by Frank Baker
‘That’s a–’ Mother paused, then smiled and spoke. ‘That’s a very original hat, Miss Hargreaves.’
‘You like it?’
‘Well–’ Mother pursed up her lips thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I think it suits you, really. Not everyone could wear it, of course.’
‘I made it myself, Mrs Huntley. It is Lapland beaver.’
Marjorie giggled.
‘Really?’ said mother. ‘Lapland beaver! Well, fancy!’
‘Hats,’ remarked Miss Hargreaves, ‘were getting so abysmally dull. I felt a gesture had to be made to the world. Of course, you will understand’–her voice sank reverently–‘while dear Agatha was alive, it was not possible for me to appear in anything but the most sober apparel. But now that she rests–we hope – in peace, I do feel I am more free to express my true nature.’
There was a moment’s silence. Everybody was wondering, of course, who Agatha was; nobody liked to ask.
‘So,’ continued Miss Hargreaves, ‘I feel the time has come for me to strike a new note in the harmony of the trivial round. You girls are not going to have all the fun! Oh, no! The hat–of course–is a mere symbol–worthy enough, I trust, to be flung over the windmill, if there are any windmills left in the modern world.’
‘You can always tell a person by their hat,’ said Marjorie rather spitefully.
Miss Hargreaves looked her up and down in one second, from tip to toe. It was like the look she had given Henry on the night of her arrival, as though she were weighing the value of an object offered for sale at an auction. A devastating look. Marjorie coloured.
‘Precisely!’ remarked Miss Hargreaves. ‘I abominate the commonplace!’
She walked rather stiffly to the hall. I followed her uneasily. ‘Good-bye, my dear Mrs Huntley,’ she said, ‘and you, dear Miss Huntley. So you are called Jim? How quaint! A family version of Jemima, I presume. Yes? No? Goodbye. Good-bye!’
She ignored Marjorie. As I opened the door for her she said to me, loudly enough for the others to hear, ‘Is there something wrong with that poor girl’s finger-nails, dear? I noticed they were a most extraordinary colour.’
It was a rapturously beautiful night. By the gate she stopped and pointed with her stick up to the sky.
‘The Seven Stars and Orion!’ she declaimed. ‘I feel I could seek Him who made them. But not in one of these dreadful aeroplanes. No! Balloons for me!’
‘What–did–you say?’
‘Balloons, dear! Balloons!’
‘What made you think of balloons, especially?’
‘How can I tell, dear? A floating thought. No more.’
Uneasily I suggested calling a taxi, thanking God there wasn’t such a thing as a balloon-rank. ‘It’s too far for you to walk,’ I said.
‘No, dear! I prefer to walk on such a night. Give me your arm.’
Slowly we crossed the road. Here, again, she stopped, right under the board which announced that Lessways, ‘this highly desirable property’, was for sale. Little did I realize how dangerous a place it was to stop at.
Pensively she looked up to the starry sky.
‘We are breath from the mouth of God,’ she stated. ‘For a time we remain anchored in the harbour of this little planet, but somewhere, beyond the starry oceans, lies our true home. Do you not sometimes feel you could sail there, dear?’
‘You can go if you like,’ I said brusquely.
‘Shall we,’ she continued, ‘like the beautiful picture of Lord Leighton–a distant connection of mine, by the way–together twine heavenwards? Ah, me! What would I not give to shatter this sorry scheme of things and–’
Instead of shattering the sorry scheme, she shattered, with her stick, in a histrionic gesture, the agent’s board above her.
‘What is that?’ she snapped. ‘What hit my stick?’
‘You hit the board.’
‘What board?’ She turned, looked up at it and read, in the light of the street lamp, ‘This highly desirable property for sale’.
‘Oh, I must take a note of the agent’s name!’ she cried. Out came the little ivory diary. ‘Dictate to me, dear!’
I did so, never guessing what would be the consequences. I was glad to find anything to distract her mind from heavenly excursions. ‘H. Carver & Co., Larkin Street, Cornford,’ I read.
‘And now’–she snapped her diary sharply into her bag, and grabbed my arm tightly–‘let us proceed. Do not hurry, dear; do not hurry.’
Ashamed to be seen with her–frankly I admit it–I avoided the High Street and led her by many side streets towards Canticle Alley. Over and over again she would stop, treating me to a long semi-metaphysical discourse. Once she stopped in Dome Place where some urchins were playing marbles.
‘Ah!’ She pointed over to them. ‘The working classes at play. How very charming!’
‘Hi, Alf !’ I heard a shout. ‘Got your catapult?’
‘Come on,’ I muttered, almost dragging her along, ‘otherwise these brats will get difficult.’
‘Let them, dear. Let them! Why not?’
A marble whizzed past her hat, missing it by one inch. Four ragged pairs of legs went scuttling round a corner; four heads popped out by the shelter of a faggots-and-peas shop.
‘Dear me!’ she murmured, mildly surprised. ‘Did somebody throw something?’
‘Yes, a marble. Come on. I shan’t be responsible for your safety if you insist on standing here.’
After the longest and most tiring walk in my life we reached her lodgings, one of the stucco houses in Canticle Alley where every other window displays a notice ‘room to let’. She made me go in with her. She had taken two rooms, a sitting-room and a bedroom. It was very dowdy and close and smelt rather of stale food.
‘A dreadful place!’ she said. ‘But there are times, Norman, when I like to taste the dregs of life. I was perhaps too strictly brought up. I remember, even as a small child, I was constantly finding my way into Grosvenor’s stables. All my life I have been too restricted, Norman. Now that Agatha is dead, I mean to sow what has long been unsown. It is a little withered, perhaps; but it is still an oat.’
‘I shouldn’t if I were you,’ I said. I jumped back. Sarah had flopped down from a chair and was scratching ambiguously at my legs. ‘Down, doggie, down!’ I kicked the brute furtively; I always have loathed dogs who sniff and scratch at your legs.
‘Where’s Dr Pepusch?’ I asked.
‘Oh, in my bedroom. He always stays by my bed. You must come in and say good night to him.’
‘No, thanks. I must be going now.’
‘I would ask you to play to me, dear. But the piano–I see it is a Wade and Meggitt–is really only fit for firewood.’
She took off her hat and rang the bell for her landlady, Mrs Beedle. Then she sat down by the fire and warmed her hands while Sarah cowered defensively at her feet, showing her teeth at me. ‘I wonder,’ murmured Miss Hargreaves pensively, ‘why my mind turns upon balloons?’
‘I shouldn’t think of things like that,’ I said uneasily, edging back to the door.
‘Those dreadful finger-nails!’ she murmured. And louder, ‘Who was that young woman, dear? No friend of yours, I hope?’
This was too much for me. I left the house without saying good-bye to her. The rest of the evening I spent alone in the Happy Union, drinking tastelessly. I was filled with foreboding.
6
IHAD splinted a broken leg in Blackwell’s bookshop; I had sported about in the Serpentine with an elderly lady. The stories with variations (some of them indelicate)–were soon buzzing round Cornford. I did not attempt–to deny them. What was the good? Mother, after her first suspicions, fully believed both tales and was embarrassingly sympathetic towards me. She also liked Miss Hargreaves far more than I had supposed she would.
‘Whatever you may say about her,’ she was arguing with Jim, ‘she does wear that hat well. I call that an accomplishment.’
‘But, mother, it’s a fantastic hat!’
; ‘Of course it is. But Miss Hargreaves is a fantastic person. You know, I can’t help liking her. Of course, I can easily understand how difficult it must be for you, Norman dear. I think one would get quite fond of her, and yet never want to set eyes on her again.’
‘That’s exactly how I feel,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Jim, ‘I think she was an impossibly rude old woman. Look at the way she talked about poor Marjorie!’
‘As for that,’ said mother, ‘I absolutely agree with her. I can’t bear these painted finger-nails and I’ve always told Marjorie so.’
I went to the Cathedral with a low heart the following morning. I fully expected her to be there. But for some reason she didn’t turn up; neither did I see her all that day. I kept well clear of Canticle Alley, of course. Every minute I expected I should bump into her somewhere; but I didn’t. Had she chartered a balloon and floated away to her home beyond the stars? Who knew?
It was early-closing day and happened also to be a plain day at the Cathedral. Marjorie and I had arranged to spend the afternoon on the river perhaps the last trip we should get that season. I rather doubted whether she’d come with me after what had happened last night. (Marjorie hates being criticized.) So I went round to Beddow’s in the morning to see if I could borrow Henry’s two-seater, instead of having to take the bus to Cookham as we generally do. I knew Marjorie wouldn’t find it easy to resist a drive in the car; she’s mad about driving.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Connie’s back!’
‘Good God! No?’
Apparently Henry had heard nothing about yesterday. I told him everything. To my annoyance he was very critical about the new stories Miss Hargreaves and I had made up. (I don’t mind telling you I was awfully pleased with those stories. Who wouldn’t be?)
‘You’ve only got yourself to blame,’ said Henry, ‘if you will go on making up these mad yarns.’
‘But, Henry what the devil was I to do?’
‘You should have sat quiet and said nothing at all.’
‘With mother pumping me all the time and Connie glowering at me from her chair. Yes, I should like to have seen you sit quiet.’
‘The truth is,’ said Henry, ‘you just can’t resist taking people in.’
I was furious with him for that; furious because it was true.
‘It’s all very well for you,’ I said, ‘but you’re not plagued by her as I am. I don’t see why you should be.’
This was a deliberate threat. Henry knew it. I saw him go quite white at the thought of it.
‘Well, old boy, I’m sorry, I really am. But to tell you the honest truth, I’m downright sick of the whole queer business. Don’t get mad with me, now! Whatever happens, I’m going to hold my tongue from now on.’
‘If you’d held your tongue from the beginning, we might not be in this fix.’
‘I’m not in a fix,’ he said truthfully. Which made me damned angry. It seemed so unfair. Why shouldn’t he be in a fix too?
‘I shall turn her on to you,’ I said. I left the garage so fed up with him that I forgot to ask him to lend me the car. However, I phoned him later and he was quite nice about it; said I could have it as long as I liked.
Friday, September the thirtieth. Another dreadfully memorable day. Turning back to my diary I find this cryptic entry: ‘Swans in tall hats.’ Means nothing whatever to you, does it? Wish it meant nothing to me. Or rather, I wish I knew what it did mean.
It was another beautiful day and ordinarily I should have been looking forward to our trip on the river. But I couldn’t. I felt something unpleasant was going to happen.
Parking the car at the Ferry-Boat Inn I chose a punt from Cooper’s boat-house and we set off down the river.
‘We’re very quiet, aren’t we?’ I said.
‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’ she agreed, looking up from her novel. I extricated my pole from some weeds and for about ten minutes we sailed smoothly down towards the lock. I didn’t know what to say. So I waited to see if she’d say anything. It was a lovely day, the sun mellowed in the faintly misty sky, the great banks of trees round Cliveden House turning to a rich gold. A lovely day, but rather a sad one. A long way away somebody was ringing the six little tubular bells of little Hedsor church; I don’t know why they were ringing, but to me it sounded like a farewell to summer. Bells are like that; they cry a vale, never an ave. We passed hardly any other boats. Floating on the water were hundreds and hundreds of dead willow leaves; they, and the six little bells, made me think of all the hundreds of days and millions of minutes of my life that I couldn’t account for. I got so melancholy that I knew there was only one thing to do.
‘I think I shall swim,’ I said.
‘Do,’ said Marjorie. If I’d have said ‘drown’ I think she’d have still said ‘do’.
We entered the lock, the only boat to go in, and while we waited I lit a cigarette.
‘Good book?’ I asked.
‘Very.’
‘Who’s it by?’
‘Oh, I don’t know! What’s it matter?’
‘Of course it matters. I can’t understand you saying a thing like that, Marjorie.’
‘I can only remember the titles of books.’
‘Titles! As though they were anything!’
‘Oh, do be quiet!’
‘You’re very good company to-day,’ I said bitterly. It’s always the way. Whenever I get depressed I quarrel with somebody; then I feel better.
‘I just happen to be interested in my book,’ she said.
‘Well, I think you might be interested in me. A fellow expects a girl to say something when he sweats away with a pole all the afternoon.’
She laid down her book rather deliberately. ‘You know perfectly well what’s on my mind,’ she said. ‘If anyone talks about it–you only fly into a rage.’
‘Well, go on. Risk that. Better than sulking.’
‘Wait till we’re through the lock.’
If you’ve got anything to say, it might as well be said in a lock as out of it, I thought. However, I waited, prepared for the worst. As soon as we were through the gates I coaxed the punt into the bank, laid down the pole and turned firmly to Marjorie.
‘Now,’ I said. It’s a word I know how to use.
Again she put down her book and looked at me straightly. ‘I don’t believe that story about you meeting Miss Hargreaves in Blackwell’s shop,’ she said. ‘I should like you to tell me the truth, Norman.’
I was silent for a long time. ‘If I were to tell you the truth,’ I said, ‘you’d simply say I was mad.’
‘Then it was a lie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, tell me the real truth then, Norman. It’s rotten, the way you’re going on; absolutely rotten.’
‘Look here, Marjorie,’ I said earnestly, ‘I know my behaviour must have seemed funny, but if you’d gone through what I had, you wouldn’t criticize. You’d be glad of a friend. I tell you I’m doomed–I’m cursed.’
‘That hat!’ she sniffed. ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if she didn’t make you look so ridiculous. Everybody in Cornford’s talking about you. And who is she to talk about me in the way she did?’
‘If I do tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, will you try to believe me?’
‘I shall do what I like with my own finger-nails,’ muttered Marjorie.
‘Oh, damn your finger-nails!’ I cried. ‘Sorry, darling–didn’t mean that. They’re lovely finger-nails–glorious!’
‘You do still love me, don’t you, Norman?’
‘Darling, I–’ I kissed her. They always believe you when you kiss them. ‘I wish all this had never happened,’ I said.
‘Darling, you talk as though it was something awful.’
‘It is awful.’ I told her everything then, from Lush church onwards.
‘Henry’ll tell you the same,’ I said. ‘He’s as mystified as I am.’
For a long time she was silent, and I couldn’t tell whether she believed me o
r not. It was very calm and cool there and I felt happier now I’d got it all off my chest. After all, she is a topping girl, really; it would be awful to lose her, I told myself. She’s got such grace, such poise. I looked at her in her white dress and compared her to a swan who sailed up near us. Of course, she hadn’t got such a long neck, or anything like that, but she had the same sort of dignity.
‘The awful thing is,’ I added presently, ‘everything I now make up about the wretched woman comes true.’
‘You mean–like Blackwell’s shop and the Serpentine–and–’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you really make those tales up, Norman?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘But she talked about it too. When you were out of the room she said how noble you’d been to her how she would never have lived if it hadn’t been for your quickness. Although I couldn’t bear the old thing, I couldn’t help being proud of you.’
‘But you said, just now, you didn’t believe those stories.’
‘It wasn’t true. Of course I believed them. I said I didn’t believe them because I felt certain something must have happened between you and Miss Hargreaves which you were hiding from us. I thought if I said I didn’t believe all that, you might get angry and blurt out the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth, Marjorie.’
‘But–Norman darling–if you really can invent things which come true, why don’t you simply get rid of her?’
‘Do you hate her as much as that?’
‘Don’t you?’
I evaded this. ‘I did try to get rid of her,’ I said. ‘I told you. I sat under the table and willed her away. She went.’
‘And came back.’
‘I wanted her back. It was my fault. I didn’t really believe she’d gone for good. I tell you what, Marjorie; I reckon that if I could really bring myself to believe she didn’t exist well, she wouldn’t exist. But that’s damned hard when you see her sitting in the Bishop’s Throne with a fifteen-inch hat. Isn’t it?’
