Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  A capriciously prodigal hostage.

  What care I when comforters tell me the Bank

  Will pay death-duties, homage and postage?’

  Father walked round the room, waving the volume up and down in the air and murmuring the words ‘capriciously prodigal hostage’.

  ‘Music,’ he said, ‘pure music. Reminds me of Tennyson. Did I ever tell you, by the way, how I met–’

  I couldn’t stand much more.

  ‘Father,’ I shouted, ‘where did you find this bloody book–’

  ‘How dare you use language like that!’ cried mother.

  ‘On my desk,’ said father. ‘Just like that. Under my nose. Funny, wasn’t it? Friend of yours, Henry says. You must bring her round. I like authors. This woman can write too. You might set it to music, Norman.’ Again he read:

  ‘The world is so shallow, the shoes are so tight,

  The moon is so faithful to fortune;

  The cherry is ruddy, the asp is alight,

  The warrior whistleth his war-tune.’

  ‘ “Asp is alight,”’ murmured father. ‘H’m. True, you know. She gets to the heart of things. Realist, too. Notice how she says the warrior whistleth his war-tune. Observation there.’

  I grabbed the book from him and went to the door.

  ‘I can’t explain all this now,’ I said, ‘except that I know that devil Henry’s behind it.’

  I opened the door and rushed into the hall.

  ‘Glad the boy’s making some nice friends,’ I heard father say as I went out.

  Henry was working late at the garage. I found him lying full length under the dismembered chassis of an old lorry.

  ‘You’ve got me in a nice fix, you devil,’ I said.

  ‘Hullo! Is that you, Norman? Hand me that spanner, will you?’

  I shoved a large spanner into his hand.

  ‘What the hell do you mean, spinning all this stuff about Miss Hargreaves?’

  ‘Miss Hargreaves? Eh? Oh, yes! Chuck over that coil of wire, will you? No–not that one, you idiot! The other one.’

  ‘I do think the telegram, though brilliant, was going a bit too far, Henry.’

  ‘Here, just hold the other end of this wire, will you? Look out for that oil! What telegram?’

  ‘What utterly beats me is how you came by this book.’

  ‘Book?’

  ‘The poems, idiot! Wayside Bundle.’

  Henry laughed. ‘I thought you’d appreciate that. Your father took it all in; actually said he’d write to Foyle’s about it–’

  ‘I know all that. I want to know where you got the damn book.’

  ‘Got the book? What do you mean? I didn’t get it.’

  ‘Come out, blast you! I can’t talk to your legs.’

  ‘Why not?’ He slithered out and sat on the running-board. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘give me a fag and don’t get so worked up. Tell your Uncle Henry all about it.’

  I gave him a cigarette. Then I showed him Wayside Bundle. ‘For God’s sake,’ I said, ‘explain this. I’m scared.’

  He looked at it casually. Then he looked again. Then he grabbed it and glared at it. Then he glared at me. He seemed quite angry, for some reason.

  ‘I always thought,’ he said, ‘that Miss Hargreaves was too good to come straight out of your little head. Golly, Norman, you are an old–’ I nearly wept.

  ‘Did you, or did you not put this book on father’s desk?’

  ‘I swear I didn’t. Do you mean to say–’

  ‘He found it there. Under his nose. You must have.’

  ‘Sorry, old boy, but I’m not guilty. The only thing I did do was to ask your old man whether he’d got the book. Thought it would be amusing.’

  ‘Do you call this amusing?’

  ‘I call it damned queer.’

  We were silent for a bit. Then I showed him the telegram.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘that you’ve got nothing to do with this. I’ll forgive you anything so long as you tell me you had this telegram sent.’

  He read it and looked at me half suspiciously.

  ‘Just where did you pick up this dame?’ he asked.

  ‘Did you or did you not have it sent?’ I snapped.

  ‘Of course I didn’t. A joke’s a joke, but I don’t believe in wasting’–he counted the words–‘one and seven-pence on it. Besides, how could I have been near Hereford?’

  We were silent for a very long time. Henry said, ‘I suppose you really did make her up, Norman? She wasn’t some old trout you’d known all along? I know how partial you are to old dames.’

  ‘Damn it all!’ I cried, ‘you had a good deal to do with it. Of course I made her up. We both did.’

  ‘I only put in a few bits. You had all the plums.’

  ‘I know I did most of it. But you helped.’

  ‘Norman,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember that time you made up the sermon when we were kids, and–’

  ‘Yes, of course. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose. But–’ He paused. Then he slapped my knee suddenly. ‘I’ve got it!’ he cried. ‘It’s obvious. There just happens to be a Miss Hargreaves staying at the Manor Court Hotel. She gets your letter. She’s very old, memory like a sieve, and she assumes you must be an old friend whom she’s forgotten. Extraordinary coincidence. But things like that do happen.’

  ‘Yes, and what about the book. Do things like that happen?’

  ‘Golly, I’d overlooked that. Anyway, old boy, no good worrying too much. Send a wire and say, “Smallpox here; advise postponement of visit”.’

  ‘She’s not going to be put off by smallpox,’ I said. ‘She’s the type of female who’d rush into smallpox and never catch it.’

  ‘Look here, I’ve got an idea. Phone the hotel and find out definitely whether there is a Miss Hargreaves staying there. For all you know, somebody might be playing a trick on you.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  We went to the office and put through a trunk call. It didn’t take long.

  ‘Manor Court Hotel,’ came a girl’s voice.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes–Manor Court Hotel–yes–I–’ I turned to Henry nervously. ‘What the devil shall I say?’

  ‘Ask if a Miss Hargreaves is staying there, you fool.’

  ‘Have you’–I coughed and braced myself for the plunge–‘have you a Miss Hargreaves staying there?’

  There was a moment’s pause. Then: ‘I’m afraid Miss Hargreaves has just left–this afternoon, that is.’

  I turned to Henry and gave him the receiver.

  ‘Gone,’ I moaned. ‘You do it, Henry. I feel faint.’ Henry took the receiver.

  ‘Do you mind telling me–eh? What? Oh, yes? Yes. Do you mind telling me if she left any address? Certainly.’ (Pause. I watch three old wasps cruising round a bottle of oil. Happy creatures they seem to me.) ‘Letters to be forwarded to–where? Yes? Oh. Yes. Thank you. Oh, one thing more. When did she arrive at your hotel? Arrive–yes. Why? Important, yes; she is wanted rather urgently. Thanks. Tuesday? About seven in the evening? Thank you. Good-bye.’

  ‘Well?’ I said. (One of the wasps had got caught in the oil, foolish creature.)

  Henry looked at me and shook his head bewilderedly. ‘Something very funny’s going on.’ He looked a bit solemn.

  ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘She arrived last Tuesday evening. Keep calm, Norman; don’t fidget; it won’t help. Tuesday, you’ll remember, was our last evening in Ulster. She’s left Hereford. She asked for her post to be forwarded to–’ He paused.

  ‘Go on!’ I cried.

  ‘Thirty-eight London Road, Cornford. Care of Mr Norman Huntley.’

  I sat down on the high stool and stupidly looked at a map of the British Isles with a lot of flags in it.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m–well’–Henry lit another cigarette–‘I’m rather afraid
she’s gone to Bath.’

  I always blame Henry for plunging me deeper and deeper into this miserable business. It was at his advice that I agreed we’d tell my parents that we had actually met a Miss Hargreaves in Ireland. Henry said they’d never swallow the truth, and since she was certain not to turn up, that would probably be an end of it. The worst mistake I could have made, of course. I see now that I ought to have flatly denied all knowledge of her from the first. But there you are. Easy to be wise after, etc.

  We went round to number 38 when Henry had washed and changed his clothes. Mother pounced on him at once.

  ‘Now, Henry,’ she said, ‘perhaps you can tell us something about this friend of Norman’s. He seems to be extraordinarily muddled by it all.’

  ‘Oh, no muddle about it, Mrs Huntley,’ he said airily. ‘You see, this old trout–she’s a regular trout, isn’t she, Norman?’

  ‘Schubert knew a thing or two about trouts,’ said father. And he began to hum Die Forelle.

  ‘Oh, definitely!’ I said. I was so pleased; so certain that Henry, in his brilliant way, was dragging me out of a difficult fix.

  ‘We ran across her in an hotel at Dungannon. Norman picked up her stick which she’d dropped.’

  ‘She’s a bit crippled,’ I elaborated.

  ‘And then she started to talk. Talk? Is there gas in a gasometer? I never heard so much gas from a woman in my life.’

  ‘She’s very eccentric,’ I added.

  ‘Eccentric? Isn’t that an under-statement, Norman?’

  ‘Well–batty, if you like.’

  ‘Cuckoo–completely cuckoo,’ continued Henry. ‘Poor old dear! We were sorry for her at first. But that soon wore off. She’s a horrible old horror.’

  ‘So you see,’ I said eagerly, ‘just why I simply can’t have her here. For one thing, she wears the most awful hats.’

  ‘But why on earth did you ask her here?’ said Jim.

  ‘Oh, she asked herself,’ explained Henry. ‘Said she’d always wanted to hear the singing at the Cathedral–’

  ‘Actually asked if I could put her up,’ I added, ‘Of course, I never dreamt she’d really want to come. I think I said something vague, like I’m sure you’d be welcome.’

  ‘Plenty of beds,’ said father.

  ‘Then you wrote to her,’ said mother. ‘That was a bit silly, wasn’t it, if you didn’t want her to come?’

  ‘It was in answer to a letter of hers in which she asked me a lot of questions about the Cathedral music. She haunts cathedrals, you know, like some of the old things we’ve got here. I never invited her to come. Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘No,’ said Henry. ‘She asked herself. Complete with cockatoo and dog.’

  ‘And bath,’ I added.

  ‘And bath,’ agreed Henry.

  ‘And harp,’ I said rashly, in a peak moment.

  ‘Harp? ’ said mother and Jim together.

  ‘I like harps,’ said father. ‘Wrote some music for the harp once, but could never find a harpist to play it.’

  ‘You mean she plays the harp?’ said Jim.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Henry. ‘Regular wizard at it.’

  ‘She plays it last thing every night,’ I threw in. ‘It helps her to write her poetry. “Over the sea to Skye” is her favourite tune.’

  ‘Parrots are intelligent birds,’ said father. ‘Knew one once that could recite a Shakespeare sonnet. All except the last line.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said mother, ‘I certainly don’t want a harp and a parrot in the house.’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘That’s why I was so upset when you showed me her wire. I never dreamt she’d want to come.’

  ‘Did you ever hear of that parrot in the Andaman Islands?’ asked father. ‘A harp got washed up from a wreck. The Boston Philharmonic Orchestra had been travelling to Europe and they all went down–all except a harp and one cymbal. They never found the cymbal, but the harp got washed up, and several weeks later–who was that fellow?–some explorer, anyway, found this parrot strumming away an Andaman folk-tune on it. Unusual incident.’

  ‘I do think you’ve behaved rather funnily about this absurd woman,’ said mother. ‘Why couldn’t you tell us all this before?’

  ‘I don’t know. She muddled me somehow.’

  ‘Well, you’d better write to her at once and put her off. We can’t have a parrot and a dog in the house. Horace’d have a fit. (Horace is our cat.) Besides, you really must settle down to work after your holiday.’

  ‘She won’t turn up,’ said Henry. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Talking about baths,’ said father, ‘anyone seen my loofah?’

  Later that evening I sat in the Happy Union with Henry. Father was playing skittles in the handicap; a good many chaps were gathered round the board.

  ‘Wish we hadn’t made up that bit about the harp,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? It went down damn well.’

  ‘Everything goes down damn well, too well. I tell you, Henry, I feel frightened of making things up.’

  ‘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’.