Miss Hargreaves (41 page)

‘When the
hell
are we going to start this music?’ said father, brutally breaking the silence.

All eyes turned on us. Lady Hargreaves, rousing herself from her reverie, sighed deeply and smiled a sad, far-away, reminiscent smile.

‘Forgive me, my friends,’ she murmured, ‘I trust that I am usually in control of my feelings. But I admit that the name Archer still has power to affect me.’

‘No good trying to hide feelings,’ mumbled the Colonel. ‘Never could myself. Don’t believe in it.’

‘Mr Archer,’ continued Lady Hargreaves, ‘many years ago–oh,
so
many years ago!–was my dearest friend. I still treasure a hip-bath that he once gave me–Oh, no!’ Her hand shot up imperiously as though to check at once any possibility of innuendo. Mrs Cutler worried
Wayside Bundle
from page to page. ‘Oh, no! It is
not
a story I can repeat except to the very, very closest friend.’

She glanced at the Dean.

‘Oh, quite, quite!’ he murmured.

‘I knew him,’ she went on, ‘at the University. Mad young things–wild young things! What days! Do the young people of to-day have so good a time, I wonder!’

‘There’s a lot of looseness about,’ said Mrs Cutler. ‘A terrible lot of looseness. Eh, Archdeacon?’

The Archdeacon tightened himself up, worried his coat buttons and nodded irritably.

‘Oh, I don’t agree,’ said Mrs Auty, who would rather die than agree with Mrs Cutler. ‘Let young people have a good time, that’s what I say. I always had a good time. People ought to have a good time. The Canon agrees, don’t you, Edward?’

Canon Auty, who had sat silent most of the evening, stroked his beard reflectively as though there, and only there, could a good time be found. ‘A
good
time,’ he said. ‘Yes. A
good
time. Let people enjoy themselves provided there is no–horseplay.’

‘Archer and I,’ remarked Lady Hargreaves, ‘were precisely of that opinion. As for horseplay, I have never favoured it and I never will. Is not that light a little trying for your eyes, Mrs Cutler? Take this seat, I beg you. My poor little book seems to entertain you. Yes,’ she continued in a reminiscent tone, ‘they were halcyon days–“halcyon days, wrapped in high summer’s indigenous haze . . . ” I quote from one of those youthful and yet perhaps spirited indiscretions in
Wayside Bundle
.
No
, my good Miss Linkinghorne, put the book down — I positively insist! Yes, dear–Archer was my afflatus in those happy days.’

‘Really?’ said the Colonel, peering over his glass. ‘Afflatus, eh?’ He suddenly winked at the Dean.

‘Halcyon days–!’ echoed Miss Linkinghorne. ‘How lovely! But how
unusually
lovely! There is something of the eternal abandon of the East in those words.’

‘Too much abandon about, eh, Archdeacon?’

‘I do think,’ remarked the Dean sleepily, ‘that our hostess ought to read us some of her verses. We all know she is a far more accomplished poet than her modesty allows her to admit. Come now, Lady Hargreaves!’

‘Oh, but I could not I could not! Oh, no! Do not tempt me. I abominate fuss!’

(Did I imagine it, or was something of the old Miss Hargreaves creeping into her voice?)

‘Please–please, Lady Hargreaves,’ purred the Linkinghorne. ‘I am so very fond of poetry.’

‘But this is mere versifying.’

‘I shouldn’t bother about it —’ began the Colonel. Lady Hargreaves broke in on him quickly.

‘Well, well–since you all insist. But you must not laugh at me. Thank you, Mrs Cutler’ (for Mrs Cutler had again got hold of the book, preferring to read than to be read to) ‘Oh, you have spilt a little wine over it! Oh, no, it does not matter at
all
! Wine and poetry are old lovers, are they not? I was merely thinking of your loss. Austen, fill Mrs Cutler’s glass–’

‘Nice thing if we’re on the air,’ said father, ‘and everybody waiting everywhere.’

‘What shall I give you?’ Lady Hargreaves turned over the pages, running the ends of her spectacles along the lines. ‘Well,’ she announced, ‘I will give you “Halcyon Days”.’

She paused a moment, put on her spectacles, moved a lamp a little closer to her, cleared her throat and began:

‘Halcyon days, halcyon days, wrapped in high–’

The Colonel’s siphon chose that moment to start working. Lady Hargreaves stopped reading, frowned at him over her spectacles, and waited. The Archdeacon nudged him. There was silence. Lady Hargreaves proceeded:

     ‘Halcyon days!

      Halcyon days!

Wrapped in high summer’s indigenous haze!

Peacocks and muscovy; jellies and jam;

Flannelled young athletes patrolling the Cam;

Hearts beating high, the barometer up–

Did we know then that there’s many a cup

’Twixt the slip and the lip and the tangerine pip?

In those far-away days when a crank was a quip

And never a handle for turning a car–

When Collects on Sunday were read by Papa

And spice could be found in a parish bazaar–

Oh, where have they gone to, those comfortable, far-away

        Halcyon, halcyon days?’

‘Look here,’ said father, ‘if she doesn’t give the order for this music soon, I shall go out and start on my own. Come on, Norman. Let’s get going on my tune.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ I snapped. ‘Can’t you let her enjoy herself?’ (I wanted the evening never to end for her.)

‘I
love
that piece about the tangerine,’ Miss Linkinghorne was saying.

‘Quite charming,’ said the Dean. ‘Full of youth’s impulse. You must read us another.’

‘Yes–another–another!’

‘Well, what shall I choose? Remember, these are all trifles, seeds thrown out at random, ships that have, long ago, passed into my night. Perhaps you will find a thought here and there; no more. Christina Rossetti was good enough to say this one contained beauty. A strange thing. I wrote it at night on some tower–I cannot now remember where. It is very brief.’

Again she read:

‘I came, I go, I breathe, I move, I sleep,

I talk, I eat, I drink, I laugh, I weep,

I sing, I dance, I think, I dream, I see,

I fear, I love, I hate, I plot, I be.

     And yet–

     And yet–

I sometimes feel that I am but a thought,

A piece of thistledown, a thing of naught,

Rocked in the cradle of a craftsman’s story,

And destined not for high angelic glory.

     And yet–

     And yet–

I came, I go, I move, I breathe, I sleep,

I talk, I eat, I drink, I laugh, I weep.’

There was a long silence. She had read it slowly, with great feeling. I saw her touch her handkerchief to her eyes and I was terribly moved. Did she understand what she was? One line rang in my ears–‘destined not for high angelic glory’. Not with the saints, then! Oh, Connie–
where
?

‘Oh, profound!’ murmured the Dean at last. ‘You have obviously read your Donne.’

Again I detected the old Miss Hargreaves breaking through the later personality. Slamming the book down on the table, she rose and took off her spectacles.

‘I never read a page of Donne in my life!’ she snapped.

Father, weary of waiting, suddenly stepped out into the drawing-room and walked up to the party.

‘Evening, all,’ he said genially. ‘Bit chilly, isn’t it? Hullo, Miss Linkinghorne. How’s Jerusalem looking? Ah, Colonel–wondered where the whisky was. Hey there, bring me a glass, will you?’

I watched Lady Hargreaves anxiously. To my astonishment she showed no signs of annoyance; on the contrary, she was obviously amused by father.

‘Nice of you all to come and hear my tune,’ he said. He took a cigarette from a silver box. ‘Got a match on you, Mr Archdeacon? No? I’ll make a spill then–’

He took up
Wayside Bundle
as though to tear a page from it. It was a shop habit that he could never get out of.

Miss Linkinghorne let out a horrified scream.

‘The poems! The poems!’

‘What poems?’ said father, pausing rather irritably, the book still in his hands.

I expected Lady Hargreaves to pounce on him. But again she astonished me. Saying nothing, making no effort to rise from her chair, she smiled slowly, shaking her head from side to side. She seemed terribly tired suddenly. And when I realized that, I realized too, with a shock of understanding, that the lassitude of the last few days had gone from me and that I felt full of energy and power.

The Archdeacon had taken the book from father. ‘An odd way of lighting a cigarette,’ he said.

‘Oh, sorry,’ murmured father. ‘Never can remember. So many books about in the shop, y’know; sort of get used to tearing pages out. I suppose nobody’s seen my mute, have they? Some books are much too long, anyhow. Take
The
Bible in Spain
. If that were written to-day he’d reduce it to a middle for the
Manchester Guardian
. By th’way ever tell you the story about Addison?’

I turned away, back into the parlour, and drew the curtains to the window which looked out to the front garden. I felt tense, on edge, full of frightening energy. At ten-fifteen Henry was calling for me in the car and we were driving to London to catch the night train for Heysham; my bag was packed, ready for Henry to collect. If the music didn’t start soon, we might miss the train. And if I missed the train I knew with absolute certainty that I should never again be able to bring myself to make that journey to Lusk. Why? Because she was changing–changing back to the Miss Hargreaves I had loved–to the Miss Hargreaves I had flung aside. The day of her independence was spent. I knew it. She was coming back to father and me, back to the people who truly understood what she was, back to the will who had made her and who would be able, yet again, to direct the path that her feet should take. Yes, I wanted her back, under my power. And yet–and yet–could I spend the rest of my life controlling her? It was a whole-time job; many years would have to pass before I could hope to do it perfectly.

‘Hurry up,’ I moaned. ‘Hurry up. Let’s get the music over. To Lusk–to Lusk–’

I heard father talking in the drawing-room. He’d quite forgotten about the music now; as usual, he was in the middle of a story.

‘–and there he was, this fellow on the bus, and Mr Justice Sweetheart said to him, “You mustn’t bend over the salvias like that, you know”. Of course, he’d done the murder and Avory knew it.’

Lady Hargreaves rose very slowly, took her sticks and touched father’s arm.

‘Come, Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘let us start the music. Give me your arm to the piano.’

‘Take the other arm, Lady Hurley. That arm’s never quite the same since I had that accident in the National Gallery. Did I ever tell you about that?’

I came out from the parlour and started arranging music on the piano in a fever of impatience. Lady Hargreaves directed Austen to move her harp nearer to the lamp. She was still resting on father’s left arm.

‘Come come, Austen,’ she said, ‘a little this way. That will do.’ She reached the piano and rested one arm upon it, turning and facing the guests. ‘Thank you, Mr Huntley. Austen, see to Mr Huntley’s violin stand.’ While Austen fixed it up, she addressed the others. ‘We have planned a quite informal little concert. I had hoped that Schnabel would be able–’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘
Naturally
, he has many engagements. However, let that not worry you. We have excellent talent in Cornford. Mr Cornelius Huntley assisted by Mr Norman Huntley and–myself, hope, for a brief space to–’

The siphon hissed again from the Colonel’s corner.

Lady Hargreaves glanced sharply over.

‘Austen,’ she snapped, ‘get the Colonel a quieter siphon.’

‘By the way,’ asked father, ‘are we on the air?’

‘Air, Mr Huntley?’

‘Yes. Air.’

‘I do not quite understand, Mr Huntley.’

‘Oh, well, never mind. Don’t suppose we are, in that case. Pity. Told Mrs Paton at the Happy Union to listen. Hand me my tune, Norman.’