Miss Hargreaves (6 page)

Henry was working late at the garage. I found him lying full length under the dismembered chassis of an old lorry.

‘You’ve got me in a nice fix, you devil,’ I said.

‘Hullo! Is that you, Norman? Hand me that spanner, will you?’

I shoved a large spanner into his hand.

‘What the hell do you mean, spinning all this stuff about Miss Hargreaves?’

‘Miss Hargreaves? Eh? Oh, yes! Chuck over that coil of wire, will you? No–not that one, you idiot! The other one.’

‘I do think the telegram, though brilliant, was going a bit too far, Henry.’

‘Here, just hold the other end of this wire, will you? Look out for that oil! What telegram?’

‘What utterly beats me is how you came by this book.’

‘Book?’

‘The poems, idiot!
Wayside Bundle
.’

Henry laughed. ‘I thought you’d appreciate that. Your father took it all in; actually said he’d write to Foyle’s about it–’

‘I know all that. I want to know where you
got
the damn book.’

‘Got the book? What do you mean? I didn’t get it.’

‘Come out, blast you! I can’t talk to your legs.’

‘Why not?’ He slithered out and sat on the running-board. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘give me a fag and don’t get so worked up. Tell your Uncle Henry all about it.’

I gave him a cigarette. Then I showed him
Wayside Bundle
. ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘explain this. I’m scared.’

He looked at it casually. Then he looked again. Then he grabbed it and glared at it. Then he glared at me. He seemed quite angry, for some reason.

‘I always thought,’ he said, ‘that Miss Hargreaves was too good to come straight out of your little head. Golly, Norman, you are an old–’ I nearly wept.

‘Did you, or did you not put this book on father’s desk?’

‘I swear I didn’t. Do you mean to say–’

‘He found it there. Under his nose. You
must
have.’

‘Sorry, old boy, but I’m not guilty. The only thing I
did
do was to ask your old man whether he’d got the book. Thought it would be amusing.’

‘Do you call this amusing?’

‘I call it damned queer.’

We were silent for a bit. Then I showed him the telegram.

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘that you’ve got nothing to do with this. I’ll forgive you anything so long as you tell me you had this telegram sent.’

He read it and looked at me half suspiciously.

‘Just where did you pick up this dame?’ he asked.

‘Did you or did you not have it sent?’ I snapped.

‘Of course I didn’t. A joke’s a joke, but I don’t believe in wasting’–he counted the words–‘one and seven-pence on it. Besides, how could I have been near Hereford?’

We were silent for a very long time. Henry said, ‘I suppose you really
did
make her up, Norman? She wasn’t some old trout you’d known all along? I know how partial you are to old dames.’

‘Damn it all!’ I cried, ‘you had a good deal to do with it. Of
course
I made her up. We both did.’

‘I only put in a few bits. You had all the plums.’

‘I know I did most of it. But you helped.’

‘Norman,’ he said solemnly.

‘Yes?’

‘You remember that time you made up the sermon when we were kids, and–’

‘Yes, of course. What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Nothing, I suppose. But–’ He paused. Then he slapped my knee suddenly. ‘I’ve got it!’ he cried. ‘It’s obvious. There just happens to be a Miss Hargreaves staying at the Manor Court Hotel. She gets your letter. She’s very old, memory like a sieve, and she assumes you must be an old friend whom she’s forgotten. Extraordinary coincidence. But things like that do happen.’

‘Yes, and what about the book. Do things like that happen?’

‘Golly, I’d overlooked that. Anyway, old boy, no good worrying too much. Send a wire and say, “Smallpox here; advise postponement of visit”.’

‘She’s not going to be put off by smallpox,’ I said. ‘She’s the type of female who’d rush into smallpox and never catch it.’

‘Look here, I’ve got an idea. Phone the hotel and find out definitely whether there is a Miss Hargreaves staying there. For all you know, somebody might be playing a trick on you.’

‘All right,’ I said.

We went to the office and put through a trunk call. It didn’t take long.

‘Manor Court Hotel,’ came a girl’s voice.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes–Manor Court Hotel–yes–I–’ I turned to Henry nervously. ‘What the devil shall I say?’

‘Ask if a Miss Hargreaves is staying there, you fool.’

‘Have you’–I coughed and braced myself for the plunge–‘have you a Miss Hargreaves staying there?’

There was a moment’s pause. Then: ‘I’m afraid Miss Hargreaves has just left–this afternoon, that is.’

I turned to Henry and gave him the receiver.

‘Gone,’ I moaned. ‘You do it, Henry. I feel faint.’ Henry took the receiver.

‘Do you mind telling me–eh? What? Oh, yes? Yes. Do you mind telling me if she left any address? Certainly.’ (Pause. I watch three old wasps cruising round a bottle of oil. Happy creatures they seem to me.) ‘Letters to be forwarded to–
where
? Yes? Oh. Yes. Thank you. Oh, one thing more. When did she arrive at your hotel? Arrive–yes. Why? Important, yes; she is wanted rather urgently. Thanks. Tuesday? About seven in the evening? Thank you. Good-bye.’

‘Well?’ I said. (One of the wasps had got caught in the oil, foolish creature.)

Henry looked at me and shook his head bewilderedly. ‘Something very funny’s going on.’ He looked a bit solemn.

‘Tell me everything.’

‘She arrived last Tuesday evening. Keep calm, Norman; don’t fidget; it won’t help. Tuesday, you’ll remember, was our last evening in Ulster. She’s left Hereford. She asked for her post to be forwarded to–’ He paused.

‘Go
on
!’ I cried.

‘Thirty-eight London Road, Cornford. Care of Mr Norman Huntley.’

I sat down on the high stool and stupidly looked at a map of the British Isles with a lot of flags in it.

‘Where’s she gone?’ I asked.

‘I’m–well’–Henry lit another cigarette–‘I’m rather afraid she’s gone to Bath.’

I always blame Henry for plunging me deeper and deeper into this miserable business. It was at his advice that I agreed we’d tell my parents that we had actually met a Miss Hargreaves in Ireland. Henry said they’d never swallow the truth, and since she was certain not to turn up, that would probably be an end of it. The worst mistake I could have made, of course. I see now that I ought to have flatly denied all knowledge of her from the first. But there you are. Easy to be wise after, etc.

We went round to number 38 when Henry had washed and changed his clothes. Mother pounced on him at once.

‘Now, Henry,’ she said, ‘perhaps you can tell us something about this friend of Norman’s. He seems to be extraordinarily muddled by it all.’

‘Oh, no muddle about it, Mrs Huntley,’ he said airily. ‘You see, this old trout–she’s a regular trout, isn’t she, Norman?’

‘Schubert knew a thing or two about trouts,’ said father. And he began to hum
Die Forelle
.

‘Oh, definitely!’ I said. I was so pleased; so certain that Henry, in his brilliant way, was dragging me out of a difficult fix.

‘We ran across her in an hotel at Dungannon. Norman picked up her stick which she’d dropped.’

‘She’s a bit crippled,’ I elaborated.

‘And then she started to talk. Talk? Is there gas in a gasometer? I never heard so much gas from a woman in my life.’

‘She’s very eccentric,’ I added.

‘Eccentric? Isn’t that an under-statement, Norman?’

‘Well–batty, if you like.’

‘Cuckoo–completely cuckoo,’ continued Henry. ‘Poor old dear! We were sorry for her at first. But that soon wore off. She’s a horrible old horror.’

‘So you see,’ I said eagerly, ‘just why I simply can’t have her here. For one thing, she wears the most awful hats.’

‘But why on earth did you ask her here?’ said Jim.

‘Oh, she asked herself,’ explained Henry. ‘Said she’d always wanted to hear the singing at the Cathedral–’

‘Actually asked if I could put her up,’ I added, ‘Of course, I never dreamt she’d really want to come. I think I said something vague, like I’m sure you’d be welcome.’

‘Plenty of beds,’ said father.

‘Then you
wrote
to her,’ said mother. ‘That was a bit silly, wasn’t it, if you didn’t want her to come?’

‘It was in answer to a letter of hers in which she asked me a lot of questions about the Cathedral music. She haunts cathedrals, you know, like some of the old things we’ve got here. I never invited her to come. Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘No,’ said Henry. ‘She asked herself. Complete with cockatoo and dog.’

‘And bath,’ I added.

‘And bath,’ agreed Henry.

‘And harp,’ I said rashly, in a peak moment.

‘
Harp?
’ said mother and Jim together.

‘I like harps,’ said father. ‘Wrote some music for the harp once, but could never find a harpist to play it.’

‘You mean she plays the harp?’ said Jim.

‘Definitely,’ said Henry. ‘Regular wizard at it.’

‘She plays it last thing every night,’ I threw in. ‘It helps her to write her poetry. “Over the sea to Skye” is her favourite tune.’

‘Parrots are intelligent birds,’ said father. ‘Knew one once that could recite a Shakespeare sonnet. All except the last line.’

‘Oh well,’ said mother, ‘I certainly don’t want a harp
and
a parrot in the house.’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That’s why I was so upset when you showed me her wire. I never dreamt she’d want to come.’

‘Did you ever hear of that parrot in the Andaman Islands?’ asked father. ‘A harp got washed up from a wreck. The Boston Philharmonic Orchestra had been travelling to Europe and they all went down–all except a harp and one cymbal. They never found the cymbal, but the harp got washed up, and several weeks later–who was that fellow?–some explorer, anyway, found this parrot strumming away an Andaman folk-tune on it. Unusual incident.’

‘I do think you’ve behaved rather funnily about this absurd woman,’ said mother. ‘Why couldn’t you tell us all this before?’

‘I don’t know. She muddled me somehow.’

‘Well, you’d better write to her at once and put her off. We can’t have a parrot and a dog in the house. Horace’d have a fit. (Horace is our cat.) Besides, you really must settle down to work after your holiday.’

‘She won’t turn up,’ said Henry. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Talking about baths,’ said father, ‘anyone seen my loofah?’

Later that evening I sat in the Happy Union with Henry. Father was playing skittles in the handicap; a good many chaps were gathered round the board.

‘Wish we hadn’t made up that bit about the harp,’ I said.

‘Why not? It went down damn well.’

‘Everything goes down damn well, too well. I tell you, Henry, I feel frightened of making things up.’