Miss Hargreaves (29 page)

‘And now,’ I said, ‘I’m through with her. I’m finished. She can do what she damn well likes for all I care.’

Do what she likes
. I paused and considered this sentence. Was it wise?

‘What made you go up the river in search of her?’ asked Henry. So then I had to tell him about the swan mystery. I fancied he’d already heard the first part of the tale from Marjorie, but he was nice enough to pretend it was new to him. He seemed, I thought, rather embarrassed by it.

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘there’s no
proof
I turned her into a swan. I don’t say
I did
, Henry. I shall probably never know. But it does look funny, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘it does look very funny.’

We were sitting by his fire in the half light, and I noticed he was looking at me rather anxiously, almost nervously. But I was getting used to that from everybody.

Slowly, endlessly, the days passed. I drilled myself to a firm resolution. Never again should I try to explain Miss Hargreaves to anybody; never again make up stories about her. If, in truth, she was subject to my will, my will must never more be exercised. I spent long evenings in my room, supposedly working for my examination in the spring, actually making a lot of notes which later I used in writing this book. Most carefully I wrote down what was supposed to be the truth about my friendship with Miss Hargreaves. How it had started in Blackwell’s shop (in spite of the fact that I had told Marjorie this was a lie, it was pretty generally believed. I am afraid I never tried to deny it). How we had later met at the Albert Hall and had an amusing little adventure together on the Serpentine. I wrote down all the facts so as I shouldn’t again get confused. I learnt the story like a book and almost convinced myself it was true. There was nothing to my discredit in thus commencing a friendship with an old lady. If I kept calm and stuck to it, people would get sick of talking to me about her; slowly she might drift completely out of my life. And, after all, she
might
never come back, in spite of the work that was going on at Lessways.

But she did come back. And true to her perhaps unenviable–fate she came back accompanied by a distinction that–I had unknowingly bestowed upon her.

October the tenth. I quote from my diary. ‘Furniture at Lessways.’ I don’t think I need add much to that. It was pouring with rain. I watched from my window as the enormous van drew up on the other side of the road; for two hours I watched the men struggling up the wet drive. Grandfather clocks, tallboys, Chippendale chairs, a four-poster bed, crate after crate of crockery, bureaux, Sheraton cabinets, sideboards, pictures innumerable . . .

That night smoke rose from the chimneys.

October the eleventh. I was walking back with Archie Tallents from the Cathedral. It was still miserably wet, but Archie was in his usual gay spirits, humming a tune from a rather absurd anthem we had sung at Matins–all about Aaron’s beard and the ointment that ran down from it to the skirts of his clothing. Comic eighteenth-century stuff. Nares or Weldon.

As we went up the High Street–I on my way to the shop, Archie to his studio–Archie pointed to a magnificent Rolls-Royce waiting outside Truscott’s, the drapery and furnishing store. It was a Rolls-Royce with more than the usual consciousness of pedigree; you almost heard the cogs and plugs (do Rolls-Royces have plugs?) and cylinders chatting to one another about their family trees.

‘My friend the Duchess,’ remarked Archie. ‘I should recognize her crest anywhere.’

As we came nearer, the chauffeur–a smart, tall fellow, very brisk in all his movements–leapt from his seat. I immediately recognized him; he had been supervising the move yesterday afternoon at Lessways. Taking an umbrella, he opened the passenger door and stood waiting, the umbrella held out before him.

I began to feel a little sick.

‘Take off your shirt, Norman,’ said Archie. ‘Lay it on the pavement and I’ll believe you’re a gentleman.’

I felt mesmerized. I made some sort of effort to move away, to cross the road, but there were a lot of people bustling about on the pavement; tweedy women all hot on elevenses, waterproofed women hot on Truscott’s bargain basement. Both Archie and I were held up for a moment.

Slowly Miss Hargreaves emerged from the car. Hideously fascinated, as always, I watched her. She had changed; in a subtle way she had changed very greatly. Her expression was different; the old impish gaiety seemed to have left her. Her clothes were very much quieter; you could not imagine her now wearing a tall hat. Her little head was raised to a higher angle, pushed up, perhaps, by the high neck of her dress. Pausing for a moment, one foot on the running-board, one foot on the pavement, she sniffed fastidiously. Almost instinctively people moved to make way for her. Shivering a little, she drew her cape round her shoulders, adjusted a pair of dark horn spectacles (she no longer used lorgnettes) and addressed the chauffeur.

‘You had better come in with me, Austen. There may be one or two things I shall want to take away.’

‘Very good, your ladyship.’

I realized she was looking at me. Wrinkling her face into a peevish frown as though she were making an effort to remember me, she said in a cold, distant voice: ‘Mr Huntley, is it not? What appalling weather!’

The chauffeur, lipping me superciliously, loomed above her, steering his umbrella over her head. They disappeared into Truscott’s.

‘My God!’ I said to father, rushing into the shop. ‘She’s back!’

‘Never did approve of women playing football.’

‘I’m not talking about football. Miss Hargreaves, I mean; large as life in a Rolls-Royce. She’s come into a title. Chauffeur called her her ladyship. What do you think of it?’

‘Funny things, titles. No law of gravity about them. You can never be certain where or when they’re going to fall. Take my Cousin Terence. He collected stamps. He’d never have found out otherwise that he was descended from Bonnie Prince Charlie. It was like this. We–’

I felt I couldn’t stand father that morning. I went round to Beddow’s to tell Henry the tremendous news. It was some days since I’d seen him.

‘You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ I said.

‘Lady Hargreaves?’

‘Oh, how the devil did you know? What a bore you are!’

‘She’s in the Court news,’ he said. He went to the office and came back with a copy of the
Cornford Mercury
, which he showed to me. I read:

‘Lady Hargreaves will shortly be in residence at Lessways, the fine old Queen Anne mansion in the London road. We take this opportunity of welcoming her ladyship to Cornford society. Many will be glad to know that Lessways–once the scene of so many distinguished gatherings–will again throw open its doors to the elect. Lady Hargreaves–a keen amateur musician and a poet of distinction–comes of an old Irish family and was, until recently, residing at Oakham.’

‘You were a fool to give her that title,’ said Henry.

I laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, I wasn’t serious about that,’ I said. ‘We were in rather an awkward fix. I told you. I thought Major Wynne would be impressed if I called her Lady Hargreaves.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll enjoy hobnobbing with a countess–or whatever she is.’

‘Do you know, Henry, the old devil looked at me as though I were a tramp. It makes my blood boil.’

‘Hers has boiled blue, old boy. That’s the trouble. Yours hasn’t. Anyway, she might leave you alone now.’

‘I don’t care what she does,’ I said lightly. But I was far from feeling it.

‘I hear she’s been buying up half Truscott’s. Carpets, bedding, curtains. I expect we shall see quite a lot of life at Lessways in a few days.’

‘You can do what you like from now on. I’ve finished with you.’

Bitterly did I remember those idle words, spoken in anger on Cookham Bridge. Not only had I unwittingly raised her rank; I had madly endowed her with autonomy.

Lessways was the seat of government. In a very short while people forgot that the Lady Hargreaves who now flung open her doors to the elect was the Miss Hargreaves who had trespassed upon the sanctity of the Bishop’s Throne; who had worn a pantomime hat; questioned the reputation of the Swan Hotel and, in a score of ways, been the biggest joke of the town since old Canon Featherstonehaugh married Miss Roma Noam, the novelist. (I’ll tell you about that one day.) Miss Hargreaves was no longer a joke. From the moment when the Dean called and left his card at Lessways, Lady Hargreaves’ position as a fixed star in the brilliant little firmament of Cornford was secured. Archdeacon Cutler called. Canon Auty was reputed to be going to call–and this was almost unprecedented, since the old man never left the Close. Years ago he had been a familiar figure in Truslove’s, the barbers, where once a week he had gone to have his beard trimmed; but the opening of a department for ladies in the same establishment had greatly discouraged him: nowadays Mr Truslove himself, every Saturday morning, with scissors, tapers and combs, visited the Close to attend upon what was felt to be the best beard Cornford had known in this century.

Miss Linkinghorne, ever on the scent of Debrett and his offshoots, almost daily lingered by the gates of Lessways. Old Colonel Temperley was another early caller. And there were many more. Not a new visiting-card was printed in those days but it hoped for a day when it might repose upon the silver plate on the Tudor chest in the panelled hall of Lessways.

Let it not be thought that Lady Hargreaves kept herself within the doors of her new home. Oh, no! There was plenty to be done outside and she did it. She attended the chrysanthemum show in the Town Hall and had a terrific argument with old Countess Mumphry about the best method of raising the flowers. ‘No coddling,’ she was heard to say, rather critically. ‘You must never coddle a chrysanthemum, my dear Countess.’ Everybody said that they felt the Countess had spent her entire life misguidedly coddling chrysanthemums.