Miss Hargreaves (4 page)

‘I suppose,’ I mused, ‘she will go on to Bath as usual?’

‘I see nothing to prevent her,’ said Henry.

Neither did I.

Just as I was drawing the sheets over my head, feeling a bit hazy, Henry–who never can leave a good joke where it is–poked his head round the door.

‘You ought to write to her,’ he said, ‘and tell her we’ve at last seen Mr Archer’s church. She’d be so pleased.’

‘Of course,’ I murmured. ‘I’ll do it to-morrow.’

‘As from 38 London Road, Cornford, Bucks.

September 2nd

‘DEAR MISS HARGREAVES,

‘I’m afraid it is some time since I wrote you, but now that I am on the point of returning from a holiday in Northern Ireland, I feel that I must send you a line from a place so intimately bound up with memories of your old friend Mr Archer. You have told me so much about him that I almost felt, when I stood in Lusk church yesterday, that I had known him myself. The sexton was overjoyed to hear news of you, although he did not actually remember your name.

‘What of you, my dear old friend? I am assuming that, as usual, you will be attending the Choirs Festival and I am therefore addressing this to the Manor Court Hotel at Hereford which I know you always patronize. Do let me hear from you. Will you be going to Bath as usual?

‘Any time you care to come and stay with us at Cornford you will be more than welcome. My mother and father have long hoped to meet you and I need hardly say that this invitation extends also to Sarah and Dr Pepusch. Send me a card any time you feel like coming.

‘With warmest regards,

              ‘Ever most sincerely,

                         ‘NORMAN HUNTLEY.’

‘You ought to put “My” dear Miss Hargreaves,’ said Henry after he’d read the letter through.

‘Oh, do you think so? I was inclined to think that “my dear old friend” was a bit too familiar.’

‘Too familiar! My dear Norman, nothing could be too familiar for such an old friend.’

‘You agree the regards ought to be warm?’

‘As hot as hell.’

I sealed the letter, and addressed it to the Manor Court Hotel, Hereford. We posted it from Lusk, feeling that it ought to bear the Lusk postmark.

That evening we left Ulster. Just as we sailed out of Belfast and were leaning on the rail looking at the lights of the quay and feeling a bit sad that our holiday in Ireland was over, Henry said to me, ‘I suppose that letter’ll stay in the rack for months. Interesting to go there in a year’s time and see if it’s still there.’

I couldn’t pass this.

‘Why should it still be there?’ I demanded. ‘If Miss Hargreaves hasn’t yet arrived, she will in a day or so.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry hurriedly. ‘I was assuming, just for a moment, that there wasn’t such a person. Pure idle fancy, you know.’

‘I call it damned disrespectful,’ I said, ‘and in the worst possible taste. You can only make up for it by coming below and standing me a drink on her behalf.’

We went down and ordered double gins.

‘To Miss Hargreaves!’ said Henry solemnly.

‘Long may she live!’ I cried.

We drank.

2

H
ENRY went straight back to Cornford, but I didn’t. I’d promised mother I’d spend a day or so with Aunt Flossie who lives in Doncaster, a nice old thing as aunts go.

I had breakfast with Henry on Liverpool station, and saw him off on his London train.

‘Well, old boy,’ he said, stepping into his carriage and hurling his bag on to the rack, ‘that was a grand holiday.’

‘With a grand conclusion,’ I said.

‘Tell you what. Next time we have a holiday together we’ll take Connie with us. Give her a treat, poor old dear.’

He swivelled his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other; he always does this when he’s rather pleased with himself. ‘Should like to take her on the tiles,’ he added.

‘She’s better where she is,’ I said. ‘Safely tucked away in her creator’s mind.’

‘What about my mind?’

‘Your mind?’

‘Yes, she’s in mine too. You’ve parted with her, you know. She’s no longer your exclusive property.’ The guard waved his flag. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘she’s probably on her way to Bath by now. So long! See you in a day or so.’

The train steamed out. Henry shouted to me:

‘I should think she’s the only person left who travels with her own bath, wouldn’t you?’

‘You mean,’ I cried, ‘the one given her by Mr Archer sixty years ago?’

Henry laughed and withdrew his head.

I went to find my Doncaster train, wondering just why Mr Archer should have given Miss Hargreaves a bath–I mean, of course, presented her with a bath, not bathed her; though, for all I knew, he might have bathed her. Rather extravagant. But still, if Miss Hargreaves was anything she was certainly eccentric.

No need to tell you anything about my Aunt Flossie, who doesn’t come into the story at all. Two days later I travelled south, arriving at Cornford about seven. It was a superb September evening and Cornford was looking its best, full of red brick and sunset with the bells from the parish church playing ‘Home, Sweet Home’, as they always do on Saturday nights, when the crowd’s thickest and nobody seems to want to have anything to do with home. I suppose it’s a sort of warning to exuberant laddies, flung out by the Church at the most crucial moment of the week–for anyone who lives in a provincial town knows that Saturday evening is that.

Yes, it was lovely that evening; the market stalls full of dahlias, asters and Michaelmas daisies. Everybody was happy except a pinched-nosed-looking female in a stall selling political pamphlets something about Marx, not the–Brothers, but the German fellow who started all that Russian stuff. I felt sorry for the girl; she wanted a good steak and a little less hot air, you could see that. There were hordes of chaps and girls lounging up and down, some of them thronging round a black fellow selling medicine for the feet in Disraeli Square. From the bars of the Swan people were overflowing into the road, spilling their beer. Above all this tapered the Cathedral spire, indulgent and kind, as much as to say, ‘I know all about you, my children; centuries ago you wandered up and down on Saturday nights. You’re just the same; no different.’ I was awfully glad to be back. There’s no place like home, you can say what you like, but there isn’t. In the air was a feeling of autumn; not a sad feeling, but a mellow richness over everything. I like autumn; it doesn’t depress me. I like to think of winter evenings evenings when the great coke stoves will be burning in the Cathedral and only about two people will wander in to hear the anthem.

I called into the shop, thinking I’d like to see father before I went to number 38. We don’t live over the shop, of course. It’s far too full of books.

Father was working out a chess problem in his favourite corner. Nobody else was in the shop. It’s a funny thing, but people don’t buy books on Saturday night.

‘Hallo, Dad,’ I said.

He didn’t look up or answer for some time. I sat down and waited, noticing how, in a month, the sun had shifted from the theology shelves, below the staircase, to topography, nearer the fireplace. Beautiful rich colour it was; it made you want to look at the books.

Presently father said, ‘Hallo, Norman. Have we got a copy of the Kelmscott
Shakespeare
anywhere about?’

‘I had a jolly good holiday.’

‘Did you? I always liked Ireland.’

‘Didn’t know you’d been there.’

‘Read about it. Who’s that fellow–Moore, is it? Or Scott. I know it pretty well from maps. Hand me that pawn, will you? Do you know where the red queen’s got to? I’m having to use a clothes-peg and it’s awkward.’

‘Aunt Flossie was well,’ I said.

‘Yes? I’ve been playing the violin a good bit since you’ve been away. And what do you think? That fool Claribel’s had kittens.’

‘Go on!’

‘Yes, the Kreutzer Sonata. It’s fine work. I like the rondo.’

‘She had five only last April.’

‘But I’m damned if I can manage that tricky bit in the slow movement. By the way, have we got a copy of the Kelmscott
Shakespeare
?’

‘Have you looked on the top floor?’

‘No. Not yet. I’ll put that devil Squeen on to it.’

Squeen’s father’s assistant. On Saturday he always goes home early.

‘Had a good holiday?’ asked father.

‘Oh, topping! Ireland’s wonderful.’

‘Henry looked in last night.’ Father scratched his moustache with the white queen. ‘Asked me whether I’d got a volume of poems by–who was it?–Harton, or something; Constance Harton. Called
Wayside Bundle
. Or was it
Puddle
? Published in ’95. I haven’t had time to look for it yet.’

‘Oh, Henry’s pulling your leg.’

‘Is he? Funny way to pull it. If I find the book I shall charge him for it.’

‘You’ll never find it. Well, I’ll be getting home. See you later, I suppose?’

‘So long, boy. Join me in skittles later at the Happy Union.’

The Happy Union is a little place up Candole Street, not far from our house. Father goes there quite a lot.

‘So long, Dad,’ I said.

Rather silly of Henry, I thought, as I walked down the High Street homewards. Futile to prolong jokes like the Hargreaves. Very nice in Lusk, but now back in Cornford no, it lacked reality. As far as I was concerned, she was dead.

I reached 38 London Road. It’s an old-fashioned house, tall, with a flat, plain frontage, yellow bricks and large windows with a lot of steps up to the front door. Rather a grand house in a way; you couldn’t blow it over like you can a lot of modern ones. But certainly it is plain. I thought so especially that evening, comparing it with the fine Queen Anne house, bang opposite, standing in several acres of ground, with a dense triangle of rhododendrons in the front garden, and two gates. Lessways was its name; property of the Dean and Chapter. It had been empty for a long time, and there was often talk of pulling it down. Once there’d been some diocesan offices in the lower rooms; but now they’d moved and it was empty.

Mother and my sister Jim were just sitting down to supper as I came in. They were a bit off-hand to me, I thought. There wasn’t that warm welcome one expects after a month’s holiday; not really wholehearted. Of course, they’re both rather
casual
in a way; very brisk, too; not a bit like father. Mother’s tall and stoutish with hair going grey and what you might call an eagle eye; Jim’s tall and not stout; but she’s got the same eagly eyes. In fact, they’re both rather eaglish people. Pouncers. Nice oh, awfully nice! But a bit too up to the mark for father and me. They’re both fond of games and organizations; clubs, committees and conversations. They belong to everything, and they keep diaries crammed with appointments. Father, of course, doesn’t belong to anything–except mother and the shop; he doesn’t like going out very much, apart from the Happy Union. Quiet, my father is. So we’re rather a divided family. Personally, I like it that way; you don’t get so bored with each other.

I had to tell them all about the holiday, of course, and I went through everything, from beginning to end. I left out Miss Hargreaves; knew they wouldn’t understand that sort of joke.

‘And now,’ said mother, ‘you’ll have to settle down to some work, Norman.’