Miss Hargreaves (33 page)

‘It makes you feel like trying anything, doesn’t it?’

‘They say Raleigh smoked opium in the Tower. Ever been to the Tower, by the way?’

‘I do wish you’d keep to the point, Dad.’

But father wasn’t interested in the point any more.

‘Extraordinary thing, chopping off all those heads. Took your mother there once, but it was closed for repairs.’

Dreamily his hand curled round the tankard. I could see a story coming.

‘
Shall
I go to Lusk,’ I said, ‘and do my damnedest?’

‘Of course,’ murmured father, ‘I was never an admirer of Raleigh. Take that cloak affair. Too ostentatious. Then there was Blenheim. Who lost Blenheim? The whole campaign was sheer folly! He had no powder. Take this beer mug: that’s Austerlitz. This vase is Wellington; this ashtray, Nelson. Hey, miss, bring me a pint of eight! Well, you
see
? Can’t be done. Tolstoy demonstrates that in–what’s that hellishly long book about peace and war?’

I left him; I knew I should get nothing more out of him that night.

‘Creative thought Creates’, I muttered over and over again to myself. I went to sleep with those words on my mind. At three o’clock I woke in a sweat from a nightmare. I won’t tell you the nightmare because other people’s dreams are always boring and, if it terrified me, I can’t expect it to terrify anyone else. The point is, when I woke out of that ’mare, I found myself muttering three words over and over again. And those words were ‘Destructive thought Destroys’.

Next morning I was in the shop, upstairs, trying to locate a Liddell and Scott for a customer. I heard the door open downstairs, someone coming in. I heard the tapping of a stick. Quickly I went to the head of the stairs and listened.

‘Ah, Mr Huntley. I imagine we have met?’

‘Dare say. Hand me that pawn, will you? There, by your foot.’

‘I am Lady Hargreaves, Mr Huntley.’

‘Oh, yes. Play chess?’

‘Tolerably. But I came to talk of music.’

‘Ah, Music. Yes. H’m. Ah. Music? You like music?’

‘I could not say I
like
music, Mr Huntley. Music is air to me. Without it, I could not live.’

‘H’m. I feel just the same about food, so we’ve something in common. Oh, damn! I’m checking the wrong king again!’

‘The harp is my instrument.’

‘Oh? You’re the harper? Yes, I remember. Or do you call yourself a harpie? Fine! Heard you last night.’

‘And I heard you, Mr Huntley. Allow me to congratulate you on your playing. I am no mean judge.’

‘Thanks. Take a seat if you can find one. People generally use books. There’s the
Britannica
. You gave a recital in Bath, didn’t you. Or was it Wales?’

‘I have hardly reached the standard of a public recital, my dear Mr Huntley.’

‘Private one, perhaps?’

‘That is precisely what I have come to see you about. I am thinking of giving a small musical party at Lessways. I should very much like you to play the violin.’

I could hardly believe my ears. After that letter to me–and everything. Music, then,
had
reconciled us. Was I glad? I didn’t know.

‘Good idea,’ said father. ‘We can do the Bach double D minor. You’d better practise it.’

‘But I play the
harp
.’

‘Oh, the harp. H’m. Yes.’

‘I had in mind a group of solos from you, Mr Huntley–to include a little composition of my own which I think you would interpret well. A
Canzona
inspired by a willow-wren.’

‘Queer birds. I remember one once that had hiccups. Yes–certainly. I’ll play my tune on the G string. Norman can accompany. Squeen, order a new G at once, you devil! Funny, Lady Harton, Squeen plays the fiddle too. Think it’d be the flute, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘All that looking sideways. Suits Squeen more.’

‘Well, then, I shall play some harp solos. As for the accompaniments to your pieces, including my
Canzona
, I will be responsible for those myself.’

‘Oh, no!’ said father promptly. ‘Norman must play. Hi, Norman!’ He called out. ‘You there? Come down. Lady Harton wants you to play for her concert. We’re doing my tune. Where are you?’

I sat tight and didn’t answer. I suppose it was eavesdropping, but what I always say is, if eaves are worth dropping you’re a fool if you don’t pick them up.

‘Unreliable fellow, my son,’ said father. ‘Never know where he is. Still, he’s a good musician. That’ll be all right. I’ll settle him for you.’

There was a pause. I heard father murmur ‘check’. Then:

‘Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘let me be quite frank with you. I do not wish your son to play.’

‘Oh? Why? Thought you and he were as thick as thieves?’ ‘By no means! It is all a most painful subject. I had not wished to refer to it. But you compel me to.’

‘Go on. I’m listening. Check.’

‘As you know, Mr Huntley, your son had the good fortune to save my life. He was–I dislike saying it–grossly incompetent; I have no doubt I should have been out of hospital weeks earlier had he sent immediately for a skilled nurse. Still, it was kindly meant; we must not deny that. But a life saved, Mr Huntley, does not become the property of the saver!
Oh
, no!’

‘Certainly not,’ agreed father. ‘Quite right.’

‘I am very much afraid your son’s head was turned. Not content with pestering me in hospital, he actually invited me to stay at your house.
Most
foolishly, I accepted. I am a poet, as you no doubt know, Mr Huntley, and believing as I do that the seed of poesy cannot bear fruit in one soil alone, I have always endeavoured to vary my range of experience.’

‘Of course, you get the best fruit by sticking to the same soil. What fee are you offering, by the way?’

Ignoring this, she continued, her voice rising passionately.

‘I come to Cornford. What do I find?
What
do I find? A welcome? By no means! A succession of insults? Precisely. Not from
you
! Oh, no! Or Mrs Huntley. I have no doubt we could all have been good friends or, at any rate, friends. But your son’s–’ Her voice broke in an angry sob. ‘I will not speak of it. I have no desire to speak ill of him.’

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said father, which must have been very disappointing for her.

But she went on. ‘One goes far afield for one’s inspirations, Mr Huntley. The true fount rarely springs from the hearth. The waters of Lethe, I should suppose, run more freely in the Thames than in a teacup.’

‘Have you seen our new teapot, by the way? It’s a new sort.’

‘Yet even there he sees fit to intrude, interrupting me with a crude call just as I am about to enter upon the fourth stanza of a poem that I was actually foolish enough to give to him. What has
since
happened I
cannot
talk about. It is too painful. It is, indeed, pitiful that a young and intelligent man should sink so low as he has. I hope I have said enough to make it quite clear to you that, with the best will in the world, it would be difficult for me to invite him to my home. I hope you understand, by the way, that I am inviting you to play in a professional capacity?’

There was a long pause.

Then: ‘What were you saying?’ asked father. ‘Oh–your concert. Oh, yes. When is it?’

‘A week to-day–if that allows you sufficient time. Perhaps you would care to call in this evening, when I will––– show you my
Canzona
and we can go through it. Come in to coffee at nine.’

‘All right. I’ll arrange a programme with Norman. You’ll like my tune. What fee did you say?’

‘Oh, I do not
offer
fees, Mr Huntley. If you will send in your account after the recital, I will see that it is dealt with.’

‘All right. I’ll send in Norman’s bill too.’

(‘Bravo, father!’ I muttered to myself.)

‘Mr Huntley,’ said Lady Hargreaves coldly, ‘have I not made the position clear regarding your son?’

‘Oh, well, we’ll see about that later. You’d better let me have a copy of this Peacock Canon you keep talking about Norman and I can go through it. By the way, do you want a nice clean set of Beaumont and Fletcher, unbowdlerized? Go well in your shelves. I’ll read you a bit. It’s spicy stuff and–’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Huntley.
Good
afternoon. I shall expect you at nine.’

The door closed; she had gone. I went downstairs.

‘That was good of you, Dad,’ I said. ‘But I’m damned if I’ll play for the old bitch.’

‘Oh. There you are. Did you find that Beardsley
Morte
d’Arthur
?’

‘You don’t believe what she said about me, do you?’

‘Who? Oh, Lady Hurley. What did she say? I didn’t quite catch it all. We’re to go in for tea to-night at nine. Pity. I’ve got a skittle appointment.’

‘She doesn’t want me. Can’t you listen?’

‘We must get up a good programme,’ said father. ‘Might manage that Delius sonata. And I’ll play that thing of Svendsen’s. Old-fashioned, but I like it.’

8

‘I
decide to have it out once and for all with C. H. “O Thou, the central orb.” Destructive thought destroys.’

How vividly that entry from my diary recalls the afternoon of October the 26th! Lady Hargreaves sat in her usual place in the Close stalls. Archie Tallents had a solo in Gibbons’ anthem, ‘O Thou, the central orb’. I see him now, opening his large mouth and warbling his dulcet tones directly to her. It was always Archie’s habit to pick upon one particular member of the congregation to sing to. He used to call it ‘the personal touch’. A shadow of a smile passed over Connie’s face. Yes, I reflected bitterly, if
I
were to sing to you like that you’d frown and report me to the Dean for irreverent behaviour. The conversation she had had with my father that morning seethed in my mind. It was the turning-point in my relations with her. Was it
fair
that she should attack me in this way? If father could play at her concert, why shouldn’t I? Could I go on for the rest of my life, or the rest of hers, silently suffering her insults? Destructive thought destroys . . . destructive thought destroys. To-day, I swore, we should see what destructive thought could really do. The moment had come to end it all. After Evensong I would go to Lessways and, once and for all, prove to her that I was still master. While Archie drooled blithely on and, outside, the west wind battered against the Cathedral walls, thoughts such as these surged madly in my mind.

Evensong over, I tore off my cassock and walked quickly down the south aisle. Far ahead of me I saw her going out of the west door. I ran; I actually ran. It came back to me how, a short while ago, in this same building, she had been the pursuer, I the pursued; I began to understand what the psalmist meant when he complained about the iron entering into his soul. I don’t know whether iron’s ever entered into your soul, but I can tell you it’s pretty grisly.

Her car drove off just as I went out of the west door. Hot on the scent I leapt on my bicycle and pedalled furiously to Lessways. She had arrived only a few moments ahead of me; the car was still standing outside the door. I rapped peremptorily on the door-knocker. Almost immediately a curtain to a small side-window in the porch was drawn aside. Lady Hargreaves looked out. For one second I met her eyes. Then the curtain was pulled back; I heard her steps receding to the back of the house. I waited. I knocked again.