Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  We left the Close through Princes’ Gate, drove up Canticle Alley and thus came into the High Street. In a few minutes we should be at the Swan. By now the other taxi had disappeared ahead of us.

  Quite suddenly, out of the void of my half-fearful gloom a mad and wild idea lurched into my head; a burst of my old inventiveness, tempting me on to destruction. Another leap on to the ever-tempting Spur.

  ‘And how is Agatha?’ I asked.

  (I suppose you understand that I hadn’t the slightest idea who Agatha was? No good asking me why I do things like that. I’m made that way, as I told you earlier.)

  ‘Sinking!’ she replied promptly. ‘Rapidly sinking!’

  For the moment I was silenced; almost appalled by the immediate and totally unexpected response to my question.

  ‘Tch! Tch!’ I clicked sympathetically. ‘But still,’ I added gravely, ‘it was bound to come, sooner or later.’

  ‘Yes. We all sink, sooner or later. The bar must be crossed by all.’

  ‘Does she suffer?’ I asked. (I was now enjoying it.)

  ‘Cruelly.’

  ‘You will miss her.’

  Miss Hargreaves touched her eyes with a fine lace handkerchief.

  ‘Yes, indeed, I shall miss her–almost as much as I miss poor Seraphica Archer. I expect a telegram at any moment to say she has passed. I cannot pretend I shall be sorry. Protracted suffering is hard to understand. But it will be an old–a very old tie severed.’

  ‘You will find it distressing,’ I ventured, ‘to return to Oakham without her.’

  ‘I shall not return,’ she said simply.

  ‘Oh? You–will not return?’

  ‘No. I am closing Sable Lodge. I shall live in Cornford.’

  ‘Oh.’ I relapsed into an awful gloom.

  ‘You, dear’–she turned to me, touched my arm and smiled what the novelists call a ‘brave’ smile–‘you, dear, will have to take Agatha’s place.’

  The Swan is one of those old-fashioned, vast, rambling hotels where neither the food nor the service are particularly good. But it’s so old-fashioned, and has been patronized by so many clergymen, that nobody has ever dared to criticize it. Miss Hargreaves, however, did not find it entirely to her liking.

  We were standing in the hall, surrounded by her luggage. Mr Stiles, the manager, a rather pompous fellow (I remember he was dressed in staggering plus-fours that evening), was holding forth on the question of birds. Miss Hargreaves took very little notice of him; through her lorgnettes she was carefully examining some ancient oak panelling.

  ‘We don’t really reckon to take birds,’ said Mr Stiles. ‘And then there’s the question of this bath–we’re very well fitted up here, you know; hot and cold water in every–’

  ‘What does he say?’ Miss Hargreaves asked me.

  ‘He says they’ve got hot and cold water in every–’

  ‘I dare say–I dare say.’ Miss Hargreaves acidly tapped the panelling with her stick. ‘But the question of the bath is one upon which I am not prepared to enter into controversy.’

  She bent down and rapped the panelling with her knuckles.

  ‘Worm!’ she exclaimed to me. ‘I knew it! It really is shocking how people treat these priceless old things. Norman, perhaps we can find another hotel–’

  ‘Of course,’ began Mr Stiles, ‘I’m ready to make a concession. Our terms are–’

  Miss Hargreaves whipped round on him. ‘My good man, will you stop talking and send the manager to me at once?’

  ‘But–I am the manager.’

  ‘You! The manager ? Good heavens! How things are changing!’

  ‘You’ve got Miss Hargreaves’ room ready, haven’t you?’ I asked quickly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Huntley. But the parrot–I’m rather afraid the other guests will–’

  ‘You have a wooden swan over your front door,’ snapped Miss Hargreaves, ‘and you have the insolence to talk disparagingly of a live and well-educated cockatoo even referring to it as a parrot. Scandalous! Monstrous!’

  I caught Mr Stiles’ eye. ‘Come here,’ I whispered. He followed me down into the passage that leads through into the kitchens.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t put her off,’ I begged. ‘I don’t want to have to search the town for other rooms. She’ll pay you well. Humour her a little and she’ll pay whatever you ask.’

  ‘I don’t want to turn anyone away from the Swan,’ he said. ‘But really–if she’s not satisfied with–’

  ‘She’s a niece of the Duke of Grosvenor, by the way.’

  ‘Oh! Really?’ Mr Stiles seemed more interested in her. ‘Well, of course, I suppose–’ He went back to the hall. ‘I dare say everything’ll be all right, Madam,’ he said to her.

  ‘I trust it will be, manager. I trust so.’

  ‘You won’t object to a small charge for the animals?’

  ‘I am accustomed to that. Poor Agatha,’ she said to me, ‘always cost me an extra half-crown a day, wherever I travelled.’

  ‘Really?’ I nibbled my fingers nervously. Was this damned Agatha a cat or a dog or a guinea-pig? Or an armadillo? ‘I suppose she ate a good deal?’ I ventured.

  ‘Prodigiously!’ She took my arm. ‘And now, let us view my apartment.’ Preceded by half the staff, we trooped slowly upstairs. Every now and again Miss Hargreaves stopped on the fine staircase to point out defects in the furnishing.

  ‘Holes in the carpet, you observe, Norman. Oh’–she shuddered and pointed to a vile green glass vase standing in a large window-sill on the half-landing–‘what an appalling thing! Have people no taste?’ She turned round and addressed Mr Stiles. ‘I would like to buy that.’ She pointed to it with her stick.

  ‘Oh, indeed, Madam? It isn’t usual, of course. But–’

  ‘Will you accept ten shillings?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I–’

  ‘Here you are. Have it sent up to my room at once.’ She handed him a note, which he took with rather obvious eagerness. ‘Wait,’ she said. Fumbling in her bag she found another note, a pound this time, and gave that to him also. ‘For the staff,’ she snapped. ‘I am not fussy. I abominate fuss. But I expect service.’

  Eventually we came to room number 14, a large room looking out over the yard at the back of the house. Miss Hargreaves went straight to the window and peered out. A page-boy set down the bath and waited; a porter struggled through the door with one of the trunks; two chambermaids set down various smaller articles. Meanwhile, Sarah did the tour of the furniture legs.

  We all waited. Finally, Miss Hargreaves left the window and came to the centre of the room. ‘This will not do,’ she said. ‘I must overlook the main street or a garden, if you have such a thing. I am not accustomed to overlooking stables. And a fire must be lit; several cans of hot not boiling–water brought up.’

  Mr Stiles sighed.

  ‘I’ve got one room overlooking the street,’ he said.

  ‘Then let us examine it.’

  We all trooped out again, except Sarah, who had found a comfortable home in the pink eiderdown on the bed. The other room, smaller but quite pleasantly furnished, seemed to satisfy Miss Hargreaves.

  ‘But Sarah,’ she remarked, ‘clearly prefers the other bed. You will please have it moved in here while I am having supper. I abominate fuss.’

  This was too much for Mr Stiles.

  ‘Really, Madam, I can’t go having beds moved for dogs to sleep on.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There was a dead silence. She stared at him slowly, up and down. A blush, the colour of the poor man’s suit, flooded his usually colourless features.

  ‘Did I understand you to say–’ began Miss Hargreaves.

  Mr Stiles held his ground. ‘I don’t move beds for dogs,’ he said.

  ‘Very well. Return me my pound, if you please. Norman, get a taxi. We will have to–’

  ‘Look here,’ I said desperately. ‘Why not bring the eiderdown from the bed in number 14? That’s what Sarah’s taken a fancy to.’
/>
  Miss Hargreaves nodded. ‘Possibly. Fetch it,’ she said to one of the maids. ‘And be careful you do not disturb Sarah. Carry her in it. Be most careful.’

  The crisis had passed. Sarah was brought in, curled up in the eiderdown, one eye winking at her mistress as much as to say ‘we’ve won again’.

  ‘And now,’ said Miss Hargreaves, ‘when I have changed my clothes, we will have a little light supper.’ With a wave of her hand she dismissed everybody from the room.

  ‘Oh, this vase!’ she cried. The page-boy had put it on the dressing-table. ‘Take it, Norman. Take it!’

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’

  ‘Oh, break it, break it, dear. Not here. Take it away somewhere; but do not let me see it again. What an abominably rude fellow that manager is! Why does he wear those clothes? What are they called? I believe they have a special name.’

  ‘Plus-fours.’

  ‘Indeed? Plus-fours! Well! Go along now, dear–go–oh, the harp! Where is it?’

  ‘Downstairs, I think. I’ll have it sent up.’

  ‘Do. I cannot get along without my harp. Wait for me in the dining-room.’

  I went downstairs, foolishly carrying the hideous vase. ‘Here,’ I said savagely to a waiter, ‘hide this thing somewhere. And have Miss Hargreaves’ harp sent up to her room.’

  I waited in the dining-room.

  Why did I wait? Curiosity? A sense of predestined doom? Mere laziness? I don’t know. I could have skipped it. Yet there I sat, looking at the horrible marble clock on the mantelpiece (warriors with tridents sparring on the top of it) and thinking of the dance I ought to be at, imagining Marjorie’s anger and all the explanations I should have to make up later on.

  About nine-fifteen Miss Hargreaves came into the room and we sat down at a table near the window. Nobody else was there, for which I was grateful. She had changed her clothes and was now wearing a purple silk gown with a lot of lace about it.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘to food!’ She studied the menu for a few seconds, then threw it impatiently aside. ‘Hopeless!’ she said. A young waiter hung near us. ‘Bring us,’ she ordered, ‘a little light supper. Nothing much. Clear soup, perhaps, with a few asparagus tops thrown in at the last moment. A little fish–I prefer mullet, red mullet, of course.’ She changed her mind. ‘No. It is not, I imagine, in season. Whitebait, then. They must be cooked rapidly. No garnishing. I abominate fuss. Have you any Dunstable larks? Yes? No? Tch! Tch! Then a woodcock. And some fresh figs; I should very much like some fresh figs. I do not care for cheese unless you have Wensleydale. Then we will have coffee; I have brought my own. Ask the maid who unpacks to bring it down. Have you a mill here?’

  ‘Mill?’ stammered the waiter.

  ‘Yes, yes! Mill. For the beans.’

  ‘I’ll ask in the kitchen, Ma’am.’

  ‘Do. And Mr Huntley would like some beer; Norman, order what you are accustomed to.’

  I ordered a pint of old.

  ‘Pint of old’ The waiter sighed with relief and made a note of it. ‘We can’t do you anything but cold beef and pickles now, Ma’am.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cold beef and pickles.’

  ‘How exquisite those putti are!’ she exclaimed, pointing up to some plaster cherubs which adorned the centre of the ceiling. ‘Such innocence–yet such guile! What are you waiting for?’ she said to the waiter.

  ‘I said we only had cold beef and pickles, Ma’am. Dinner’s off, see?’

  ‘Pickles? What pickles?’

  ‘Very good brand, Ma’am. Highly favoured by our patrons.’

  ‘Highly flavoured by your patrons–I do not understand.’

  ‘Favoured,’ I shouted, ‘not flavoured.’

  ‘Nothing but cold beef and highly flavoured pickles? I have never heard of such a thing!’

  I suggested an omelette. She sighed wearily. ‘Always one has to return to the inevitable omelette,’ she complained. ‘Still, what has to be, is to be. Yes. An omelette aux fines herbes. It must be done almost instantaneously, waiter. Have the pan boiling hot before you put the butter in; the egg should almost catch fire; not quite. No instrument must be used in order to disengage the mixture from the sides. What of the herbs? Not bottled, I trust! Have you a herb garden?’

  ‘I’ll ask in the kitchen, Ma’am.’

  ‘Do. Thank you.’

  Looking rather scared, the waiter hurried out.

  ‘Let us move to this settee by the fire,’ suggested Miss Hargreaves. ‘The nights are drawing in; it is a little chilly.’

  We moved and settled ourselves by a blazing fire. All thought of ever getting to the dance had now left my head.

  ‘How kind people are!’ she murmured. ‘I expect little. All I demand is attention. Will you run upstairs, Norman dear, and fetch me my slippers? Thank you.’

  I went up. A maid was unpacking and between us we found the slippers. Sarah was still fast asleep on the bed. Dr Pepusch’s cage had been uncovered and stood on a chair. He was a green bird with a powerful bill and a temperamental-looking crest; he had a vilely malevolent eye. He growled something at me which I couldn’t quite catch; sounded like ‘avaunt’. I felt glad he was in a cage.

  By the fireplace, in which a fire had just been lit, stood the harp, still wrapped up. The room was full of Miss Hargreaves’ belongings; looking at it you would have said she had lived here all her life.

  When I returned to the dining-room again, I found her holding out her stockinged feet to the fire. It wasn’t a thing I should have expected her to do, yet somehow it didn’t surprise me. She was perfectly at ease. She had the gift of being able to do unconventional things in the most casual manner, never losing her dignity thereby.

  I gave her the slippers. ‘Put them on for me, dear,’ she murmured. She seemed a bit sleepy now. I bent down and eased the slippers on to her feet. ‘And now,’ she said, ‘sit down and let me look at you properly.’

  She looked at me properly. It took a long time.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

  I finished my pint. ‘Since–when?’ I asked.

  ‘Since our last meeting.’

  ‘Miss Hargreaves–’ I leant towards her and spoke solemnly, ‘When did we last meet?’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ she said simply.

  I sighed and ordered another pint of beer; very good brew it is at the Swan. Miss Hargreaves murmured on, rather sleepily telling me tales about her old friend, Mr Archer. I drank more. A curious happiness, a contentment, a warm glow crept over me. It wasn’t only the beer. I dare say, if you’re a composer or a poet or a painter, you’ll know that I-don’t-care-a-damn feeling you get when you’ve finished what you reckon is a good piece of work. It’s a grand sensation. That’s how I felt.

  I walked home about ten with very mixed feelings. Perhaps I ought to try to tell you about them, otherwise you’ll be running away with the idea that this is meant to be a funny book. It is not; it is a very serious book; it is an account of the most amazing thing that ever happened to me, a thing that altered the whole course of my life. So please keep that clear. And remember it’s true; I haven’t made a thing up–except Miss Hargreaves in the first case.

  I tried, on that queer walk home, to solve the mystery of Miss Hargreaves in various natural ways.

  One. She was an escaped lunatic. Impossible. How could a lunatic know so much about me, having only that one letter to go on?

  Two. Henry was playing some monstrous practical joke and this woman was his accomplice. Most unlikely. Henry’s annoyance with me at the station hadn’t been feigned; he, quite obviously, was firmly convinced that she was an old friend of mine whom I’d so far successfully concealed.

  Three. As Henry himself had suggested, there had actually been a Miss Hargreaves staying at the Manor Court Hotel when my letter arrived. Now she, taking advantage of that, was playing a huge joke on me. Highly unlikely. Old ladies don’t play such jokes.

&nbs
p; Four. And this was the most convincing solution. I had actually met her somewhere in the past and, through some inexplicable lapse of memory, had forgotten her existence until, during that ghastly visit to Lusk church, she’d slipped out of my subconscious mind. It was a neat explanation; it fitted everything; it was possible for a person’s mind to go quite blank. I decided that I’d go through all my old diaries to see if I could find any reference to a meeting with her or anyone like her.

  Five. And this lingered; this really stayed in my mind. What I had invented had actually come to pass. Like that sermon years ago. Above all other possible solutions, this lingered. I would like it to be so. That was the danger. Always, simmering below every irritation, was a feeling of pride, a rich feeling. ‘Mine,’ I found myself murmuring; ‘mine!’ My work; my creation. Why not? Who knows anything? Thousands of mysteries all around us stars, sky, chaps, girls, animals, flowers–and just why all of us are and do and die. Mysteries. Say what you like. Suppose this was simply another such mystery?

  Proud of her. Yes. I couldn’t help that. The way she had handled her affairs in the Swan had been magnificent. But she was a terrible strain on me; already a terrible strain. I felt worn out as though I’d been doing some really hard manual labour; and I had only had an hour or so of her company. What was I going to feel like after a few days even weeks?

  Thoughts like these soared in my mind, and I found I’d reached home without knowing how I’d got there. It was a lovely night; I yawned and went up the steps. I heard father’s violin from his room, and guessed he’d taken the opportunity of mother and Jim being out to have a good go at the Kreutzer. I stood there for a few minutes, listening and looking at the great empty Queen Anne house caught in the moonlight over the road.

  I yawned. ‘Just the place for Miss Hargreaves,’ I murmured.

  I unlocked the front door and walked slowly upstairs.