Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  And though He’s a bountiful giver,

  He turned a deaf ear to the mind that aspires

  To sport all the night on the river.’

  ‘Is it blasphemous, do you think?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I trust not. I have always had a very high regard for my Maker.’

  ‘Who is your Maker, that’s what I want to know!’ I said.

  ‘What did you say, dear? Speak up! Speak up!’

  ‘No. This isn’t time for talking. You must come home at once.’

  ‘How extraordinarily prosaic you are! Alone on the river “night with her train of stars”–Henley, dear; the poet; not the place–alone, you and me–and you must talk of going home. Fie! Come and sit in my boat. If you must pursue me, at least you need not be unsociable.’

  ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re moored to the bank!’

  ‘Am I? Possibly. I attempted to engage the oars, but they are such clumsy things. I let them go.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Hargreaves!’ I cried, ‘you’re really too bad! There’ll be an awful row about this if anyone finds us. Do come into this boat at once and let’s get home somehow.’

  Her boat was moored, I had now seen for the first time, to a tree stump at the bottom of the orchard.

  ‘I can’t understand how on earth you got here,’ I said.

  ‘Got here? Really–it is so many hours ago. How can I be expected to remember everything? In any case, I see no reason why I should account to you for all my movements.’

  ‘All right,’ I said hastily. ‘You needn’t get huffy. Read your poem again.’

  I knew that would pacify her. Miss Hargreaves never could resist reading her poems. When she had finished her second reading she tore the pages out of the book, wrote her name at the bottom and gave them to me.

  ‘Keep it, dear,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it is not my best effort. Not, I fear, on the high level of the verses in Wayside Bundle. But no matter. A poet cannot always roam on Parnassus.’

  ‘Jolly true,’ I agreed. ‘Personally, I like this poem. It seems so–well, so much from your heart.’

  ‘All my poems,’ she said, ‘emerge to the world directly from my heart. They always have and they always will.’

  ‘Quite. But this–well, you know, it’s packed with experience. Why, one would almost think from reading it that you had actually been a swan.’

  ‘That is precisely what it is meant to convey. Pavlova was a close personal friend of mine.’

  I was silent for some moments. Then I made another attempt to get her into my boat. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Take my hand. Be careful. We must get home.’

  But she would not stir. ‘Do you remember the Serpentine, dear?’ she said. ‘How luscious those strawberries were! How I wish we could partake of some such refreshment now. But, alas–’ Then she suddenly pointed to the apple trees. ‘But look! The forbidden fruit! It is Providence, dear. Providence!’

  ‘When you get home,’ I said uneasily, ‘Mrs Beedle’ll make you a nice cup of tea and boil you an egg.’

  ‘We could light a fire,’ she mused. ‘There are plenty of sticks. Possibly we could roast the fruit. Raw apples lie none too easily within me. Get into my boat, dear. Pull on the rope. You will soon draw us into the bank.’

  ‘If you talk like this,’ I cried, ‘I shall go away and leave you here.’

  ‘Do!’ she said coldly. ‘What do I care? I have the stars. I can look at the fruit. No doubt I shall die of cold. But no matter–no matter. Connie Hargreaves has ceased to interest you, that is quite clear. Leave me. Go!’

  She shivered petulantly and drew her fur more closely round her neck. Of course, I couldn’t leave her. I decided it was best to humour her; to land on the bank, perhaps eat an apple or two, then find our way through the garden somehow to the road. I only hoped we shouldn’t wake anybody in the house.

  I clambered into her boat with some difficulty and pulled it into the bank, mooring the other boat to the same tree stump.

  ‘Ah!’ she said warmly. She took my hand and stepped nimbly on to the bank. ‘Ah! Apples now!’ She rubbed her hands together almost avariciously. ‘Get my sticks, dear. And now you must light a fire. It is quite simple. I abominate fuss. Let an adventure have more spice in it than dough. An old Norwegian proverb, dear. Light me a fire and I will do anything you wish. Yes, anything!’

  ‘You mean that?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Most certainly. Anything within my power.’

  ‘Then,’ I said, ‘oblige me by getting rid of that hat.’

  There was an awkward pause. Suddenly she wrenched it from her head and flung it into the river.

  ‘You are right,’ she said. ‘It was a mistake. It was a little too low in the crown.’

  ‘Oh, my bag!’ she exclaimed. ‘Please get it out of the boat, dear. There is nothing of any value in it–except to me. My diary–a little miniature of Mr Archer–Agatha’s licence–trivial things, but precious to me. Thank you, dear, thank you.’

  She was shivering a little; her hair was blowing about in the wind.

  ‘Perhaps you would lend me the coloured handkerchief from your breast pocket,’ she said. I gave it to her and she wound it round her head, tying it at the back. It was queer how completely it changed her appearance.

  ‘You look like a gipsy,’ I said.

  ‘Ah!’ She wagged a diverting finger at me. ‘What blood, I wonder, flows in my veins? One never knows, dear; one never quite knows. But these are indelicate topics. Come come–what about this fire. Look sharp. This wretched dawn will be here before very long. How feelingly one echoes Swinburne’s complaint–“Ah, God! Ah, God! that dawn should come so soon!” I have never approved of the particular circumstances which drove the poet to resent the dawn, but I entirely endorse the sentiment. Give me a cigarette.’

  I gave her one and, seeing there was no way out of it, began gathering sticks to light a fire.

  ‘These are moments to be remembered, Norman,’ she said. ‘Let us not waste them in soft thoughts of bed and blankets. Be sturdy. Be different. Pick me an apple.’

  ‘Damn you!’ I muttered, crouching over my sticks and striking a match. ‘Damn you!’

  But I picked her the apple. In spite of my annoyance, I realized I was half enjoying this adventure.

  ‘Did you–have any trouble with the traffic to-day?’ I asked. (Supposing, I was arguing, I had managed to turn her into a swan? It was quite possible that she herself had never realized the change.)

  ‘Trouble?’ she echoed. ‘Oh, I might have done.’ She shrugged her shoulders. It was easy to see how easily she would have shrugged wings. ‘I might have done. It is really so long ago, I cannot remember. Oh, yes! I stopped to do up my shoe-lace and I seem to recollect a lot of motor-horns sounding. A rude sound. Most offensive!’

  ‘H’m,’ I said thoughtfully. I snapped some sticks with my foot. They were damp and wouldn’t catch. ‘I supposed you don’t remember seeing the Dean, do you?’ I asked.

  ‘The Dean? Possibly. But why are you asking me all these questions? I cannot understand you.’

  I said nothing. The clock up at Cliveden struck four; far away I heard the chimes of the Cathedral. Something else I could hear too; footsteps crackling the twigs in the orchard.

  ‘Listen!’ I whispered. ‘Somebody’s coming!’

  ‘Well? What of it? As I was saying, many a time Marie Corelli said to me how–’

  A light was suddenly flashed in our eyes. A deep voice said, ‘May I ask what you imagine you’re doing here?’

  It wasn’t at all an easy question to answer. If I had it in an examination, I don’t suppose I should be able to fill up both sides of the paper. Miss Hargreaves, however, seemed to find it simple.

  ‘By all means,’ she said crisply. ‘You are certainly at liberty to ask.’

  A man came through the trees, flashing his torch down on my twigs. ‘Damned impertinence!’ he muttered. ‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘I am asking what you imagine you’re doing here. And I sho
uld like an answer.’

  ‘We’re trying to–that is, we’re lighting a fire,’ I said feebly. ‘But the twigs are rather damp.’

  ‘And eating,’ added Miss Hargreaves, ‘your excellent apples. A superb flavour, if I may say so. Do you use any special manure in the soil?’

  ‘I can see perfectly well what you’re both doing.’

  ‘Then,’ remarked Miss Hargreaves rationally, ‘why ask? I imagine, my good sir, that what you really desire to know is why we are doing what we are doing? Is not that so?’

  The fellow grunted. I could see now that he was a very tall, square-shouldered chap, with a rather sallow face, a flattened boxer’s nose. He was wearing a dark, close-fitting overcoat; it seemed to me to fit a little too closely.

  ‘I don’t know who the hell you both are–’ he began.

  But Miss Hargreaves cut in on him. If there was one thing she could never tolerate, it was loose language. Dropping the apple as though it had been a live coal, she rose from the felled tree she had been sitting on, and addressed me. ‘Norman, we will go now. Get the boat ready.’ She opened her bag and fumbled about for some money. ‘Perhaps,’ she said to the chap, ‘you will be good enough to tell me the price of your fruit. I have consumed half an apple. Incidentally, I have also used your boat and lost your absurd oars. Kindly name a price.’

  ‘Well, that’s cool!’ said the fellow. I thought he seemed quite disposed to be friendly, so I spoke quickly before Miss Hargreaves should say any more.

  ‘We’re awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘The truth is, Lady Hargreaves and I were–’

  Immediately he looked at Miss Hargreaves with considerably more interest. Wonderful what tricks you can work with a title.

  ‘Lady Hargreaves?’ he said.

  I nudged her.

  ‘Precisely,’ she said, playing up magnificently. ‘I have, unfortunately, no card upon me. Why are you nudging me, Mr Huntley? Is anything amiss?’

  (Oh, bravo, bravo! I said to myself.)

  ‘Well, come inside,’ said the chap. ‘Perhaps you’d like some refreshment. I don’t know what on earth you’re both doing here, but anyhow, it’s warmer in the house.’

  I didn’t, of course, want to go. But it was kind of him to ask us and hard to know how to refuse. So we followed him up through the orchard and across the lawn.

  ‘I’m Major Wynne,’ he said carelessly, over his shoulder. ‘What do you think of my house? Rather good, eh?’

  Miss Hargreaves swept a glance at it through her lorgnettes. ‘H’m,’ she said. ‘I think you should cut back that Virginia creeper. And these yews want clipping. This tulip tree is sprawling, positively sprawling, Major. But perhaps you prefer them to sprawl. How many gardeners do you keep?’

  ‘Oh, I do most of it myself.’

  ‘Indeed! I suppose that is rather the modern habit, is it not?’

  We followed the Major through some french windows that opened into a drawing-room. Switching on the light, he quickly whipped some dust-sheets from the chairs and invited us to sit.

  ‘Sorry the place is covered up,’ he said. ‘Fact is, servants all away house is really closed up. I came down unexpectedly–from London on business and thought I might as well picnic here for the night. I only use the place in the summer, of course. Wife in Italy.’

  ‘Bordighera, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. Now, what’ll you drink, Lady Hargreaves?’

  ‘I suppose you have gin?’

  I stared at her. Drinking gin? It was the last thing I would have expected.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the Major. Miss Hargreaves sat down on a sofa. ‘Dear me!’ she exclaimed. ‘How pleasant it is to rest. I see you have one of these electric heaters. Detestable things, but they have their uses. Can you switch it on? These autumn nights are a little chilly.’

  ‘Oh, certainly.’ The Major turned the switch with his foot. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the drinks.’

  He went out. Miss Hargreaves, after having surveyed the room rather disdainfully, held her hands out to the heater. ‘You did that jolly well!’ I said to her.

  She stared at me displeasedly. ‘Did what jolly well?’

  ‘That Lady Hargreaves business. Rather a good idea of mine, wasn’t it? I thought it would impress him.’

  To this remark she vouchsafed no reply except a cold stare which rather puzzled me. While we waited I examined the room. It was very comfortably furnished. Chairs of a deep strawberry shade; carpet a pale rose; walls, white. The furniture was ‘modern antique’, heavy stuff with synthetic worm-holes. There were a lot of unread-looking books in fine bindings and one or two dim oil paintings–the sort that are ‘reputed to be by Canaletto’. It wasn’t an original room. But it was warm and inviting.

  I yawned. I was dead tired now. ‘What are we going to say to the Major?’ I asked her.

  ‘I don’t see that there is any need to say anything.’

  Major Wynne came in, carrying a tray with bottles and glasses on it. Miss Hargreaves accepted gin and soda; the Major and I drank whisky. Presently, when we were all settled, the Major turned rather apologetically to Miss Hargreaves.

  ‘I’m afraid I was a little short with you just now,’ he said.

  ‘No matter. No doubt it was a little surprising for you.’

  ‘Lost your way, or something?’

  ‘More or less,’ she said airily. She pointed over to the books in the bookcase. ‘You admire Meredith?’

  ‘Eh? Who’s Meredith?’

  The Major followed the direction of her finger. ‘Oh–books! No. Afraid I don’t read much.’

  Miss Hargreaves smiled, sipped her gin, and waved her silver pencil at the Major. ‘A man of action, eh, Major?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he agreed. ‘Do you live in this neighbourhood, by the way?’

  She crumbled a water biscuit thoughtfully. ‘My uncle,’ she said to him, ‘once had property here. Cliveden, you know. A pleasant little place. But that was years ago. The river became too popular, Major Bin, far too popular. I am at present residing at Cornford.’

  ‘Oh? Well, hope we may see more of each other.’

  ‘My circle’–she snapped a piece of biscuit sharply in two ‘is small. Most of my old friends have crossed the bar. I detest people of low family, Major Bin; I positively detest people of low family.’

  Uttering this remark with the most marked venom, she popped the piece of biscuit into her mouth and carefully wiped her fingers on her handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, quite!’ said the Major quickly. For a man who’d had a blow below the belt he behaved rather well, I thought. ‘So do I. So many bally rotters about nowadays, what? Never know where you are with people.’

  There was a long and rather awkward silence. I felt my eyes nodding. I could see that Miss Hargreaves, too, was very tired. Presently the Major rose, collected the glasses, and went towards the door.

  ‘Would you care to stay the night?’ he suggested. ‘It’s rather late to get anywhere else now. You’re welcome, if you wish.’

  Miss Hargreaves nodded sleepily.

  ‘A capital suggestion,’ she murmured. ‘Five blankets. And put a glass between the sheets to see they are properly aired. I like water–Vichy, if you have it–and a Bible by the bed. Authorized Version. Mr Huntley, please see to everything.’ Her eyes were drooping; already she was nearly–asleep. ‘Three pillows,’ we heard her say, ‘and buttered eggs at ten. I hope the water is soft.’

  ‘Don’t you bother,’ I said to the Major. ‘Anything will do.’

  ‘Anything will certainly not do,’ snapped Miss Hargreaves, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘Well, I’ll go and see to the beds,’ said the Major. ‘I suppose,’ he said to me, ‘you’re her chauffeur, or something, aren’t you?’

  Before I could deny it he had left the room.

  I woke with a start. Over the misty river the autumn sun was streaming into the room. Blackbirds and thrushes were singing. A cherubic gilt clock on the m
antelpiece struck a quarter to seven.

  At first I couldn’t place my surroundings. Then I saw Miss Hargreaves curled up peacefully asleep in her chair and all the wild events of yesterday rushed back to me with what they call sickening reality.

  I rose, stretched, and wandered to the window. I remembered suddenly that it was one of the mornings when I was supposed to be at the Cathedral to play the organ. I remembered also that there was an early bus from Cookham to Cornford at seven-ten. If we hurried there would be just time to catch it.

  It was queer that the Major had never come back. Or perhaps he had, and finding us both asleep, had decided to leave us. My whole instinct was to leave the house without seeing him again; but it didn’t seem right. After all, he’d been very decent to us. It was up to me to thank him, at any rate, and try to offer some sort of explanation.

  Without waking Miss Hargreaves (let sleeping dogs lie, I thought), I went upstairs, thinking I’d try to find the Major’s room. There were three doors on the landing. I opened each one gently, but the rooms were empty, all the furniture covered up as it had been downstairs last night. I tried another wing; the attics; then downstairs smoking room, dining-room, boudoir. But it was no good. There wasn’t a soul but us two in the house.

  ‘Extraordinary thing!’ I said. But I couldn’t pretend. I was sorry. It simplified matters, the Major not being there. It meant I should be spared trying to explain our trespassing in his orchard.

  I returned to the drawing-room and found Miss Hargreaves standing by the open bookcase, turning over a volume of Jorrocks.

  ‘Major Wynne isn’t here,’ I said. ‘We’d better scoot pretty quick. We can catch a bus if we hurry.’

  ‘Why this ridiculous hurry? Is there no morning tea?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be absurd!’

  Without making any reply she walked over to a chair, sat down, and started to read.

  ‘Come along,’ I cried impatiently. ‘We’ve only just time to catch the ’bus.’

  ‘Bus? I am not accustomed to travelling in buses. Ring a garage and order a car–a large one. I cannot bear being cramped. Do it at once. I abominate–’