by Frank Baker
‘At Oakham station,’ we heard her saying, ‘we have such exquisitely pretty flowers. The station-master is quite an expert horticulturist. Oh, yes, indeed!’
‘Shall I have all your luggage put on a taxi, Mum?’
‘Just wait! Kindly stay! A moment. Accept this shilling, I beg of you. I am a trifle short-sighted, porter–oh, did I give you a halfpenny? Here you are, then. Can you see a young gentleman anywhere about? If so, no doubt but it would be my friend Mr Norman Huntley.’
I flopped weakly on to a chair.
‘Can’t see no one, Mum,’ I could hear the porter saying.
‘Then let us wait! Do not go. What a handsome train–what a most handsome train! I wrote a sonnet to a railway train once. In my lighter moments, porter; in my more exuberant moments. My Uncle Grosvenor was good enough to say it recalled Wordsworth to him. Do you read at all, porter? Tell me. Tell me frankly.’
‘Well, Mum, I do read a bit. Detective stories, y’know.’
‘Indeed! It has always interested me what do these detectives–detect ? And why? Quiet, Sarah–quiet–’ The Bedlington was yapping spitefully. ‘I am so interested, porter; I am interested in everything. Life, to me, cannot contain one dull moment. I do not believe in–but what is the matter, Sarah?’
Sarah was smelling me out; that was the matter with her. Tugging at her cord, she was doing her utmost to drag her mistress towards the refreshment room. They were only ten yards away from us now. Miss Hargreaves was scanning the platform through a pair of gold lorgnettes. I’d better try to describe her to you. She was very small, very slight, with a perky, innocent little face and alert, speedwell-blue eyes. Perched on top, right on top, of a hillock of snowy white hair: buttressed behind by a large fan-comb, studded by sequins and masted by long black pins, lay a speckled straw hat. Over a pale pink blouse with a high neck and lace cuffs, she was wearing a heathery tweed jacket; a skirt to match. Round her neck was a silver fur. Resting on one stick, she was holding the other, and the umbrella, on her arm; they were black ebony sticks with curved malacca handles.
I liked her expression. There was something mischievous and pensive, something very lonely, too, in the pursed-up lips and the fastidious little nose.
A feeling of pride stole over me. I couldn’t help it. She was perfect; absolutely perfect.
‘Henry,’ I murmured dreamily. ‘Pygmalion couldn’t have done better.’
He looked at me sharply.
‘Look here, Norman, do you know this old witch?’
I made the sort of mad reply you’d expect.
‘Should have known her anywhere. And please don’t call her a witch.’
Suddenly the Bedlington, frantic to make my acquaintance, broke from his cord and tore towards me. It was then I began to realize the awful danger of my position. If I acknowledged this old lady, even Henry would find it hard to believe I had actually never met her before.
‘For God’s sake, let’s get away,’ I muttered. ‘Quick! There’s still time.’
But there was not time. Miss Hargreaves had seen us. With a shrill, slightly coy cry, she tottered towards the refreshment room. From a luggage-truck, far down the platform, Dr Pepusch inspired, no doubt, by the immensity–of the occasion shrieked in a shrill tenor, ‘Were I laid–on Greenland’s coast, in my arms I’d hold my lass!’
I was face to face with my creation.
‘My dear, dear boy! How well you look! How brown! Oh, dear, oh, dear–! I am so excited. Hold me up, dear; hold me up! Porter, run and tell that silly old Dr Pepusch to be quiet–’
‘Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap–grrrrrrr–’
‘What shall I do with this ’ere bath, Mum?’
‘And I would love you all the day —’
‘Miss Hargreaves, I’m afraid you’re making some mistake. I –’
‘For God’s sake, Norman, don’t let her get away with it–’
‘You naughty boy, hiding there in the doorway to surprise me! Sarah knew you! Just listen to Dr Pepusch! What gaiety! What spontaneity! He knows. You can never deceive the animal-world. Can you believe there is not an after-life for the dear creatures? Can you?’
‘I tell you you’re making a mistake–’
‘Porter, do keep Dr Pepusch quiet. Look, here is a penny; run and buy him some chocolate, nut and fruit. Break it up for him. Norman, dear, give me your arm. I am quite exhausted. And who is this young man? Some friend?’
‘Over the hills and–over the hills and –over the Greenland coast–’
‘Dr Pepusch, stop that nonsense! Sarah, down doggie; down! Take her in your arms, Norman; she won’t bite–anyway, her teeth are old. Oh, dear, I am quite unable to remain calm at these moments of reunion. Have you ever considered, Norman, that a railway station is the scene of some of the most poignant moments in life? Yes? I can see you, too, are affected. Introduce me to your friend. Let us all sit in this dreadful refreshment room while the porter collects my luggage. Have you a taxi waiting for me? Yes?’
Speechless, I sat down at a marble table and faced the Woman I had Made Up on The Spur of the Moment.
Henry was doggedly sucking his pipe, and looking at both of us under his black brows. I think the old devil was enjoying the situation; he’s rather a hard-hearted brute at times.
Meanwhile, Miss Hargreaves talked. And when she talked there was no time for anyone else to get a word in.
‘You cannot imagine how I have looked forward to this moment, dear. And I can see you, too, have looked forward to it. Pleasure is written boldly all over your face.’
Henry laughed sardonically. I scowled.
‘It is such a very long time since we met; indeed, I cannot remember now when or where that was. My memory–alas!–works but spasmodically in this, the evening of my days. But what an evening! Oh, yes! It is no use disguising the fact; I am no longer young.’ She leant forward across the table, tapped me on the chest with a silver pencil suspended from a chain round her neck. ‘Eighty-three, Norman; eighty-three! Five reigns. And yet I feel as though I had been born last week! Youth’–she declaimed, touching her heart–‘lives here. Not alone hope but also youth springs eternal. Shall we partake of a touch of refreshment? It will be dreadful food, of course, but still Thank you, thank you! A little soda-water, perhaps one of those Chelsea buns. And who is this modest young gentleman who has never a word to say for himself?’
She whizzed round on Henry and examined him from tip to toe through her lorgnettes.
‘He reminds me’–she spoke to me in a loud aside–‘of my dear Archer. He, too, had the Byronic black hair, the beetle brows. Ah, me! Time flies. What happened sixty years ago is as clear as crystal; yet, what happened yesterday–gone, gone!’
I handed her a glass of soda-water and a bun.
‘Thank you, dear; thank you. But who is this young man?’
She did not seem to take to Henry somehow.
‘My friend,’ I said, ‘Henry Beddow.’
‘Beddow?’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘Beddow? Grosvenor once had a parlourmaid by the same name. By any chance–? No? So you are Norman’s friend? H’m. It follows, Mr Beddow, that you are my friend.’
I smirked. ‘Thanks very much,’ said Henry.
‘Ah, Mr Beddow! I wonder whether you can realize what Norman’s friendship means to an old thing like me? Can I compare his appearance in my latter days to a shaft of pure sunlight warming the frail timbers of some old barn? Fanciful imagery, maybe! You need not blush, my dear Norman; you need not blush.’
‘I should like to know,’ Henry got in suddenly, ‘just how long, Miss Hargreaves, you have known Norman?’
‘I tell you, Henry–’ I began weakly. But she was off again.
‘Oh–’ she waved her hand expressively. ‘Years! I cannot remember. You must never talk of time, Mr Beddow. I am an old lady and an old lady does not care to be reminded of time.’
‘H’m. I see.’ Henry rose and knocked out his pipe. ‘Well, I must be getting along. Very glad to ha
ve met you, Miss Hargreaves. I hope Norman’ll show you the sights of Cornford.’
‘Yes, yes, of course he will.’
It was unbearable, Henry’s foul desertion of me. I ran out of the refreshment room after him.
‘For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone with her,’ I pleaded.
‘Damn it, old boy,’ he said, ‘she’s your friend; not mine.’
‘You’re as responsible for her as I am.’
He stared at me wonderingly.
‘You surely don’t expect me to believe in that rubbish any longer, do you? Why, anyone could tell at once that she’s known you for years.’
‘That may be. But I haven’t known her for years.’
‘You said yourself you’d have known her anywhere.’
‘Yes–but that was–I meant–Oh, God!’
‘I’m going along to the dance now. I’ll tell Marjorie not to expect you.’
‘No–no–’ I cried.
‘Norman! Norman!’
Miss Hargreaves was standing in the doorway, calling me. Before I knew what I was doing, I had allowed myself to be led back into the refreshment room.
‘A nice young man,’ she remarked. ‘But I confess I am glad that he has gone. Now we can have a cosy little chat together, before we return to your dear parents’ house. Won’t you have a glass of beer, dear? I like to see you enjoying yourself. I have never been against a simple glass of beer. My uncle’s staff, the male members, that is, always had their own barrel of beer in the kitchen. I always think–’
As she continued to pour out her torrent of talk, the hideousness of the situation came home to me. I had accepted her. Over and over again I began to tell her that she was making some ghastly mistake; that I didn’t know her, that my letter had been a foolish joke. But the devil of it was I couldn’t convince myself. It seemed to me that I did know her. She never allowed me to say much, anyhow; always dismissed my remarks with a wave of the hands. Or else she completely ignored what I would begin to say. It was obvious that nobody in the world would believe I had never met her before; even father would find it hard to swallow. What was I to do? What would you have done? Run away, you say run away and left her there in the refreshment–room? What good would it have done? She would only have ordered a taxi and driven to my parents’ house; and that, at all costs, I was determined to avoid.
‘I am rested now,’ she said, not long after Henry had gone. ‘I am now fully prepared to meet your parents. Is it too much trouble to ask for a fire in my room? I am not fussy; I abominate fuss. Is there a south aspect to the room? I hope so. And tell me has the harp arrived?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The harp’s come. But I’m afraid, Miss Hargreaves–’
‘Call me Constance, dear, when we are alone; perhaps not before others, perhaps not. But when we are alone, relax, I beg you; behave naturally. What were you about to say? You are afraid that Dr Pepusch will keep your parents awake? Not at all. I play him asleep every night.’
‘Oh? You play him asleep? Really?’
‘Always. Eccentric, perhaps! But Orpheus achieved much with the lute and I in my small way do what I can with the harp.’
‘Oh, really? I call that topping! What I was going to say was I’m afraid, well, I’m rather afraid we shan’t be able to put you up.’
‘Put me up? What does that mean, dear? A touch of slang?’
‘Give you a room — well, I mean, you can’t stay with us!’
‘Oh.’
(Have you ever considered the word ‘oh’? Have you? How it is full of an infinite variety of meaning? How it can be at moments the most sinister-sounding word in the whole language? ‘Oh.’ In italics without an exclamation mark. ‘Oh.’ Like that.)
Her sweet smile dried. It did not suddenly vanish. It dried up on her face like a crack in a sweet old apple. Into her eyes fell a steely glint. For the first time I began to be conscious of a feeling of fear.
‘Mother is ill,’ I said hastily. ‘She’s got’–(what was infectious?)–‘scarlet fever,’ I added. ‘We have to be very careful.’
‘Scarlet fever?’
‘Well, not exactly scarlet; but fever, anyway. You never know, you know. She’s got an awful rash. I’ve made all arrangements for you to stay at the Swan. Best hotel in Cornford. Five stars. You’ll like it.’
‘But I feel sure I have had scarlet fever!’
‘You can have it again. Besides, it may be smallpox.’
‘Well–’she shrugged her shoulders displeasedly. ‘I suppose I must do as you suggest. But why should I not come and nurse your dear mother?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘She’s funny.’ I spoke in a lowered voice. ‘She’s difficult with strangers. In fact —’I touched my forehead and sighed. ‘There has always been,’ I added quietly, ‘a slight streak of–irregularity in our family.’
I hoped I might scare her away, you see.
‘So there is in mine,’ she said at once. A wild light came into her eyes. Like a flash the possible truth came home to me. She was an escaped lunatic. ‘Calm,’ I said; ‘be calm, Norman. You’ll have her in a strait-jacket in no time if you play your cards properly.’
‘That is why,’ she added, ‘I play the harp. Music hath charms, as Dr Pepusch will tell you. Let us go now, dear; I am tired of this place. Take me to this hotel.’
I rose. ‘Give me your arm, dear,’ she said. ‘Give me your arm.’ I gave her my arm–ungraciously, I am afraid. Together we walked on to the platform. Before us, on a goods-truck, towered a pile of luggage. Miss Hargreaves had obviously come prepared for a long stay. There were hat boxes, two massive black trunks stamped ‘H’, several smaller cases, a gladstone bag, a leather portfolio labelled ‘music’, three butterfly nets, a large hip-bath peering rudely through half-torn brown paper, and, on top of the lot, Dr Pepusch in his cage, still covered by the black cloth.
Miss Hargreaves surveyed her belongings thoughtfully. ‘Not quite so much this time.’
‘What are the nets for?’ I asked.
‘Butterflies.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Not that I ever catch any,’ she observed. ‘But still–one likes to be prepared for everything.’
(Had I made her a naturalist? I couldn’t remember.)
Slowly we ambled out into the yard, the porter dragging the luggage-truck behind us. I hailed a taxi.
‘Can’t take that there bath,’ said the taxi-driver, a lugubrious sort of fellow.
‘Always so tiresome about the bath,’ complained Miss Hargreaves petulantly. ‘After all, it is not a very big bath, is it?’
‘Can’t manage it with all this ’ere stuff as well,’ said the driver.
She tapped the ground impatiently with one of her sticks.
‘Well, well! Order another taxi. There is nothing to prevent our having two, is there?’ She turned to me. ‘These people are so lacking in imagination,’ she remarked.
After a lot of arranging and assembling, the two taxis drove off; Miss Hargreaves, myself, Sarah, Dr Pepusch and various small bags in one: the bath and the two large trunks in the other.
‘And now we will have a nice little supper,’ she said. She rubbed her hands together and smiled at me. I thought of the dance; Marjorie waiting for me, getting angrier and angrier, old Henry telling her all about Miss Hargreaves.
‘I’m afraid I can’t have supper with you,’ I said. ‘I really must get back to mother.’
‘How disappointing! I have travelled so far. You cannot leave me the moment we meet. It is cruel.’
‘It can’t be helped.’
‘It can be helped.’ Again that steely glint came into her eyes. ‘I insist that you stay. Surely your sister can look after your mother for a little while? Ah, I can see what is really in your mind, dear. After so tiring a journey you think that I should retire early. Dear Norman! So kind so thoughtful! How delightful Cornford is! Oh, that beautiful spire!’
We were coming through the North Gate into the Close.
‘I’m sure you are,’ I said wretchedly.
Just as we drew up to the Deanery, the Dean came out of his front door and stood under the arches saying goodbye to some friends. Miss Hargreaves fumbled quickly for her lorgnettes.
‘The Dean?’ she murmured. I nodded. She tapped on the window. ‘Stop a moment,’ she commanded. ‘I must have a word with him.’
‘Not now–please, not now,’ I begged.
But already she was getting out of the car and walking quite briskly towards the group under the Deanery arches. Surprised, the Dean looked up. I heard her talking.
‘My dear Mr Dean, pray excuse me. But on the privilege of my first visit to your Cathedral town, I feel that I must make myself known to you.’ She handed him a card which the Dean could not very well avoid taking.
‘My Uncle Grosvenor had a great attachment to Cornford,’ she added.
‘Oh? Indeed?’ said the Dean. He turned pointedly to his friends. ‘Well, good-bye, good-bye. Yes, we must certainly do something about those frescoes. Good-bye.’
‘Sing unto the Lord! Sing unto the Lord!’
I jumped aside nervously, wondering for the moment who had shrieked out the harsh notes. It was, of course, that damn cockatoo. Miss Hargreaves laughed gaily.
‘What is that?’ asked the Dean.
‘Oh, it is only Dr Pepusch,’ she explained. The Dean glared over to the taxi and now noticed me. I slunk back trying to make myself invisible.
‘Is that you, Huntley?’ he snapped. ‘Was that you crying out?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Dean. Not me, not at all. I–’
‘Well, good night to you,’ said the Dean coldly. He turned, walked under the arches and shut his door loudly. Miss Hargreaves came back to the taxi and got in.
‘Sing unto the Lord!’ croaked Dr Pepusch, more in a minor key this time. It was funny, but that bird was never so certain of himself when Miss Hargreaves was near by.
‘Yes, dear; yes,’ she said indulgently. ‘So you shall sing unto Him. He’–she addressed me–‘he is so proud of his Venite. He has not got it quite right yet. I taught it to him while we were at Hereford. The chant is by Samuel Wesley. I only hope that he understands what it means. I like you, Dean; a fine, scholarly, upstanding clergyman. He was Balliol, was he not? I hope he is not a modernist.’