Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  Next morning I was in the shop, upstairs, trying to locate a Liddell and Scott for a customer. I heard the door open downstairs, someone coming in. I heard the tapping of a stick. Quickly I went to the head of the stairs and listened.

  ‘Ah, Mr Huntley. I imagine we have met?’

  ‘Dare say. Hand me that pawn, will you? There, by your foot.’

  ‘I am Lady Hargreaves, Mr Huntley.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Play chess?’

  ‘Tolerably. But I came to talk of music.’

  ‘Ah, Music. Yes. H’m. Ah. Music? You like music?’

  ‘I could not say I like music, Mr Huntley. Music is air to me. Without it, I could not live.’

  ‘H’m. I feel just the same about food, so we’ve something in common. Oh, damn! I’m checking the wrong king again!’

  ‘The harp is my instrument.’

  ‘Oh? You’re the harper? Yes, I remember. Or do you call yourself a harpie? Fine! Heard you last night.’

  ‘And I heard you, Mr Huntley. Allow me to congratulate you on your playing. I am no mean judge.’

  ‘Thanks. Take a seat if you can find one. People generally use books. There’s the Britannica. You gave a recital in Bath, didn’t you. Or was it Wales?’

  ‘I have hardly reached the standard of a public recital, my dear Mr Huntley.’

  ‘Private one, perhaps?’

  ‘That is precisely what I have come to see you about. I am thinking of giving a small musical party at Lessways. I should very much like you to play the violin.’

  I could hardly believe my ears. After that letter to me–and everything. Music, then, had reconciled us. Was I glad? I didn’t know.

  ‘Good idea,’ said father. ‘We can do the Bach double D minor. You’d better practise it.’

  ‘But I play the harp.’

  ‘Oh, the harp. H’m. Yes.’

  ‘I had in mind a group of solos from you, Mr Huntley–to include a little composition of my own which I think you would interpret well. A Canzona inspired by a willow-wren.’

  ‘Queer birds. I remember one once that had hiccups. Yes–certainly. I’ll play my tune on the G string. Norman can accompany. Squeen, order a new G at once, you devil! Funny, Lady Harton, Squeen plays the fiddle too. Think it’d be the flute, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘All that looking sideways. Suits Squeen more.’

  ‘Well, then, I shall play some harp solos. As for the accompaniments to your pieces, including my Canzona, I will be responsible for those myself.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said father promptly. ‘Norman must play. Hi, Norman!’ He called out. ‘You there? Come down. Lady Harton wants you to play for her concert. We’re doing my tune. Where are you?’

  I sat tight and didn’t answer. I suppose it was eavesdropping, but what I always say is, if eaves are worth dropping you’re a fool if you don’t pick them up.

  ‘Unreliable fellow, my son,’ said father. ‘Never know where he is. Still, he’s a good musician. That’ll be all right. I’ll settle him for you.’

  There was a pause. I heard father murmur ‘check’. Then:

  ‘Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘let me be quite frank with you. I do not wish your son to play.’

  ‘Oh? Why? Thought you and he were as thick as thieves?’ ‘By no means! It is all a most painful subject. I had not wished to refer to it. But you compel me to.’

  ‘Go on. I’m listening. Check.’

  ‘As you know, Mr Huntley, your son had the good fortune to save my life. He was–I dislike saying it–grossly incompetent; I have no doubt I should have been out of hospital weeks earlier had he sent immediately for a skilled nurse. Still, it was kindly meant; we must not deny that. But a life saved, Mr Huntley, does not become the property of the saver! Oh, no!’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed father. ‘Quite right.’

  ‘I am very much afraid your son’s head was turned. Not content with pestering me in hospital, he actually invited me to stay at your house. Most foolishly, I accepted. I am a poet, as you no doubt know, Mr Huntley, and believing as I do that the seed of poesy cannot bear fruit in one soil alone, I have always endeavoured to vary my range of experience.’

  ‘Of course, you get the best fruit by sticking to the same soil. What fee are you offering, by the way?’

  Ignoring this, she continued, her voice rising passionately.

  ‘I come to Cornford. What do I find? What do I find? A welcome? By no means! A succession of insults? Precisely. Not from you! Oh, no! Or Mrs Huntley. I have no doubt we could all have been good friends or, at any rate, friends. But your son’s–’ Her voice broke in an angry sob. ‘I will not speak of it. I have no desire to speak ill of him.’

  ‘Let’s talk about something else,’ said father, which must have been very disappointing for her.

  But she went on. ‘One goes far afield for one’s inspirations, Mr Huntley. The true fount rarely springs from the hearth. The waters of Lethe, I should suppose, run more freely in the Thames than in a teacup.’

  ‘Have you seen our new teapot, by the way? It’s a new sort.’

  ‘Yet even there he sees fit to intrude, interrupting me with a crude call just as I am about to enter upon the fourth stanza of a poem that I was actually foolish enough to give to him. What has since happened I cannot talk about. It is too painful. It is, indeed, pitiful that a young and intelligent man should sink so low as he has. I hope I have said enough to make it quite clear to you that, with the best will in the world, it would be difficult for me to invite him to my home. I hope you understand, by the way, that I am inviting you to play in a professional capacity?’

  There was a long pause.

  Then: ‘What were you saying?’ asked father. ‘Oh–your concert. Oh, yes. When is it?’

  ‘A week to-day–if that allows you sufficient time. Perhaps you would care to call in this evening, when I will––– show you my Canzona and we can go through it. Come in to coffee at nine.’

  ‘All right. I’ll arrange a programme with Norman. You’ll like my tune. What fee did you say?’

  ‘Oh, I do not offer fees, Mr Huntley. If you will send in your account after the recital, I will see that it is dealt with.’

  ‘All right. I’ll send in Norman’s bill too.’

  (‘Bravo, father!’ I muttered to myself.)

  ‘Mr Huntley,’ said Lady Hargreaves coldly, ‘have I not made the position clear regarding your son?’

  ‘Oh, well, we’ll see about that later. You’d better let me have a copy of this Peacock Canon you keep talking about Norman and I can go through it. By the way, do you want a nice clean set of Beaumont and Fletcher, unbowdlerized? Go well in your shelves. I’ll read you a bit. It’s spicy stuff and–’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Huntley. Good afternoon. I shall expect you at nine.’

  The door closed; she had gone. I went downstairs.

  ‘That was good of you, Dad,’ I said. ‘But I’m damned if I’ll play for the old bitch.’

  ‘Oh. There you are. Did you find that Beardsley Morte d’Arthur?’

  ‘You don’t believe what she said about me, do you?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Lady Hurley. What did she say? I didn’t quite catch it all. We’re to go in for tea to-night at nine. Pity. I’ve got a skittle appointment.’

  ‘She doesn’t want me. Can’t you listen?’

  ‘We must get up a good programme,’ said father. ‘Might manage that Delius sonata. And I’ll play that thing of Svendsen’s. Old-fashioned, but I like it.’

  8

  ‘Idecide to have it out once and for all with C. H. “O Thou, the central orb.” Destructive thought destroys.’

  How vividly that entry from my diary recalls the afternoon of October the 26th! Lady Hargreaves sat in her usual place in the Close stalls. Archie Tallents had a solo in Gibbons’ anthem, ‘O Thou, the central orb’. I see him now, opening his large mouth and warbling his dulcet tones directly to her. It was always Archie’s habit to pick upon one parti
cular member of the congregation to sing to. He used to call it ‘the personal touch’. A shadow of a smile passed over Connie’s face. Yes, I reflected bitterly, if I were to sing to you like that you’d frown and report me to the Dean for irreverent behaviour. The conversation she had had with my father that morning seethed in my mind. It was the turning-point in my relations with her. Was it fair that she should attack me in this way? If father could play at her concert, why shouldn’t I? Could I go on for the rest of my life, or the rest of hers, silently suffering her insults? Destructive thought destroys . . . destructive thought destroys. To-day, I swore, we should see what destructive thought could really do. The moment had come to end it all. After Evensong I would go to Lessways and, once and for all, prove to her that I was still master. While Archie drooled blithely on and, outside, the west wind battered against the Cathedral walls, thoughts such as these surged madly in my mind.

  Evensong over, I tore off my cassock and walked quickly down the south aisle. Far ahead of me I saw her going out of the west door. I ran; I actually ran. It came back to me how, a short while ago, in this same building, she had been the pursuer, I the pursued; I began to understand what the psalmist meant when he complained about the iron entering into his soul. I don’t know whether iron’s ever entered into your soul, but I can tell you it’s pretty grisly.

  Her car drove off just as I went out of the west door. Hot on the scent I leapt on my bicycle and pedalled furiously to Lessways. She had arrived only a few moments ahead of me; the car was still standing outside the door. I rapped peremptorily on the door-knocker. Almost immediately a curtain to a small side-window in the porch was drawn aside. Lady Hargreaves looked out. For one second I met her eyes. Then the curtain was pulled back; I heard her steps receding to the back of the house. I waited. I knocked again.

  Austen, the chauffeur, came round the side of the house from the garage. I swung round, hearing his footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘Anything you want?’ he asked. He looked large and determined. Whatever I wanted, I could see I shouldn’t get it from that fellow.

  ‘I want Miss Hargreaves,’ I said. ‘At once.’ I tried to make my voice sound important.

  ‘There’s no such person as “Miss Hargreaves” here. Try farther down the road. And that’s a door-knocker, not a coal-hammer.’

  ‘Lady Hargreaves, then.’

  ‘Her ladyship is ’aving tea. In case you’re selling anything, we don’t want it. But her ladyship, with her customary kindness of ’eart, asked me to give you–’

  Furiously angry I dashed the half-crown out of his hand. For a moment Austen looked at me curiously, pursing up his lips as though he were considering the best thing to do.

  ‘I don’t want to ’it you,’ he said, ‘not a little fellow like you, I don’t. It isn’t in me to do it.’

  Now that made me really furious, because I’m not little. I’m five foot ten and a half if I’m an inch.

  ‘I won’t have any of your insolence,’ I snapped. ‘I’m here to see Lady Hargreaves, and if she won’t open the door I shall bang it down.’

  ‘Ho! So you’re going to be like that, are you? All right. I’ll go and phone for the police.’

  He turned and disappeared the way he had come. ‘Coward–’ I cried. ‘Coward–’ I ran after him a few steps. Then I stopped. If he did call the police I shouldn’t stand a ghostly chance.

  All right, I thought; all right. We’ll find another way. I went down the drive to my bicycle, propped up against the gate.

  Under the rhododendrons, glinting in the earth, I saw silver. I took my bike, wheeled it out into the road, hesitated, then came back. I didn’t see why I shouldn’t have the half-crown. After all, it was more mine than hers.

  Janie had laid tea. I sat down and cut myself some cake. An idea was simmering in my mind; rather a big idea, undeveloped as yet. As usual, it turned out to be quite mad, but I didn’t see that then. Ideas, as I dare say you’ve noticed, are very like eruptions with me; before I know where I am I’m wallowing in my own lava.

  So it was then. Gulping down some tea, I flew to the telephone and called Cornford 4277, the Lessways number. Another Spur of another perilous Moment.

  A maid answered, and I asked to speak to Lady Hargreaves. Who would it be speaking? For a moment I hesitated. Who would it be? Certainly not Norman Huntley. Then, plunging down from the Spur, I said in my most plangent voice, ‘This is the Dean.’ Would the Dean hold the line? He would. He did.

  A second later Connie’s voice floated cordially to my ears.

  ‘How nice of you to ring, my dear Dean! I was just sending you an invitation to a little musical party next week. I hope you will be able to come. Yes?’

  ‘Delighted,’ I murmured.

  ‘I have engaged a local musician for the occasion. A somewhat interesting–though eccentric–creature.’

  ‘Oh? Who is that, pray?’

  ‘One Huntley. A bookseller. I have always believed in encouraging the gifted amateur.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite!’

  ‘I understand he has a touch with the violin. By the way, Dean, now that I am talking of this man Huntley, I wonder if I may bother you with a matter that has given me considerable anxiety of late?’

  I paused. Should she bother the Dean?

  ‘By all means,’ I said. Janie came out from the kitchen with a plate of bread and butter. I waved her aside impatiently.

  ‘It is about’–continued Lady Hargreaves–‘this man’s son. He is being a very great nuisance to me, claiming a friendship with me solely because of an unfortunate accident which threw him across my path. What is one to do about such people, Dean?’

  (What was one to do?)

  ‘Shall I–’ I paused and coughed. ‘Shall I have a word with him?’

  ‘A most capital suggestion! But I would like to talk to you first. There is another matter, as well, rather more serious. May I look in to-morrow morning, after Matins?’

  Again I hesitated. Did I want her to come in after Matins? No! I saw at once what to do. The pit that she was digging for others she should fall into herself; bang down to the bottom.

  I said, ‘I was just about to call on you, as a matter of fact. That is why I rang. Would it be convenient? I wanted to discuss confidentially this difficult question of the hour for closing the Cathedral.’

  Beautiful bait. She took it almost ravenously.

  ‘Oh, splendid! By all means. Do come. Incidentally, this man Cornelius Huntley is coming in at nine. Perhaps we might talk to him about his son. We must be tactful. I abominate fuss.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite!’

  ‘Good-bye, then. Good-bye.’

  I rang off. For the first time I noticed Jim who was standing in the passage.

  ‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You sound like a rural dean with adenoids.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite!’ I muttered gloomily. Going upstairs, I shut myself in my room to think it all out.

  As usual, it was the sort of idea that on paper looked well; but when it came to actuality–no! I might manage to impersonate the Dean on the phone; I’ve always been good at altering my tones of voice. Anyway, a phone gives you confidence. But could I ever make myself up to look like him? It was possible. If I put a collar on back to front, wore some horn spectacles and a black hat, the maid who opened the door would probably admit me, at any rate. Once inside I could beard Connie, lock the doors if need be, and spend the whole evening hammering home the truth.

  Beard Connie? Beard her?

  I laughed. A more attractive, more dramatic idea came to me. A beard, even a false one, gets you anywhere; it might even get you past Austen, particularly if it was submitted to him that this was Canon Auty’s beard. In spite of the Canon’s well-known admiration for Lady Hargreaves, he had not yet made his call to Lessways. Lady Hargreaves, it was said, was waiting keenly for this occasion. Very good. Very good indeed. He should call that evening.

  I rushed to the theatri
cal chest on the landing. We’re mad on charades at number 38, and we store everything in this chest that might come in useful. A year ago I had acted Father Time in a New Year’s Eve sketch at a choristers’ party. Here was the cardboard scythe; the hour-glass. I shouldn’t want those; impatiently I rummaged down farther. At last the beard tucked away in a black felt hat which might almost have belonged to Canon Auty. I returned to my room, put on the beard and looked in the mirror. Hat, thick wool scarf, old dark overcoat of father’s. Magnificent–so long as I kept my hat on. Skull-cap? Yes! We had used them in a performance of the Boy Bishop. I rummaged again in the chest and found a purple one. Why not a cassock under overcoat? Yes! Canon Auty was known to have High Church leanings, and when you lean that way you always wear your cassock in the street. I went back to my room, locked– myself in, found some grease-paint, and began to get under the skin of the noble canon.

  There was a knock at the door. Mother called.

  ‘We’re going to the pictures, Norman. It’s Greta Garbo. Are you coming?’

  I adore Greta Garbo. It was a pity to miss her. Still–

  ‘Not to-night, mother.’

  ‘Whatever have you locked yourself in for?’

  ‘I’ve got a frightfully difficult bit of counterpoint to do for the doctor. I don’t want father interrupting.’

  ‘That’s a good boy. Don’t get cold. Put on the heater.’

  ‘All right, mother.’

  She went down. Ten minutes later I heard the front door close, saw from my window mother and Jim walking along the street. It was nearly eight now. The moment had come. Limping a little and bowing my shoulders I left the house, crossed the road, walked up the drive to Lessways, and tapped in an Autyish manner on the door. A pretty little Irish maid came. Seized with a fit of asthmatic coughing, I asked to see Lady Hargreaves. ‘What name would it be, sir?’ I fumbled impatiently for a card. Then, ‘Canon Auty,’ I said gruffly.

  ‘Will you wait a minute, sir? I’ll tell her ladyship you’re here.’