upstairs. First floor,’ I said savagely. I was so angry I could hardly trust myself to speak.

Slowly she walked up. I went to the phone in the hall, took up the receiver, hesitated, hooked it back again. No, I was damned if I’d be browbeaten like this! Fuming impatiently I strode up and down the hall. After an intolerable time she came down.

‘Is the car ready?’ she asked.

I lied quickly. ‘It’ll be waiting for us on the road,’ I said. I led her out through the drawing-room.

‘Appalling taste!’ she muttered. ‘All this strawberry colour. So morbid! Atrocious!’

I hurriedly led the way down the garden. Farther along the orchard was a bridge which led to the meadows, and thus to the main Cornford road, a hundred yards away.

‘I cannot understand all this hurry,’ she said breathlessly.

‘No. Neither can I,’ I said. I could see the Cornford bus just crossing the bridge. Obviously we could never catch it. Suddenly, also, I had remembered my bicycle. I couldn’t leave it on Cookham Bridge.

‘Mr Huntley,’ said Miss Hargreaves, ‘wait one moment, if you please. I wish to have a word with you.’

‘Go on,’ I said bitterly. ‘I can bear it.’

‘I should take it as a courtesy if you were to tell nobody about our–what can I call it?–mad frolic of last night. I blame you entirely, of course. But I dare say a little of the blame rests upon me. That is all. Where is this car you keep talking about?’

I couldn’t stand any more of this. Could you have?

‘You’re insufferable!’ I cried. ‘I spend the whole night doing my damnedest to get you safely home–I trespass on other people’s property–I behave generally like a madman–and then you treat me like this! It’s absolutely shameful, Miss Hargreaves.’

Coldly, critically, she surveyed me through her lorgnettes. In a few hours she seemed to have lost all the affection she had once had for me. It was heart-breaking.

‘Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘you once came to my assistance at a critical moment in a bookshop. Do not suppose–do
not
suppose this gives you leave to address me as though you were my equal. A cat may
look
at a king. Oh, yes! There is little offence in that. But I have yet to learn that a cat may–to employ one of your own vulgar expressions–hob-
nob
with a king.’

‘My
God
!’ I said. For a moment I stared at her. I think there were almost tears in my eyes. Then I hurried on towards the bridge, far more hurt than angry.

My bicycle was still where I had left it.

‘I hope,’ she said, ‘I am not expected to travel on the
step
.’

‘No,’ I said bitterly, ‘you can find your own way home.’

‘I would prefer it. Where is this car?’

‘You can get it yourself. I didn’t order it.’

‘This is intolerable. I have never been so insulted. Leave me!’

‘I’m going to. You can do what you like from now on. I’ve finished with you–finished with you.’

I swung my leg over the saddle.

‘My bag!’ she exclaimed. ‘I have left it in that ridiculous house. Kindly run back and get it.’

‘I’m damned if I will. I’m sick and tired of you. I never want to see you again.’

I rode off in such a state that I only just escaped being run down by a lorry. If I’d stayed on that bridge another second with her, I honestly believe I’d have picked her up and thrown her into the river.

I went straight to the Cathedral, played the organ desultorily, then returned home for breakfast. Nobody knew I had spent most of the night out. After Matins I saw the
Cornford Mercury
with Archie’s picture of the swan in it. ‘Coincidence,’ I muttered, ‘pure coincidence.’ To this day I force myself to believe that.

So ends the first part of the history of Miss Hargreaves. I wish to God that were all; I wish to God there were no second part to write. But there is, and it’s got to be done.

7

F
OR more than a fortnight Cornford saw nothing at all of Miss Hargreaves. It was not a very happy fortnight for me. Not for one moment did I suppose that I had seen the last of her that September morning on Cookham Bridge. Instinctively I knew she would return. Even if I hadn’t known that in myself, I had practical evidence of it. Where did she go in that fortnight? I don’t know; I shall never know. All I knew was that she had left Mrs Beedle’s, retaining her rooms for an indefinite period. Her luggage, her harp, Dr Pepusch–all were left behind. I never went to the house openly to make any inquiries for her; I got the news in a roundabout way–and you can always get news in a roundabout way in Cornford, if you’ve got an efficient spy-system. I used sometimes to scout up Canticle Alley after dark, thinking that perhaps I might see a familiar shadow against the blind of the downstairs sitting-room. But I saw nothing. Once I heard Dr Pepusch croaking away in a minor key; it was a sound that saddened me and filled me with apprehension. I slunk home, wondering how long it would be before she returned with renewed vigour.

Meanwhile, the most sinister development of all stared me day by day in the face. I mean Lessways. The house that had for so long stood empty and neglected was now the scene of tremendous activities. Ironically I used to think how glad I should have been to witness this in more ordinary circumstances, because I loved the place and could not bear to see it fall into decay. And yet–all those gallons of white paint, all those hods of cement, all those ladders–how could I rejoice over them as I should have liked? Gardeners with wheelbarrows, the sweep with his sack of soot, the sanitary experts, glaziers, the telephone men–all these swarmed to Lessways. Still there was no sign of Miss Hargreaves. Hour by hour I expected her to come and criticize the work that was going on, to walk round from room to room, from shrub to herbaceous border, tapping everything with her stick and making innumerable notes in her note-book. It seemed to me wrong that she didn’t come. Often I felt like going over to Lessways myself in order to make certain that all the work was properly carried out.

The only person I ever told about our night on the riverside was Henry, and him I swore to secrecy. If that tale got round Cornford I knew it would be about the end of me.