Miss Hargreaves (21 page)

     Thine inclement, imperious eyes.

O the grief, O the gall, O the grace

     As of darkening day when it dies!

Algy killed about three million adjectives with those arrows. He used to say, “the pen that writes them in can shoot them out”.’

‘How very remarkable! Then, we might say, had not the poet indulged in this archaic sport, many gems might not have been lost to English poesy?’

‘H’m. It depends, Miss Holgrave. Depends what your idea of a gem is.’

‘Ah. Yes. True. I myself, Mr Puntley, have–

’Father rose quickly. ‘Must go now. Got some microscope slides to go through. You must come up to my den one day, Miss Halton. Bring your harp.’

Almost immediately father had left the room, mother put down her needlework and asked the question I knew would come sooner or later.

‘And how long have you known Norman, Miss Hargreaves?’

She smiled. ‘Ask him,’ was all she said. Stretching out her hand to a cigarette box, she took one and asked me for a light.

‘An occasional vice!’ she murmured.

‘Oh–we’ve known each other for a–long time,’ I said vaguely to mother.

‘Really? And where did you first meet, then? It’s funny, Miss Hargreaves, but Norman has kept us quite in the dark concerning his friendship with you.’

‘In the dark? Tut! I do not care for that!’

‘There’s an ash-tray on the arm, there.’

‘Thank you; thank you.’ She smiled and blew a puff of smoke towards me. ‘I really cannot remember a time,’ she said, ‘when I did not know Norman. We are such very old friends.’

‘Well, fancy! I thought I knew
all
Norman’s friends.’ Mother laughed a bit petulantly. ‘I do think you might let me into the secret now that Miss Hargreaves is here,’ she said to me.

It was a critical moment. What should I say? Could I say I didn’t remember? Should I again try to tell the extraordinary truth? No. It was too dangerous. She would probably collapse in her chair, even die, and we should have the frightful task of burying her, advertising in all the papers for a possible Duke of Grosvenor who would, if he ever came to light at all, be as difficult to get rid of as his niece. The hat would be kept as a relic to be stowed away in the theatrical chest on the landing; every time I saw it I would choke a sob and remember my villainy.

Hastily I searched my mind for an answer vague and yet satisfactory. Where
does
one meet people? From what sort of a place might one begin a friendship with an old lady? Church? Theatre? Cinema? (She might have been grovelling for her gloves in the darkness.) Concert hall? Pleasure gardens? Bookshop–

‘In Blackwell’s, at Oxford,’ I said, hardly realizing the words were out of my mouth. Mother looked at me quickly. It was a plausible lie, of course, because I often had to go to Blackwell’s to buy or sell books for father.

‘Ah, me!’ murmured Miss Hargreaves, heaving a reminiscent sigh and spilling ash down her blouse. ‘Ah,
me
!
What
a memorable day that was! You know Blackwell’s, Mrs Huntley? Yes? Yes? You remember the little iron spiral stairway which leads up to foreign books? I had been up there referring to some Norwegian literature it must have been shortly after I returned from the Land of the Midnight Sun. Shall I ever forget the dreadful moment when I lost my footing and fell crashing to the bottom? Ah, well, Mrs Huntley we are sent many a blessing in disguise. For, without that catastrophe, I should never have met your good son.’

‘Really? What did he do?’

‘Everything, my dear Mrs Huntley. Everything! A compound femoral fracture could not, I am sure, have met with wiser treatment. Oh, those splints, Norman! Oh, dear, dear, dear!’

She burst into little peals of delighted laughter. Did I remember ‘those splints’? I shifted about uncomfortably in my chair.

‘The ones I made from the newspapers?’ I suggested, knowing that, once again, I was on the Spur; once again, could not turn back.

‘Precisely!’ she said. ‘Nobody, my dear Mrs Huntley–except perhaps my dear Uncle Grosvenor–could have handled a critical situation with keener presence of mind. If it were not for your brave son, I doubt whether I should be here–I very much doubt it.’

‘Well, fancy! Who’d have thought it! Fancy Norman never telling me!’

Mother stared at me, half admiringly, half suspiciously. I smiled sheepishly. ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘one doesn’t talk about such things, you know.’

‘Not alone flowers,’ declared Miss Hargreaves, ‘but many good deeds were born to blush unseen. Not that this is desert air, Mrs Huntley–not that this is desert air, indeed!’

‘After that,’ said mother, ‘I suppose you saw quite a lot of each other?’

There was a tense silence. I was aware that Miss Hargreaves was leaning forward towards me, almost impatiently waiting for me to open the game.

‘I met her again’–I gulped–‘in the–in the–Albert Hall.’

I sank back in my chair, pleased. I didn’t care a damn now. Nothing mattered. You had to go on at this game.

‘You mean when you went up for that big Choir Festival?’

‘Oh–the heat that day!’ cried Miss Hargreaves.

‘Shall I ever forget,’ I murmured, ‘those’–(raspberries?)–‘strawberries?’

Miss Hargreaves clapped her hands.

‘Oh, how happy we were! Happy–and foolish! There was an interval, you see, Mrs Huntley, between the rehearsal and the actual festival. Norman and I suddenly felt we must have strawberries; nothing but strawberries it must be! So we bought a little punnet and set out for the park. Norman suggested it would be pleasant to eat our fruits on a boat in the Serpentine. So off we set, Norman handling the oars most
awfully
well. And then’–she raised her hands–‘the catastrophe!’

She paused and looked at me. It was my move.

‘The strawberries fell overboard,’ I ventured.

‘And
you
stretched out your hand over the side–’ she continued.

‘And
you
did the same–’ I said.

‘And–’

‘The boat turned turtle–’

‘And there we were,’ she said, crying mate as it were, ‘floundering about in the Serpentine!’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed mother. ‘You might have caught your death, to say nothing of drowning!’

‘It is such incidents,’ remarked Miss Hargreaves, ‘that link Norman and me very closely together.
Very
closely.’

The door opened and Marjorie came in. I wasn’t prepared to face her, leave alone Jim. Suddenly my courage deserted me; I felt the ground slipping away from under my feet. Excusing myself vaguely, I rushed out and went up to father’s room.

He was seated before his roll-top desk, examining a water-beetle under his ’scope.

‘My God!’ I groaned. ‘I’m going mad!’

I fell down on the sofa by the window. Horace, the penny-coloured Tom, spat at me and leapt on to a pile of George Eliot stacked on the floor.

‘You wouldn’t believe these things had so many legs,’ said father. ‘I’ve counted eighteen already. Or are those whiskers? Come here and have a look. What’s the matter with you this evening?’

‘That woman. She mesmerizes me. What am I to do? I went crazy. Made up tales about us both, and she confirmed them all–even added to them.’

‘Women are like that. Dare say the female of this species here are constantly saying they’ve got more legs than they really have. Wish I knew which were whiskers.’

‘Damn your water-beetles! There she is downstairs, probably spinning the most ghastly yarns. I wanted to make it up with Marjorie this evening, too. What am I to
do
?’

‘Have a drop of whisky. There it is, on
The Times Gazetteer
.’

‘I honestly believe,’ I said bitterly, ‘that if I was to say I’d been up in a balloon with her, she’d agree with me.’

‘I was impressed with that story of hers about Norway,’ said father. ‘Wonder if she ever met–who’s that fellow? Wrote plays–ah, Gynt, that’s the chap. Lord Gynt.’

‘I never heard a story about Norway.’

‘You never do listen. I say–look at this–this beetle’s not dead. It moved.’

‘Why shouldn’t it move if it wants to?’

‘But it’s dead. Remarkable. Pity we can’t get your Miss Molway under this thing. No knowing what we might not see.’ Jim suddenly came in. I could see she was cross.

‘Oh, there you are, Norman!’ she said. ‘What the devil do you mean, leaving us stranded with this wretched woman?’

‘I’m sorry, Jim. She got too much for me.’

‘Well, she’s certainly too much for us. Looks as though she’ll stay all night. Come down and get rid of her.’

‘She hasn’t said anything about a balloon, has she?’

Jim looked puzzled. ‘Balloon?’

‘Oh, all right,’ I said hurriedly. ‘I’ll come.’

When we got downstairs Miss Hargreaves was still holding forth. Marjorie looked at me coldly as I came in; poor mother was stifling her yawns.

‘
Oh
, yes!’ Miss Hargreaves was saying. ‘Norman and I have had many adventures together. And I have no doubt but that we shall have many more. Old I may be, but I am still ready for–’

I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear what she was ready for.

‘Isn’t it time Dr Pepusch was covered up?’ I suggested.

She looked up. ‘Ah, there you are, dear! Yes. Perhaps I had better go. Will you see me to my lodgings? Yes? I am temporarily staying in Canticle Alley, Mrs Huntley. My furniture is in store, of course. But as soon as I find a suitable property, I hope to get settled. Then you must all come and dine with me. I look forward to many musical evenings, many feasts of reason. By the way, my dear Mrs Huntley, I completely forgot. Are you quite recovered from this unfortunate fever?’

‘Fever?’

‘Scarlet, I believe.’

This wouldn’t do at all.

‘Come along, Miss Hargreaves,’ I said very loudly.

‘Who on earth told you I had scarlet–’ began mother. But I interrupted with a shout.

‘Look!’ I cried. ‘A stag-beetle! Mind out, Marjorie–’

Marjorie, who is really soft about the mothiest moth, screamed and waved her hands round her head. I flew to the curtains and poked about noisily.

‘Must catch it!’ I said. ‘Always wanted to breed them. Mother, call father. He’d be furious to miss this.’

‘Oh, what nonsense–’

‘Go on! Get father, I tell you.’

‘Wait!’ cried Miss Hargreaves. ‘Let us be calm. Close all the windows and place this screen before the chimney. I will get my butterfly net–’

‘Too late!’ I screamed. ‘He’s escaped. All your fault, Marjorie. Miss Hargreaves, run out and see if you can shoo him back.’

‘Father!’ mother was crying from the hall. ‘There’s a stag-beetle here.’

For a few moments the wildest confusion prevailed. Fever, scarlet or otherwise, was forgotten.

‘No good getting father now,’ I said.

Miss Hargreaves returned from the front door. ‘It has often occurred to me,’ she said a little breathlessly, ‘that since there exists a beetle who resembles a stag, there may possibly exist a stag who resembles a beetle. The frolics of nature tend often to mimicry.’

While she spoke she went to the mirror and adjusted her hat which, in all the sudden rushing about, had sustained a slight list. We all looked at her wonderingly as she patted it more to one side and carefully arranged the veils.

‘That’s a–’ Mother paused, then smiled and spoke. ‘That’s a very original hat, Miss Hargreaves.’

‘You like it?’

‘Well–’ Mother pursed up her lips thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think it suits you, really. Not everyone could wear it, of course.’

‘I made it myself, Mrs Huntley. It is Lapland beaver.’

Marjorie giggled.

‘Really?’ said mother. ‘Lapland beaver! Well, fancy!’

‘Hats,’ remarked Miss Hargreaves, ‘were getting so abysmally
dull
. I felt a gesture had to be made to the world. Of course, you will understand’–her voice sank reverently–‘while dear Agatha was alive, it was not possible for me to appear in anything but the most sober apparel. But now that she rests–we
hope
– in peace, I do feel I am more free to express my true nature.’