Miss Hargreaves (23 page)

‘I think I shall swim,’ I said.

‘Do,’ said Marjorie. If I’d have said ‘drown’ I think she’d have still said ‘do’.

We entered the lock, the only boat to go in, and while we waited I lit a cigarette.

‘Good book?’ I asked.

‘Very.’

‘Who’s it by?’

‘Oh, I don’t know! What’s it matter?’

‘Of course it matters. I can’t understand you saying a thing like that, Marjorie.’

‘I can only remember the titles of books.’

‘Titles! As though they were anything!’

‘Oh, do be quiet!’

‘You’re very good company to-day,’ I said bitterly. It’s always the way. Whenever I get depressed I quarrel with somebody; then I feel better.

‘I just happen to be interested in my book,’ she said.

‘Well, I think you might be interested in me. A fellow expects a girl to say something when he sweats away with a pole all the afternoon.’

She laid down her book rather deliberately. ‘You know perfectly well what’s on my mind,’ she said. ‘If anyone talks about it–you only fly into a rage.’

‘Well, go on. Risk that. Better than sulking.’

‘Wait till we’re through the lock.’

If you’ve got anything to say, it might as well be said in a lock as out of it, I thought. However, I waited, prepared for the worst. As soon as we were through the gates I coaxed the punt into the bank, laid down the pole and turned firmly to Marjorie.

‘
Now
,’ I said. It’s a word I know how to use.

Again she put down her book and looked at me straightly. ‘I don’t believe that story about you meeting Miss Hargreaves in Blackwell’s shop,’ she said. ‘I should like you to tell me the truth, Norman.’

I was silent for a long time. ‘If I were to tell you the truth,’ I said, ‘you’d simply say I was mad.’

‘Then it
was
a lie?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, tell me the real truth then, Norman. It’s rotten, the way you’re going on; absolutely rotten.’

‘Look here, Marjorie,’ I said earnestly, ‘I know my behaviour must have seemed funny, but if you’d gone through what I had, you wouldn’t criticize. You’d be glad of a friend. I tell you I’m doomed–I’m cursed.’

‘That hat!’ she sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if she didn’t make you look so ridiculous. Everybody in Cornford’s talking about you. And who is she to talk about me in the way she did?’

‘If I do tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, will you
try
to believe me?’

‘I shall do what I like with my own finger-nails,’ muttered Marjorie.

‘Oh, damn your finger-nails!’ I cried. ‘Sorry, darling–didn’t mean that. They’re lovely finger-nails–glorious!’

‘You
do
still love me, don’t you, Norman?’

‘Darling, I–’ I kissed her. They always believe you when you kiss them. ‘I wish all this had never happened,’ I said.

‘Darling, you talk as though it was something awful.’

‘It
is
awful.’ I told her everything then, from Lush church onwards.

‘Henry’ll tell you the same,’ I said. ‘He’s as mystified as I am.’

For a long time she was silent, and I couldn’t tell whether she believed me or not. It was very calm and cool there and I felt happier now I’d got it all off my chest. After all, she is a topping girl, really; it would be awful to lose her, I told myself. She’s got such grace, such poise. I looked at her in her white dress and compared her to a swan who sailed up near us. Of course, she hadn’t got such a long neck, or anything like that, but she had the same sort of dignity.

‘The awful thing is,’ I added presently, ‘everything I now make up about the wretched woman comes true.’

‘You mean–like Blackwell’s shop and the Serpentine–and–’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you
really
make those tales up, Norman?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘But she talked about it too. When you were out of the room she said how noble you’d been to her how she would never have lived if it hadn’t been for your quickness. Although I couldn’t bear the old thing, I couldn’t help being proud of you.’

‘But you said, just now, you didn’t believe those stories.’

‘It wasn’t true. Of course I believed them. I said I didn’t believe them because I felt certain something must have happened between you and Miss Hargreaves which you were hiding from us. I thought if I said I didn’t believe all that, you might get angry and blurt out the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth, Marjorie.’

‘But–Norman darling–if you really can invent things which come true, why don’t you simply get rid of her?’

‘Do you hate her as much as that?’

‘Don’t you?’

I evaded this. ‘I did try to get rid of her,’ I said. ‘I told you. I sat under the table and willed her away. She went.’

‘And came back.’

‘I
wanted
her back. It was my fault. I didn’t really believe she’d gone for good. I tell you what, Marjorie; I reckon that if I could really bring myself to believe she didn’t exist well, she wouldn’t exist. But that’s damned hard when you see her sitting in the Bishop’s Throne with a fifteen-inch hat. Isn’t it?’

‘What about the Duke of Grosvenor?’ she asked. ‘There
is
such a title, isn’t there? I thought they used to live at Cliveden.’

‘Yes, they used to–about a century ago. That’s probably what brought the name into my head. But I think the title’s extinct now. I believe there’s a branch of the family in Ireland somewhere.’

‘Couldn’t you find out from them whether Miss Hargreaves is–’

I grew impatient. ‘What’s the good?’ I snapped irritably. ‘The more I try to find out about her, the more tied up I’m bound to get. Henry wanted to go to Oakham. I said no. Can’t you see how dangerous it would be? Why, for all I know, I might actually have created a Duke of Grosvenor. And Agatha look at that! She’s dead. But there’s a corpse somewhere which I’m responsible for. And I don’t even know what
sort
of corpse.’

Marjorie shuddered. ‘It’s horrible,’ she said. She withdrew from me a little, I noticed. ‘If you can really do these extraordinary tricks,’ she said, ‘why don’t you try something big?’

‘Big?’

‘Yes.’ Marjorie smiled. ‘You might turn her into that swan, for example.’

‘I see,’ I said bitterly. ‘You don’t believe a word.’

‘I haven’t said so.’

‘Turn her into a swan! It’s an absolutely mad idea! Besides, think how damned uncomfortable it’d be for her.’ Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, you say you invented her. If you turned her into a swan, I might begin to believe you.’

She smiled at me mockingly. It was obvious that she didn’t believe a single word I’d told her. If I
could
do it, I thought; if I could really turn Miss Hargreaves into that swan, Marjorie would simply have to believe me then; nobody would ever doubt my word again. The immensity of the job frightened me. Suppose I tried? Or–would it be better to try to turn the swan into Miss Hargreaves–so that Marjorie would really have her evidence at once? No. Because if I succeeded in doing that, we should have her here floating about in the river, making an awful nuisance of herself. Besides, she might not be able to swim. Hargreaves into swan was the trick.

. . . It was done. In my mind, I mean. Almost before I could argue the wisdom of it, I heard myself muttering with terrific intensity, ‘Miss Hargreaves turn into that swan; Miss Hargreaves, turn into that swan. Don’t dare to disobey me. Turn into that swan and no more nonsense. Don’t come here, either. Change somewhere else.’

‘What’s that you’re saying?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Nothing,’ I said quietly. I held on to the side of the boat, feeling a bit queer.

‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ she cried. ‘You’ve gone white, Norman darling. What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?’

‘I feel sick,’ I said, in that lumpy sort of way in which you speak when you feel you’re going to be sick.

She drew away hurriedly. ‘Lean over the side,’ she advised. ‘Shall I thump you on the back–?’

‘Leave me alone,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t talk. I shall be all right in a minute–’

It passed. I was staring at the swan. Nothing whatever had happened. The swan floated gracefully away from us, disappearing regally round a bend in the river. I had been mad to imagine I could ever do it. But the effort had given me a turn. Funny how the brain works on the body like that.

‘Better now,’ I said.

‘What on earth came over you? Something you ate?’

‘I tried to turn Miss Hargreaves into a swan. It tired me.’

‘You needn’t be funny, Norman.’

‘I’m not being funny. I tried to do what you suggested. And it tired me. Damn it all!’ I cried, getting suddenly angry–with her. ‘Damn it all! Turning old ladies into swans isn’t easy work. You try it yourself.’

She looked at me very queerly and didn’t say any more.

I swam presently. Slithering about under water I got back some of my composure. I don’t know about you, but I can always believe in myself more under the water. The fact that I haven’t got fins yet can still go on living with several gallons of that watery stuff above me, always gives me confidence in myself. Lately, I’d begun to doubt a good many things. Whether life wasn’t one long dream: whether dreams weren’t really life: whether I actually existed. Under water, I knew, at any rate, that I existed; I knew that because I knew that if I stayed there much longer I should cease to exist. Funny way of proving it, but it
is
proof.

I came up, spluttered, and looked about me. Immediately I doubted everything again. Miss Hargreaves–
was
she real? I’d seen her eat. But was the
food
real? Damn it all–this was a pure nightmare! I swam quickly down to the bed of the river again. Suppose she died? Then I should know she had existed. Well, suppose I killed her? I might be hanged. Didn’t want that to happen. The parents wouldn’t like it. Marjorie would get into the papers. No. Suppose, with all the power I was capable of, I willed her for ever away? It could never be done unless I could convince myself that she wasn’t real. Had I believed in her when I had first brought her to life? Yes, firmly; she had grown more and more with every fresh thing I made up about her. Could I compel myself to behave as though she wasn’t alive? Henry and I had tried that; and it had broken down.

A sentence of father’s came back to me. ‘Like me, you can’t be bothered to control what you create.’ Suppose–the dreadful possibility lurched into my mind–she were to control me?

My lungs were bursting for air. I shot to the surface just in time.

On our way back to Cookham I finally challenged Marjorie.

‘You might as well admit it, you don’t believe me.’

‘No, darling, I don’t. I’m sorry. How can I?’

‘Well, whether you believe me or not,’ I said, ‘I don’t see why you should allow her to come between us. She’s done you no harm.’

‘She’s made you the laughing-stock of Cornford.’

‘I don’t care. Let them laugh. Miss Hargreaves is original, anyway.’ I laughed ironically; but Marjorie didn’t see my point. ‘You’re simply jealous,’ I told her, ‘that’s all it is. Jealous of an old lady of eighty-three!’

‘I don’t know the meaning of the word “jealous”.’