Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  Meanwhile, Squint was rhapsodizing.

  ‘I beg you to observe the beautiful lettering and decoration on the chancel wall. “I saw the Lord sitting upon a Throne.” You like it?’

  He had a habit of hissing like a goose, particularly when he was eager about something.

  ‘Very pretty indeed,’ I said.

  ‘Original,’ said Henry.

  ‘Unusual, in a sense.’

  ‘Full of feeling.’

  ‘Filthy,’ I said.

  ‘The font,’ said Henry hurriedly, glaring at me, ‘is superb.’

  ‘The choir screen,’ I added, ‘is definitely in a class by itself.’

  ‘We think,’ said Squint simply, folding his hands and looking modestly at the ground, ‘we think that the whole church is in a class by itself.’

  We proceeded step by step up the nave towards the lectern. It grew darker; we could hear the rain pattering on the roof. My spirits sank. There was something so unutterably depressing about the place. The sexton was standing by the draped lectern, one hand on the corner of the sheet, waiting for us to approach so that he might unveil what I knew could only be a fresh horror.

  ‘Here,’ whispered Henry, ‘this place is awful. Let’s get out quickly.’

  ‘All very well for you to talk like that,’ I muttered, ‘but you started it. We’ve got to go through with it now.’

  Patiently, Squint waited by the lectern. It’s hard to explain the awful sinking feeling that had come over Henry and me. ‘A day we shall never forget,’ I told myself. And as I said it, I thought, ‘Well, you might as well make it really memorable. Get some fun out of this while you’re about it.’

  Some fun. Oh, God! If I had only known!

  Suddenly the sexton whipped aside the dust-sheet and disclosed the lectern, obviously a favourite of his. We saw an avaricious-looking brass fowl with one eye cocked sideways as though it feared somebody were going to bag the Bible–or perhaps as though it hoped somebody were going to. You couldn’t quite tell; it had an ambiguous expression.

  ‘Now this,’ said Squint, ‘this most distinctive lectern was presented by members of the congregation in memory of the late Reverend Mr Archer, vicar here for forty years who died in 1925.’ He hissed and glared at us. ‘You will be kind enough to read the inscription. Mr Archer was a good man.’

  ‘Dear Mr Archer,’ I said.

  No more. Said it without thinking much. Didn’t even realize that I had sown the seed.

  ‘Dear Mr Archer.’ Like that. Nothing more. Queer how those three simple words affected the sexton.

  ‘You,’ he teethed eagerly, ‘were a friend of the late very beloved Reverend Mr Archer?’

  I was cautious.

  ‘By no means,’ I said. ‘But I have heard a lot about him. Haven’t I, Henry?’

  ‘You bet we have,’ said Henry cheerily. He was always very quick in this way.

  ‘Oh, but, indeed,’ screamed the sexton in a frenzy of delight, whipping off the dust-sheet from the pulpit — ‘a friend of Mr Archer’s is a friend of Lusk.’

  I fondled the tail-feathers of the bird half absently.

  ‘I wish to emphasize,’ I said, ‘that I never knew Mr Archer personally. But I have a great friend who knew him well in his’–I peered at the brass plate–‘in his Cambridge days,’ I added.

  ‘Oxford,’ said Henry, annoyingly going off on his own track.

  ‘I said Cambridge,’ I remarked acidly, ‘and Cambridge I meant.’

  The sexton seemed not to hear us. ‘Mr Archer was our best-beloved pastor,’ he said, speaking in a dreamy hiss, through his nose like a Welsh hwyl. ‘There was not a man more respected. He was a darling man, most free with his money. And his daughters — ah! They were the lovely creatures and all!’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, biting my lip reminiscently and looking at the roof, ‘there were four, weren’t there?’

  ‘Three,’ said the sexton.

  I frowned. ‘Surely–four?’ It was annoying to be contradicted.

  ‘Yes, you are right, sir,’ cried the sexton. ‘Four it is–four beautiful creatures. There was Miss Emily, there was Miss Angela, Miss Dorothea, and–and–’ He paused and looked at me suspiciously. ‘There were only three!’ he snapped suddenly.

  ‘Surely,’ I corrected gently, ‘you are forgetting Miss Seraphica?’

  ‘Miss Seraphica,’ said Henry gravely, ‘was–alas!–always overlooked.’

  ‘Consistently overlooked. She died,’ I reminded him, ‘in complete obscurity.’

  ‘Maybe I forget,’ sighed Squint. ‘My poor memory is not so good as once it was.’

  Thanking God for his poor memory, I asked him what had become of Mr Archer’s surviving daughters.

  ‘Miss Emily,’ he said, ‘teaches in Belfast. Every Christmas she writes to me, the darling lady. Miss Angela married an army gentleman called–called–’

  Henry quickly took advantage of the poor memory.

  ‘Major Road?’ he suggested, ‘M.C.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said the sexton. ‘And Miss Dorothea went to live in America with an aunt. She was the most beautiful one. Gone!’ He waved his arm mournfully.

  ‘Baltimore?’ I murmured.

  ‘That is so,’ said the sexton.

  I sighed. ‘Dear, dear! For so long I have looked forward to seeing Mr Archer’s church. And now–here we are! Something very moving about it, isn’t there, Henry?’

  Henry touched his eye with his handkerchief and declared that he had never been so moved.

  ‘If I had been told,’ said the sexton, ‘that two gentlemen would come into this church this evening who knew Mr Archer, I would not have believed it. No, I would not! Holy God no!’

  I reminded him again that I had never known Mr Archer personally. But he ignored this and went on to talk about the Communion plate.

  ‘It is,’ he said, ‘of the very finest beaten gold, studded with onyx, opals and agate. You will please to follow and I will show you. It was Mr Archer’s gift to the church. Holy God, it is beautiful plate!’

  We followed him to the vestry, feeling much less depressed. While we examined the plate I spun a few more fancies concerning Mr Archer. He had edited, I suggested, a hymn-book and been fond of fishing. The sexton, after a little encouragement, readily agreed.

  About twenty minutes later we came to the west door, still talking enthusiastically of the late vicar. Henry stood a little apart from us, uneasily smothering laughter into a handkerchief. He’s like that, I’m afraid; not completely reliable.

  ‘And now,’ said Squint, ‘you will please to give me your name so that I may tell Miss Angela when I next write that a friend of her darling reverend father has–’

  ‘I did not know Mr Archer myself,’ I snapped.

  Immediately the sexton’s happy smile vanished and an angry flush came over his face.

  ‘You did not know Mr Archer,’ he hissed, ‘and, Holy God, there was I showing you the Communion plate!’

  ‘My friend,’ I explained, ‘she knew him.’

  His face brightened. ‘Ah. Your friend! And what is his name?’

  ‘A lady,’ I corrected sharply. For one second I paused. Then, ‘Miss Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘Miss Connie Hargreaves,’ I added.

  It seemed to me there was a sort of stirring of air in the church, like like what? Rather like someone opening a very old umbrella. I looked round sharply, but couldn’t see anything unusual. A ray of feeble sun had broken through the dark clouds and was shining down on the dust in the galleries. I realized I was trembling. Sweating too. No doubt about it. I was precariously poised on the Spur of the Moment. Father’s ancient warning came back to me. No good now. When you’re on the Spur you can’t go back. I wiped my brow with my handkerchief and smiled at the sexton. I knew I was powerless to move except in one direction.

  ‘Miss Connie Hargreaves,’ echoed Henry.

  ‘Miss Connie Hargreaves,’ re-echoed the sexton.

  ‘Who lives in Rutlandshire,’
I added.

  ‘And knew Mr Archer many, many years ago,’ said Henry; ‘long before daylight saving and such things.’

  ‘Childhood friends,’ I continued happily. I could feel I was getting into my stride. ‘They had never once met since those happy far-off days. Many are the stories–many, many are the stories–delightful and otherwise–that Miss Hargreaves has told me about Mr Archer.’

  ‘And this lady, this Miss Hargreaves, she is still alive?’

  ‘Ten minutes old, precisely,’ said Henry.

  I trod on his toe brutally.

  ‘The soul of youth,’ I said. ‘She is a poet,’ I added dreamily.

  ‘She would be an old lady,’ said Squint. ‘Over eighty.’

  ‘Nearer ninety,’ said Henry.

  ‘A touch of rheumatoid arthritis,’ I said, ‘but no more than a touch.’

  We began to wander out of the church at last.

  ‘You must give me your friend’s address,’ said the sexton, ‘so that I may tell Miss Angela. The darling lady likes to keep in touch with the Reverend’s old connections.’

  I took out my pocket-book and wrote.

  ‘Henry,’ I said, ‘is it 28 or 29 Dawsington Road, Oakham?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said easily, ‘she’s too well known to bother about the number. In any case, the name of the house–Sable Lodge–is more than sufficient.’

  ‘Of course,’ I murmured. I wrote on the paper: ‘Miss Constance Hargreaves, Sable Lodge, Oakham, Rutlandshire,’ and handed it to the sexton.

  ‘This is a happy day,’ he said as we walked slowly away down the drive.

  ‘A niece of the Duke of Grosvenor,’ remarked Henry.

  ‘And writes poetry,’ I emphasized.

  ‘Oh, bravo, Norman!’ said Henry when we’d finished laughing. ‘I already feel as though I’ve known her all my life.’

  I was modest. ‘I can’t take the entire credit for her,’ I said. ‘Your bits helped enormously.’

  ‘I suppose you agree to her connection with Grosvenor?’

  ‘Oh, definitely! That was first class. Full marks.’

  ‘Still, she’s entirely your creation.’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid she is,’ I said.

  ‘Why afraid?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  A beggarman wandered up the street, playing ‘Over the sea to Skye’ on a melancholy penny whistle. I gave him sixpence and caught Henry’s arm. ‘Let’s get on to Dungannon,’ I said.

  The rest of that evening we spent at Dungannon. Miss Hargreaves was the topic of conversation all the time. We found, after several glasses of sherry, that she was a far more widely travelled and more accomplished lady than we had originally supposed.

  ‘Of course,’ said Henry, ‘she always winters in the South of France.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said, ‘how she takes her cockatoo about. It’s gone with her everywhere.’

  ‘You mean Hector?’

  ‘Dr Pepusch,’ I corrected. ‘Hector, you remember, died of psittacosis.’

  Henry wrinkled his brow. ‘Dr Pepusch?’

  ‘M’m,’ I said. ‘Dr Pepusch, you remember–who wrote the Beggar’s Opera – had a parrot who used to sing an air from one of Handel’s operas. Miss Hargreaves named her bird after him. She’s a keen musician.’

  ‘I should like to know who this dame is you two keep talking about,’ said the girl behind the bar.

  ‘No dame about her,’ said Henry. ‘This is a niece of the Duke of Grosvenor. So kindly be careful what you say.’

  The girl seemed rather impressed.

  Henry drained his glass. ‘Horsy?’ he murmured.

  ‘No. Doggy,’ I said. ‘She keeps a Bedlington; a lady Bedlington by the name of Sarah. Don’t you remember how she forgot herself in one of the Duke’s grandfather clocks?’

  ‘What beautiful little water-colours those were that she used to paint,’ mused Henry, tipping his glass up and holding it out to the girl to be filled.

  ‘She is more of a poet than a painter,’ I reminded him. ‘Some of her lyrics–do you remember Wayside Bundle?–bid fair to rival the immortal Ella.’

  ‘You mean Wheeler W.?’

  ‘Just so. Another sherry, please, miss.’

  ‘She has more than a mere taste for music, eh?’

  ‘Oh, yes! A born musician. It occurs to me, incidentally,’ I added, ‘that it was perhaps a mistake to give the sexton her home address.’

  ‘Oh? Is she away from home, then?’

  ‘Undoubtedly. She will just have left for the Three Choirs Festival. She has never been known to miss it.’

  ‘How stupid of me to forget!’

  Henry asked the girl to fetch him an A.A. Guide.

  ‘Where is the Festival being held this year?’ he asked me.

  ‘Hereford.’

  I turned over the pages of the guide, then snapped it to with an air of finality.

  ‘I suppose, as usual,’ I remarked, ‘she will be staying at the Manor Court Hotel?’

  ‘Oh, it’s almost a second home to her,’ he agreed. ‘Any mention made, by the way, of charges for dogs?’

  ‘M’m. Two-and-six a day.’

  ‘How many stars?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Pity. Ought to be six. Cockatoos mentioned?’

  ‘Not mentioned. But of course she has had a special arrangement with the management for a great many years.’

  We were silent for a little while. I think we were impressed with ourselves and each other; but most especially we were impressed by Miss Hargreaves.

  ‘I suppose,’ I mused, ‘she will go on to Bath as usual?’

  ‘I see nothing to prevent her,’ said Henry.

  Neither did I.

  Just as I was drawing the sheets over my head, feeling a bit hazy, Henry–who never can leave a good joke where it is–poked his head round the door.

  ‘You ought to write to her,’ he said, ‘and tell her we’ve at last seen Mr Archer’s church. She’d be so pleased.’

  ‘Of course,’ I murmured. ‘I’ll do it to-morrow.’

  ‘As from 38 London Road, Cornford, Bucks.

  September 2nd

  ‘DEAR MISS HARGREAVES,

  ‘I’m afraid it is some time since I wrote you, but now that I am on the point of returning from a holiday in Northern Ireland, I feel that I must send you a line from a place so intimately bound up with memories of your old friend Mr Archer. You have told me so much about him that I almost felt, when I stood in Lusk church yesterday, that I had known him myself. The sexton was overjoyed to hear news of you, although he did not actually remember your name.

  ‘What of you, my dear old friend? I am assuming that, as usual, you will be attending the Choirs Festival and I am therefore addressing this to the Manor Court Hotel at Hereford which I know you always patronize. Do let me hear from you. Will you be going to Bath as usual?

  ‘Any time you care to come and stay with us at Cornford you will be more than welcome. My mother and father have long hoped to meet you and I need hardly say that this invitation extends also to Sarah and Dr Pepusch. Send me a card any time you feel like coming.

  ‘With warmest regards,

  ‘Ever most sincerely,

  ‘NORMAN HUNTLEY.’

  ‘You ought to put “My” dear Miss Hargreaves,’ said Henry after he’d read the letter through.

  ‘Oh, do you think so? I was inclined to think that “my dear old friend” was a bit too familiar.’

  ‘Too familiar! My dear Norman, nothing could be too familiar for such an old friend.’

  ‘You agree the regards ought to be warm?’

  ‘As hot as hell.’

  I sealed the letter, and addressed it to the Manor Court Hotel, Hereford. We posted it from Lusk, feeling that it ought to bear the Lusk postmark.

  That evening we left Ulster. Just as we sailed out of Belfast and were leaning on the rail looking at the lights of the quay and feeling a bit sad that our holiday in Ireland was over, Henry s
aid to me, ‘I suppose that letter’ll stay in the rack for months. Interesting to go there in a year’s time and see if it’s still there.’

  I couldn’t pass this.

  ‘Why should it still be there?’ I demanded. ‘If Miss Hargreaves hasn’t yet arrived, she will in a day or so.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry hurriedly. ‘I was assuming, just for a moment, that there wasn’t such a person. Pure idle fancy, you know.’

  ‘I call it damned disrespectful,’ I said, ‘and in the worst possible taste. You can only make up for it by coming below and standing me a drink on her behalf.’

  We went down and ordered double gins.

  ‘To Miss Hargreaves!’ said Henry solemnly.

  ‘Long may she live!’ I cried.

  We drank.

  2

  HENRY went straight back to Cornford, but I didn’t. I’d promised mother I’d spend a day or so with Aunt Flossie who lives in Doncaster, a nice old thing as aunts go.

  I had breakfast with Henry on Liverpool station, and saw him off on his London train.

  ‘Well, old boy,’ he said, stepping into his carriage and hurling his bag on to the rack, ‘that was a grand holiday.’

  ‘With a grand conclusion,’ I said.

  ‘Tell you what. Next time we have a holiday together we’ll take Connie with us. Give her a treat, poor old dear.’