Miss Hargreaves (13 page)

What a sound! Elated, I listened to it dying away like a tornado, chasing itself in and out of every arch and window in the building, up to the clerestories, until it was carried away to the very tip of the spire, out to the meadows, and so for ever lost to the ear.

Yes–but what was that I also heard? Faintly, far below, somebody clapping–somebody crying out: ‘Bravo! Oh, bravo!’

Then footsteps on the spiral stairway, nearer and nearer, till they reached the top and the door opened.

‘Oh, splendid, Norman! Splendid! What sound compares to that of a mighty organ? Perhaps you remember my sonnet; it appeared, I think, in
Wayside Bundle
:

‘Roll out, ye thunderous diapasons, roll,

And sound the battle-cry, ye roaring reeds–

and so on. But come, dear; play some more.’

Her face wreathed in a happy smile, she stood before me in the low little doorway.

‘Oh, really Miss Hargreaves–’ I protested. ‘You–you–’

‘Well, dear? Well?’

I was speechless. She slid on to the seat beside me.

‘You ought not to come up here,’ I said. ‘It’s not allowed.’

‘Tush! Fie! Play a hymn!’

‘A hymn?’

‘Yes. Let us have “Hark, hark my soul”. And do the bells in the third verse. It is so hard nowadays to get anybody to make the bells in the third verse; they tell me it is old-fashioned to expect it. But no matter. I stick to the old things and I always will. Come, now!’

‘Well, I’d much rather play you a Bach fugue. I can do the great G minor, if you like. You know. High diddle-diddle-dee; high diddle-diddle-dee–’

‘No! No!’ Her manner grew peremptory. ‘I do not care for Bach at this time of day. No! No! “Hark, hark my soul.” Come, here it is. Number 223.’

She placed the hymn before me. Fumbling about in her bag, she found her spectacles and adjusted them. Disagreeably, I started to play.

‘Oh, slower, slower!’ Her hand fell on my left elbow, checking the breakneck speed that I, in my displeasure, had commenced. ‘
Still
slower,’ she commanded.

‘You’re digging into my arm,’ I complained petulantly. ‘I can’t play if you dig into my arm like that.’

‘Slower,’ she said. ‘How can my soul hark at that pace?’

I dropped into an absurdly funereal speed, thinking it would annoy her.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘That’s better.’

At the end of the verse I stopped and turned over the pages of a Bach volume.

‘Go
on
!’ she said in surprise.

‘What? Every verse?’

‘Of
course
. A little louder now. Then go soft when you come to “Angels of Jesus”.’ She started to sing in a reedy, quavery voice. ‘“Angels of Jesus”, softer, “Angels of Light”; now louder–more buzz, more buzz! “Singing to we-el-come the pilgrims of the night”.’

So we reached verse three with its celebrated ‘Far, far away like bells at evening pealing’.

‘Now make the bells,’ she said.

I looked at the stops and considered how best to make them. Campanology has never been much in my line. ‘Hurry up!’ she said impatiently. I pondered. Nobody had ever asked me to make the bells before; it was a supreme test of my musicianship. Finally I decided to play the tune softly on the Choir, accompanying it with a quick downward E major scale on the Solo, using a very stringy Gamba, Harmonic Flute and a two-foot Piccolo, to get a tangy bell effect. It was fairly successful, though I got awfully tied up towards the end. Anyhow, it pleased Miss Hargreaves, who clapped vigorously when I had finished.

‘Charming! Charming! Now the next verse. Louder now. Let me hear the Diapasons.’

After what seemed an eternity we came to the end. I closed the book firmly.

‘Oh, more!’ she cried. ‘Unless you can remember Handel’s
Ombra mai fu
?’

‘You mean the Largo in G?’

‘Precisely!’

‘Oh, well, I suppose I can remember it.’

Disgruntled, I started to play. I don’t think anybody else in the world would get me to do Handel’s Largo at seven-thirty in the morning. As I played, Miss Hargreaves left the seat and wandered along the loft until she was over the chancel screen. Here she stood, looking down the nave. I watched her, and thinking of her my fingers strayed–all too idly–till I had lost the thread of the music.

‘No–no,’ she cried out impatiently. She hummed it as it should go.

‘All right,’ I growled angrily. When you’re trying to remember a thing, nothing is more exasperating than people who hum you it as it should go. ‘I can do it.’ But the more I tried, the less I
could
do it. For some reason the wretched thing had gone completely out of my head.

Miss Hargreaves tottered quickly back to the seat.

‘Move–move,’ she commanded, pushing me aside imperiously. ‘I can remember it. You do the stops; and the pedals. Oh, dear, how far away the seat is! Hold me! I shall slip off. Hold me!’

Very soon my petulance gave way to admiration. I don’t know about you, but if a person’s a good musician I can forgive them anything. And Miss Hargreaves
was
a good musician. I forgot all about last night. You may say that anyone could play Handel’s Largo. You’re quite wrong. Anyone can sentimentalize over it. But Miss Hargreaves made you feel you were hearing it for the first time; to her, obviously, the hackneyed Handelian cadences had never grown stale.

‘I want more organ,’ she murmured, gazing dreamily at the stops, her stiff little fingers working up and down as though in each one of them lay imprisoned a chord that had, with infinite care and love, to be given its freedom. ‘Give me more buzz more buzz!’ she commanded. I coupled the Full Buzz of the Swell. ‘Fine!’ she said. ‘Open the box, dear; open the box.’ I fumbled about with my foot for the Swell pedal and pressed it down. About six inches away from the pedal-board her black shoes swayed helplessly.

‘Hold me!’ she cried suddenly. ‘I’m slipping.’

She was approaching the climax. ‘La-la-la la-la-l’la, la-la-LAH-l’ Lah–’ she sang jubilantly. ‘More buzz! The Tubas, dear! And why don’t you put the pedal part in?’

The sound swelled out. I wouldn’t give her the Tubas; I didn’t see why she should have them, as I hadn’t just now. I allowed her the Full Great; the performance was worthy of that. Fascinated, I watched her, sitting almost on the edge of the leather seat, her short arms stretched right out to the Great keyboard, her little face beaming seraphically, and the chains round her neck jangling to and fro as she nodded her head to the beat of the music.

The last chord died away. ‘There!’ she said. ‘I am quite exhausted. Now you play, dear. Another hymn. Let us have “For all the Saints”.’

‘We can’t go all through that, Miss Hargreaves. We simply can’t.’

‘The last two verses, then. “But lo! there breaks a yet more glorious day.” Oh, the
old
tune, I beg of you! None of these dreadful modern tunes! Grosvenor
always
sang Barnby. Barnby for me! Come on. Plenty of organ.’

I started on one of the Great Diapasons.

‘Oh, more–more–’ she cried almost angrily. She stretched rudely across me and grabbed a handful of stops; amongst them were the Great Reeds. ‘Still more,’ she demanded. ‘The King of glory how can He pass without Tubas? More–more!’

The sound rocked about the roof. Infected by her extraordinary enthusiasm, I suddenly realized how magnificent this old Victorian tune was. When we came to the last verse, Miss Hargreaves was singing at the top of a voice which you wouldn’t believe
had
a top. Throwing all restraint aside now, I unleashed the Solo Tubas and harnessed them to the Great and Pedal.

‘Bombards –Bombards,’ she shouted above the glorious din.

I released them. Loading the organ with its full charge, I shot out the last line of the hymn; drunk with sound I raised my head and sang.

‘Everything–
everything
,’ she was crying. Her hand snitched out a lonely Choir Lieblich that had been forgotten.

‘That won’t be heard,’ I bawled.

‘No matter. We might as well have it.’

The last cadence approached. There was a padding of rubber soles up the stairs. The door was hurled open. The Precentor stood there, his fat, red face sweating with anger.

‘For heaven’s sake stop this din, Huntley. Do you realize that Canon Auty is waiting to celebrate Holy Communion?’

‘I’m–I’m awfully sorry, Mr Blow. I didn’t know the time.’

‘Why can’t you look at your watch?’

‘Yes–I see–it
is
a little after eight–’

‘The Canon’s been waiting up in the Innocents’ Chapel for nearly ten minutes.’

‘My dear Minor Canon,’ purred Miss Hargreaves briskly, ‘you are Minor, are you not? is there any reason why the Holy Communion should not be celebrated with organ accompaniment?’

‘Oh, do be quiet,’ I muttered.

‘Who is this–lady?’ snapped Blow.

Miss Hargreaves pursed up her lips, took a small ivory-bound diary from her bag and made a rapid note in it. I could see danger in her eyes. ‘I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner,’ she said sharply. She went towards the door. ‘Kindly move, sir! Kindly move! Make way. I wish to descend.’

‘There’s no need to talk to me like that, Madam,’ began Blow. ‘People below are trying to say their prayers and–’

Miss Hargreaves interrupted coldly.

‘I think your name is Blow, is it not?’

‘I don’t see what that has got to do with it,’ said Blow, feebly. But Miss Hargreaves had gone. Switching off the current, I hastily followed her down.

‘Wheel your bicycle, dear. Then we can walk back together.’

‘It’s too bad of you, Miss Hargreaves. I warned you I’m not allowed to take anybody up the loft. There’ll be an awful row.’

‘Oh, tut! Life is made up of such little troubles. I abominate fuss. I shall see the Dean and make it perfectly clear that I am to blame.’

‘No. I’d rather you didn’t do that.’

‘I most certainly shall, if only to report that wretched little clergyman. I am not accustomed to such insolence from a
Minor
Canon. Oh, dear, it is coming on to rain. Open my umbrella, will you?’

As we came out into Canticle Alley thin rain started to fall. Balancing my bicycle with one arm, I opened out the umbrella and handed it ungraciously to Miss Hargreaves.