Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  ‘What about the Duke of Grosvenor?’ she asked. ‘There is such a title, isn’t there? I thought they used to live at Cliveden.’

  ‘Yes, they used to–about a century ago. That’s probably what brought the name into my head. But I think the title’s extinct now. I believe there’s a branch of the family in Ireland somewhere.’

  ‘Couldn’t you find out from them whether Miss Hargreaves is–’

  I grew impatient. ‘What’s the good?’ I snapped irritably. ‘The more I try to find out about her, the more tied up I’m bound to get. Henry wanted to go to Oakham. I said no. Can’t you see how dangerous it would be? Why, for all I know, I might actually have created a Duke of Grosvenor. And Agatha look at that! She’s dead. But there’s a corpse somewhere which I’m responsible for. And I don’t even know what sort of corpse.’

  Marjorie shuddered. ‘It’s horrible,’ she said. She withdrew from me a little, I noticed. ‘If you can really do these extraordinary tricks,’ she said, ‘why don’t you try something big?’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Yes.’ Marjorie smiled. ‘You might turn her into that swan, for example.’

  ‘I see,’ I said bitterly. ‘You don’t believe a word.’

  ‘I haven’t said so.’

  ‘Turn her into a swan! It’s an absolutely mad idea! Besides, think how damned uncomfortable it’d be for her.’ Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, you say you invented her. If you turned her into a swan, I might begin to believe you.’

  She smiled at me mockingly. It was obvious that she didn’t believe a single word I’d told her. If I could do it, I thought; if I could really turn Miss Hargreaves into that swan, Marjorie would simply have to believe me then; nobody would ever doubt my word again. The immensity of the job frightened me. Suppose I tried? Or–would it be better to try to turn the swan into Miss Hargreaves–so that Marjorie would really have her evidence at once? No. Because if I succeeded in doing that, we should have her here floating about in the river, making an awful nuisance of herself. Besides, she might not be able to swim. Hargreaves into swan was the trick.

  . . . It was done. In my mind, I mean. Almost before I could argue the wisdom of it, I heard myself muttering with terrific intensity, ‘Miss Hargreaves turn into that swan; Miss Hargreaves, turn into that swan. Don’t dare to disobey me. Turn into that swan and no more nonsense. Don’t come here, either. Change somewhere else.’

  ‘What’s that you’re saying?’ asked Marjorie.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said quietly. I held on to the side of the boat, feeling a bit queer.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter with you?’ she cried. ‘You’ve gone white, Norman darling. What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?’

  ‘I feel sick,’ I said, in that lumpy sort of way in which you speak when you feel you’re going to be sick.

  She drew away hurriedly. ‘Lean over the side,’ she advised. ‘Shall I thump you on the back–?’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t talk. I shall be all right in a minute–’

  It passed. I was staring at the swan. Nothing whatever had happened. The swan floated gracefully away from us, disappearing regally round a bend in the river. I had been mad to imagine I could ever do it. But the effort had given me a turn. Funny how the brain works on the body like that.

  ‘Better now,’ I said.

  ‘What on earth came over you? Something you ate?’

  ‘I tried to turn Miss Hargreaves into a swan. It tired me.’

  ‘You needn’t be funny, Norman.’

  ‘I’m not being funny. I tried to do what you suggested. And it tired me. Damn it all!’ I cried, getting suddenly angry–with her. ‘Damn it all! Turning old ladies into swans isn’t easy work. You try it yourself.’

  She looked at me very queerly and didn’t say any more.

  I swam presently. Slithering about under water I got back some of my composure. I don’t know about you, but I can always believe in myself more under the water. The fact that I haven’t got fins yet can still go on living with several gallons of that watery stuff above me, always gives me confidence in myself. Lately, I’d begun to doubt a good many things. Whether life wasn’t one long dream: whether dreams weren’t really life: whether I actually existed. Under water, I knew, at any rate, that I existed; I knew that because I knew that if I stayed there much longer I should cease to exist. Funny way of proving it, but it is proof.

  I came up, spluttered, and looked about me. Immediately I doubted everything again. Miss Hargreaves–was she real? I’d seen her eat. But was the food real? Damn it all–this was a pure nightmare! I swam quickly down to the bed of the river again. Suppose she died? Then I should know she had existed. Well, suppose I killed her? I might be hanged. Didn’t want that to happen. The parents wouldn’t like it. Marjorie would get into the papers. No. Suppose, with all the power I was capable of, I willed her for ever away? It could never be done unless I could convince myself that she wasn’t real. Had I believed in her when I had first brought her to life? Yes, firmly; she had grown more and more with every fresh thing I made up about her. Could I compel myself to behave as though she wasn’t alive? Henry and I had tried that; and it had broken down.

  A sentence of father’s came back to me. ‘Like me, you can’t be bothered to control what you create.’ Suppose–the dreadful possibility lurched into my mind–she were to control me?

  My lungs were bursting for air. I shot to the surface just in time.

  On our way back to Cookham I finally challenged Marjorie.

  ‘You might as well admit it, you don’t believe me.’

  ‘No, darling, I don’t. I’m sorry. How can I?’

  ‘Well, whether you believe me or not,’ I said, ‘I don’t see why you should allow her to come between us. She’s done you no harm.’

  ‘She’s made you the laughing-stock of Cornford.’

  ‘I don’t care. Let them laugh. Miss Hargreaves is original, anyway.’ I laughed ironically; but Marjorie didn’t see my point. ‘You’re simply jealous,’ I told her, ‘that’s all it is. Jealous of an old lady of eighty-three!’

  ‘I don’t know the meaning of the word “jealous”.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I dug about with my pole. I was angry with her now. It did seem to me that people ought to try to see, at least, how remarkable Miss Hargreaves was. ‘Jealous,’ I went on, ‘because she’s got style, and you haven’t.’

  ‘Oh. I haven’t got style? I see.’

  ‘There are hundreds like you. But there’s only one Miss Hargreaves. You ought to be proud to know her. She’s out of the rut. You ought to be proud to know me. It isn’t everybody could do what I’ve done.’

  ‘Look out for that pole, you idiot!’

  ‘Oh–sorry!’ I said to a beetroot-faced old gentleman in a motor-boat, who’d somehow got in the way of my pole.

  ‘Another thing,’ I continued, ‘Miss Hargreaves has got a mind. Thinking that the authors of books don’t matter! Huh!’

  ‘You needn’t say any more. This is the end.’

  ‘Amen,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not a man.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a magician.’

  Marjorie suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh, you beast!’ she sobbed. ‘You horrid beast! Saying I’ve got no style when everybody knows I’m the best-dressed girl in Cornford. Even Jim admits that. You beast–you horrid beast!’

  ‘Oh, God!’ I groaned. ‘Don’t cry! I’m awfully sorry. You’ve got tons of style. You’re marvellous. You’re grand. Miss Hargreaves doesn’t come in it.’

  ‘Give her up–never see her again. Then I’ll know you love me.’

  ‘I wish I could, darling.’

  ‘Well, why can’t you?’

  ‘She won’t let me,’ I said. We didn’t speak another word.

  I dropped in to see Archie Tallents early that evening. He was in the dark-room when I arrived at his studio and he asked me to wait. When he came out a few minutes later he was holding a plate up to
the light and looking at it. ‘Just a minute, dear,’ he said. Resting the plate on a dish, he went over to the telephone.

  ‘Is that the Cornford Mercury?’ he asked presently. He continued: ‘I’ve got a nice picture of old Jezebel. Yes, got it this afternoon. Any use to you? All right. Send your boy round for it in half an hour. Good-bye.’

  He rang off. ‘Always carry a camera with you,’ he said to me. ‘Never know what you might see. Look at that.’

  He showed me the negative. It was a group of people in Disraeli Square, some on the pavement, some in the middle of the road. A long line of traffic was held up and a policeman was poking at something with a stick.

  ‘Can’t quite make it out,’ I said. ‘Somebody run over or something? Oh, yes–I can recognize the Dean. He seems to be backing away from my God!’ I held the plate against my sleeve in order to see it more clearly. ‘This isn’t a swan, is it?’

  Archie nodded. ‘That’s Jezebel,’ he said. ‘The oldest royal swan on the river, so they say. She always was a spiteful one.’ I began to feel a little faint.

  ‘Will you open a window, Archie?’ I asked. ‘Bit close in here.’

  He opened the window for me. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’

  ‘Nothing, Archie. I’m all right. Tell me about this Jezebel. What time did she turn up in the Square?’

  ‘About four. Dear old canary came waddling out of Canticle Alley–’

  ‘Did you say Canticle Alley?’ I asked faintly.

  ‘Canticle Alley, I said. She stopped in the middle of the road, by the traffic lights, as you can see. The policeman got a little huffy. So did Jezebel. She seemed to want to lay an egg or something. The Dean went for her with his umbrella. Most undeanly.’

  ‘Did they catch her?’

  ‘Catch Jezebel? Not likely! They had to turn the fire-hose on her.’

  ‘Fire-hose? Good God! She’ll catch cold.’

  ‘Is this fowl a friend of yours, Norman?’

  ‘She–Never mind. Go on.’

  ‘Well, she toddled away after that. Back to the river.’

  ‘I suppose, Archie, you’re quite sure it was Jezebel? I mean–there wasn’t anything unusual about the bird, was there?’

  ‘Unusual? Jezebel’s a very unusual sort of bird. Very old bird.’

  ‘Yes. A very old bird.’ I agreed. I turned to the door. ‘Well, so long, Archie,’ I said. I felt I couldn’t talk to him now. Something had to be done at once.

  I rushed straight round to Canticle Alley and knocked at Mrs Beedle’s door. Mrs Beedle came herself.

  ‘Is Miss Hargreaves in?’ I asked. I was shaking so much I could hardly talk.

  ‘No, sir. She went out this afternoon and she ain’t come back yet.’

  ‘Oh. Do you know where she went?’

  ‘Over the hills and far away’ croaked Dr Pepusch bitterly from a room upstairs.

  ‘Drat that there bird!’ exclaimed Mrs Beedle. ‘ ’Uman, I calls that bird, simply ’uman. Miss ’Argreaves, she goes to the river. “Mrs Beedle,” she says to me, “I feels like a blow on the river.” Those was her words, her very words, Mr ’Untley. “What!” I says. “You go on the river, Mum! Well, just you mind you don’t catch a chill, then.” Because she’s the sort that do catch a chill, Mr ’Untley, and go off sudden.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I know, Mrs Beedle.’

  ‘ “There are times,” she says to me, grave-like, “times there be, Mrs Beedle, when I am driv willy-nilly to do things as don’t proper become a lady of my years.” Willy-nilly–they was her very words. And she puts on her ’at, the one like a chimney-pot, and off she goes.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes, I see.’ I felt numbed.

  ‘She’s a very funny lady, ain’t she now?’ said Mrs Beedle. ‘Last night, look, you wouldn’t believe her, her ’eart were set on a balloon, nothing but a balloon it must be. Well, look, my little girl got a balloon or two, see, so I blows one up–took a lot of breath it did and I’m ashmatical too–and I gives it to her. “There,” I says, “there’s a balloon, Ma’am.” But she says, “That ain’t no good to me, Mrs Beedle. It’s a real balloon I want.” And she looks kind of wistful-like. She affect me, sir.’

  ‘Affects you? Oh. Does she?’

  ‘Affect me, she do. I don’t believe she’s got a friend in the world except you. She think the world of you. She tell me how you saved her life. Lonely-like, she is. Of course, she do wear odd ’ats, but look–’

  I suddenly came to my senses. ‘What time did she go out?’ I snapped.

  ‘Well, it would have been about four, Mr ’Untley, yes, about four, because look, the wireless was playing that minuet what they call it and–’ ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Good evening.’

  ‘They go off sudden,’ shouted Mrs Beedle after me. ‘The nights is damp and she’ll catch ’er death. They go off sudden.’

  I reeled out into Disraeli Square, Mrs Beedle’s gloomy words ringing in my ears. It was time for me to go home to supper, but I knew I shouldn’t be able to eat anything. A drink was what I wanted. I turned towards the Swan. The very sight of the great golden bird with his wings outspread above the doorway made me feel sick. A coincidence. I muttered to myself over and over again; a coincidence. It must be, it must be, it must be. A picture soared into my mind: the picture of a swan in a balloon sailing away into the clouds, over the hills and far away as Dr Pepusch had prophesied. ‘God!’ I said aloud. ‘No balloons–please. Whatever else has to happen, let there be no balloon. Change back, dear Miss Hargreaves; change back at once. Wherever you are now, change back to your proper self.’

  I was staggering up St James’ Street, making for Henry’s house and hardly knowing what direction I was taking. I felt giddy and sick; I felt as useless as a pin without a head; I felt drunk with the knowledge of power that terrified me; I felt afraid.

  I knocked at Henry’s door. ‘Damn fool,’ I muttered to myself. ‘There’s nothing in it. It can’t be true. Coincidence coincidence coincidence–’

  He was having a late tea; deeply immersed in a book propped up on the teapot. I flopped down by the fire.

  ‘Half a mo,’ said Henry. ‘Just finish this chapter. Most extraordinary story about a stockbroker who fell in love with his wife’s boots.’

  ‘Thanks for offering me tea,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, old boy.’ He poured some out and gave it to me. ‘Been wenching on the Thames?’ he asked presently. I nodded blankly. I felt unable to talk.

  ‘Bit late in the year,’ he observed, lighting his pipe and sitting in an armchair opposite me. ‘Had a good time?’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Made it up with Marjorie, I hope?’

  ‘No. Made it worse.’

  ‘Oh? I hope you’re not throwing her over in favour of Connie.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be surprised at anything. Or rather, no–’ I added hastily. ‘I am not throwing her over in favour of Connie.’

  ‘How is the old fowl?’

  I groaned. ‘Need you call her a fowl, Henry?’

  ‘Well–hen, then.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday. I believe she’s changed a bit.’

  ‘Oh? Dyed her hair, or something?’

  ‘No. She’s gone–rather white.’

  ‘White?’

  ‘Yes. White. And her neck’s a bit stiff.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Henry glanced at me rather strangely. Then he walked up and down the room in an uneasy sort of way, jabbing the stem of his pipe in the nape of his neck. You could tell he was thinking hard.

  ‘Look here, old boy,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an idea about you.’

  ‘Have you? That’s nice. Want me to see a doctor, I suppose.’

  ‘No. Not a doctor. This psycho-analyst fellow. I think you might see him.’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  Henry took up the book he had been reading. ‘Fellow who wrote this,’ he said. ‘Marvellous book! I’ve found out a whole lot about myself I never knew
before.’

  ‘Why–do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

  ‘You never know. You’re looking rather peeky. And you’re growing extraordinarily absent-minded.’

  ‘I never had much of a mind to be absent, Henry.’

  ‘Well, it might as well be present, whatever it is.’

  ‘Wonder if I could work her into a flea?’ I mused, half to myself.

  ‘What?’ said Henry.

  ‘Flea. I should have her under control more. I don’t suppose a flea could hold up a line of traffic.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Norman?’

  ‘Oh nothing. Let’s have a look at that book.’

  It was a green book, with a long list of contents under several sub-headings. It was called The New and the Old Self, and it was by a Doctor Birinus Hals-Gruber. I opened it at random and read a bit. There was a lot about the Sesame Impulse and the Agamemnon-Reflex which made, as they say, fascinating reading. But I couldn’t relate Miss Hargreaves to any of it.

  ‘It mightn’t be a bad plan,’ suggested Henry, ‘if you took Connie and had her psychoed too. You’d probably find she ogled you in your pram centuries ago.’

  ‘You can take her, if you like.’

  ‘Not me. No, thank you, old boy. Anyway, I’ve got a feeling that Connie doesn’t much care for me.’

  ‘You’re damn lucky.’

  ‘Well, what about it? He might help you. There’s no getting away from the fact, Norman, you’re up against something that we can’t understand at all. And, after all, these fellows know more about minds and subconsciousnesses and what-not than I know about cars or you know about organs.’

  ‘I don’t know, Henry. I don’t much believe in them. I tell you–’ A sudden idea came to me. ‘I tell you who might help.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Father Toule.’

  ‘What? That comic little R.C. with a face like an egg?’

  ‘I reckon he’d understand this sort of thing somehow. It’s–well, it’s a miracle, and Roman Catholics know more about miracles than most people.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the Dean? He’s a kind old bird. He’d listen.’

  ‘Yes. And think I was mad. Father Toule wouldn’t think that.’