Miss Hargreaves (7 page)

‘Don’t be such an ass. Shouldn’t mind betting the girl at the hotel was pulling our legs.’

‘How could she be? How could she know my address and her going on to Bath?’

‘My dear ass, wasn’t your address on the letter–which she might easily have opened? And didn’t you mention the visit to Bath?’

That made me feel a little easier. I ordered more drinks, watched father playing skittles, and tried to put Miss Hargreaves in the back of my mind. But she didn’t want to stay there.

Sunday passed quite normally. The boys had come back from their summer holiday and full choral services were resumed at the Cathedral. It was nice to be back there again. In the evening I went on the river with Marjorie. She’s a friend. Well, she’s more than a friend. I suppose she’ll be my wife one day. I suppose so. I know I don’t sound enthusiastic. The truth is, she let me down terribly over well,–you’ll see. I don’t want so say anything against Marjorie. She’s a fine girl, very spirited. She’s got a job in a shop where they sell superior cakes and preserves. You know the sort of place.

‘Who’s this Miss Hargreaves you’ve been taking up with?’ she asked me suddenly, when we were half-way downstream, coming round into Hedsor wharf.

‘Oh, she took up with me,’ I said. ‘Not I with her.’

‘Well, who is she, anyway?’

I leant over the side and flicked an old cigarette packet from the water into the bank.

‘She’s a niece of the Duke of Grosvenor,’ I said. ‘She writes poetry too.’

‘Oh, really?’ Marjorie seemed interested. She pointed up to Cliveden House, towering through the tops of the trees. ‘The Grosvenors used to live there, didn’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

‘How old is she?’

‘About a hundred. I like that frock you’re wearing, Marjorie. Suits you like a glove.’

‘I suppose she’s horribly rich?’

I laughed. ‘Oh, yes! A hundred-pound note slips through her hand easier than a postage stamp. Shall we go down to Cookham Lock or turn back?’

‘Back, I think. It’s a bit cold. What’s her poetry like?’

‘It’s funny.’

‘How do you mean–funny? Comic poetry?’

‘Not exactly. I can remember one verse.’ I quoted:

‘O, bring me the cornet, the flute, and the axe,

     The serpent, the drum and the cymbals;

The truth has been told; I’ve laid bare all the facts –

     I
cannot
make bricks without thimbles.’

This seemed to puzzle Marjorie. She was silent for a bit. I began to row home. Presently she said:

‘Thimbles? Don’t you mean “straw”?’

‘No. Thimbles.’

‘I don’t see what it means,’ she said.

‘Don’t you? It is rather tricky, I agree. But the best poets always are obscure.’

I hadn’t, of course, the slightest idea what the poem meant, but in a curious way I felt I had to defend it. The poems had got hold of me. I’d read them right through last night in bed, and lain awake for hours, worried about the whole funny business. As certain as I could see the old moon rising yellow over the Cathedral spire, I could see trouble rising. I fell uneasily asleep. Next night too–I fell even more uneasily asleep.

When I woke up on Monday morning it was with that sort of a ‘different’ feeling you have when things are either very bad or very good. I went down to breakfast–the first down for a change. On my plate was a letter; I saw it the moment I passed through the door. I approached it gingerly. The envelope was long and pea-green; not the sort of colour you want to see at breakfast-time. I picked it up between my fingers, holding it as though it were a bomb. It bore the Hereford postmark. I might have guessed.

I couldn’t open it at once, but shoved it in my pocket. Breakfast stuck. I could feel the letter close to me, burning me, if you know what I mean. When I got out into the street and was on my way to the Cathedral for Matins, I ripped it open savagely, looking first at the signature.

It was signed ‘CONSTANCE HARGREAVES’. She was ‘Ever most affectionately’. Sent, of course, from the Manor Court Hotel.

I stopped in the road. Suddenly I was angry. A joke had no
right
to go on like this. I had a strong instinct to crumple the letter up and throw it away. A warning voice said to me, ‘Norman Huntley, if you read that letter you’ll open out a whole train of troublesome events. Throw it away. Get Miss Hargreaves for ever out of your mind. Behave as though she doesn’t exist.’

Doesn’t exist . . . doesn’t exist . . . doesn’t exist. I muttered the words Couély over and over again. Next minute I was reading the letter.

The writing was very broad and flowery, like a Morris wall-paper, full of twirls, and it didn’t leave much room on the envelope for the stamp. In fact, I’ve rarely seen a stamp so crowded out. I didn’t read the letter right through at first; I read random bits here and there. I don’t know about you, but I’m like that with difficult letters; never can tackle them directly, but must look at them inside-out and upside-down. Then comes the moment when, having gathered its tone from stray but important words (suppose it to be a letter from a solicitor reminding me about the tailor’s bill; the sort of words that inevitably stand out are–‘Unless’, ‘Compelled’, ‘Issue’), I am faced with having to wade right through it. In this case the words that caught my eye were–‘Bath’, ‘
bath
’ (observe the distinction), ‘
old
friends’, and–‘luggage in advance to your house’.

‘Oh, God!’ I moaned. Then I read it properly.

‘MY DEAR NORMAN,

‘Your charming letter gave me such
great
pleasure. How
clever
of you to know I should be at Hereford. But then, of course we are such
old
friends–in spite of the discrepancy–of age that you know my habits almost as well, if not better, than I know them myself.’

(‘
If not better
. . .’Why did that strike me as being so horribly sinister?)

‘I have little time for a letter now, as I am about to catch my train to Bath, but this is just to tell you that I look forward greatly to seeing you and your
dear
family on Monday evening. I am curtailing my visit to Bath this year especially to be with you. My train is due to arrive at Cornford at eight-fifteen,
post
meridian. Will you kindly arrange for a cab as I have — as usual — oh, dear! — rather a lot of luggage. I have taken the liberty of having some of it sent by luggage in advance to your house.

‘I am most touched by what you say of my dear old friend, Mr Archer — now, alas, “long,
long
ago at rest”. One of my most precious possessions is a
bath
that he gave me years ago. That sounds strange, does it not? But there is a very simple explanation which one day I must tell you if you do not already know.

‘There has been such
exquisite
music at the Cathedral this year. Doctor Hull conducted so admirably beautiful
Elijah
– beautiful
Messiah
– beautiful
Beethoven Choral
–
what
a heritage!

‘I have just composed a triolet which I look forward to reading to you.

‘Well, dear, I hope you are in good health and will be able to find time to show me something of your native town and countryside. I may be an old woman, but I still like to get about.

‘Till Monday, then,

‘Ever most affectionately . . . ’

Futile rage possessed me. I screwed the letter up and threw it at a passing bus, next minute ran out into the road to recover it, feeling it might be useful as evidence in some way or another. What in God’s name could it all mean? One thing I decided then and there: I’d tell father the whole truth. He’d understand more than mother and Jim.

Squeen, father’s assistant, was there when I arrived at the shop after Matins. Squeen is naturally thin; you lose him sometimes in the dark corners of the shop. It wouldn’t surprise me to find him flattened out under the
Encyclopaedia
Britannica
.

‘Mr Squeen’s glad to see Mr Norman back,’ he said. ‘And did Mr Norman enjoy his visit to the passionate Celtic Isle?’

He’s got an irritating habit of avoiding the use of the first and second persons in his speech.

‘Ripping,’ I said.

Going straight to the phone, I called up Henry. Squeen sat on a pair of steps and examined his finger-nails.

‘Mr Squeen surmises,’ he surmised, ‘that there are more books in this shop than there are people in the Isle of Erin.’

‘Shut up, Squeen,’ I said. That’s one thing about him; you can shut him up. Father bullies him unmercifully.

I heard Henry’s voice.

‘Oh, is that you, Henry? Look, I’ve had a letter from the old devil. It mentions the bath.’

‘You mean the visit to Bath?’

‘No. I don’t. Small b-a-t-h. Mr Archer’s bath. Henry, I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. She’s arriving at Cornford to-night at eight-fifteen. You’ll simply have to come to the station with me.’

‘Can’t. We’re all going to the Clovertree Dance–don’t you remember? You’ll have to leave the old dear to herself.’

‘I daren’t. We
must
be there. You’ve got to help me.’

‘I don’t believe there’ll be anybody there, you know.’

‘I can’t risk it.’

‘Well, what do you intend to do if she
is
there?’

‘I’ve thought it all out. I shall pack her off to the Swan. If she’s troublesome, I shall get her certified.’

‘She might get
you
certified, old boy. Have you thought of that?’

‘You might be a bit more helpful.’

‘Read me the letter.’ I did so. ‘H’m,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I care for that bit about luggage in advance.’

‘No. Neither do I.’

‘All right,’ said Henry. ‘I’ll come with you. We can go on to the dance afterwards. The girls won’t mind if we’re a bit late.’

‘What do you think it all means, Henry?’

‘Black magic, it sounds like. Why don’t you try making a wax image of her and sticking pins into it? Use drawing-pins. They stay in easier.’

He rang off and father came down, balancing a set of Tolstoy against his chest.

‘Too much of Tolstoy,’ he muttered, ‘nothing but Tolstoy upstairs.’ He shouted suddenly to Squeen. ‘Squeen, make a set-to to-day and rout out that Kelmscott
Shakes
. And sort out all that Tolstoy.’