3

HENRY and I were waiting on the platform.

‘Stupid waste of time!’ he kept saying. ‘Stupid waste of time!’ But I knew, by the way he was scratching the back of his head with the stem of his pipe, that he was every bit as nervy as I was. It was the harp that had upset him. ‘People don’t go sending harps two hundred miles just for fun,’ he had said. I agreed. We stood and looked at it rather solemnly for nearly five minutes, poking it gingerly now and again, and half expecting that it would suddenly start to play some ghostly tune from under its sacking. Finally, we decided to taxi it to the Swan and leave it; I had already reserved a room in case Miss Hargreaves should actually turn up on the eight-fifteen.

The train was horribly punctual. I shall never forget that train, the train that brought me my punishment. I remember we were standing by the refreshment room and I sprang nervously forward the moment I saw the engine. Henry drew me back. ‘Stay here,’ he advised. ‘You don’t want to give yourself away, do you? After all, if this horrible woman is on the train, how’s she going to know you are Norman Huntley? She’s never met you. If you rush about looking into carriages, she’ll simply eat you up.’

It was good advice. Very slowly, oblivious to our suspense, the long line of carriages wriggled between the platforms, shivered a bit, clanked, and sleepily stopped. It looked as though it had crossed the frontiers of fourteen continents; very tired, very bored. A number of doors yawned open; about ten heads protruded from about ten windows. An old parson; a possible commercial traveller; the usual sailor; a fat woman with her baby. Obviously no Miss Hargreaves amongst that lot. By now passengers were walking towards the barrier; they were all unhargreavy-looking creatures, very simple and ordinary. Far away at the back a lot of luggage was dumped out from the guard’s van. Apart from this rear activity, there was little movement.

I looked at Henry quickly.

‘Not here,’ I muttered. I felt half disappointed, half relieved.

‘I told you it was all a waste of time,’ said Henry. ‘We’d better go. The girls’ll be furious waiting for–’

I stopped him and clutched his arm.

‘Hear it?’ I muttered.

‘Hear what?’

Henry’s got no ear for music, that’s the trouble. Suddenly I had heard something that I didn’t care for at all. Far away, down at the back of the train, a raw, harsh voice, croaking, very slowly, very ill-temperedly–as though it hated the tune–Macheath’s air from the Beggar’s Opera, ‘Were I laid on Greenland’s coast.’

‘My God!’ said Henry. He had heard. We listened, our eyes turned to the back of the train. A dog had yapped; a dog was continually yapping. An irritable dog. Still the ghostly, grudging tune went on, like a dirge. We saw a porter bringing something from the guard’s van; it was a cage covered by a black cloth. A large cage.

‘Dr What’s-his-name!’ said Henry weakly.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Dr Pepusch.’ I felt fatalistic; nothing had much power to surprise me.

Henry stared at me. ‘Are we going batty? Is this a dream?’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Listen to that!’

A shrill, imperious voice had cried, ‘Porter! Porter! Porter!’ Simultaneously the cockatoo, with a sepulchral growl on a low D, stopped singing. By now everybody else had got out. A porter sprang to a first-class carriage and opened the door. With his assistance, slowly, fussily, there emerged an old lady. She was carrying two sticks, an umbrella and a large leather handbag. Following her was a fat waddling Bedlington terrier, attached to a fanciful purple cord.

Old Henry went quite white. ‘Here, let’s go and have a quick one,’ he growled. ‘This is killing me.’

We dashed into the refreshment room and hurled down double brandies. We couldn’t speak. Through the window we watched, our empty glasses trembling in our hands.

‘Henry,’ I moaned, ‘she is exactly as I imagined.’

Limping slowly along the platform and chatting amiably to the porter, came–well, Miss Hargreaves. Quite obviously it couldn’t possibly be anyone else.

‘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 have 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 am going to enjoy this,’ she said. And again she rubbed her hands together and smiled at me.

‘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.’

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.

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.

I went to father’s study. It’s a wonderful room on the second floor, with a window looking along the back garden and up Candole Street where the Happy Union is. At the top of the hill you can see the Cathedral. Sometimes father lies on the sofa under the sill with the window open, and plays tunes on his violin to the spire. ‘She’s a lady, that spire,’ he says, ‘well bred; a proper lady.’ And you feel he’s right; particularly when you remember the Cathedral is under the patronage of the Blessed Virgin.

There are hundreds of books in the room; in bookshelves and stacked in piles on the floor. A large table in the middle is full of magazines, ink bottles, microscope slides, old cups of coffee, glasses, music, and tobacco tins. A black Bord piano crosses the corner by the window. It’s an ancient little piano, very far-away and pleasing in tone; the sort of piano you might hear playing from under the sea, if you know what I mean. A haunted piano, altogether. There’s a picture above it of the Three Magi coming in procession to the Manger; by a chap called Dierich Bouts it is; very old, Flemish, full of colour, queerly like counterpoint. Bouts and Bord have always gone together for as long as I can remember; father says they’re married. It’s a funny thing, once, when the picture had to be taken away to have a new glass put in, the piano got terribly out of tune and some of the notes stuck. They’re very fond of each other, clearly.

When I came in that evening he was sawing away at the rondo from the Kreutzer. A lamp was balanced perilously on some music on top of the piano. Father didn’t stop. I sank into a chair, feeling very tired and muddle-headed.

Presently father laid down his bow and, finding an old hairpin of mother’s, started to clean out his cigarette holder.

‘Hullo, boy,’ he said, ‘come and play with me.’

‘Too tired, Dad. I’ve been having supper with Miss Hargreaves.’

He nodded as though he’d known her all his life. Nothing ever surprises father; he can’t even surprise himself.

‘She bring her oboe?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know what makes you think she plays the oboe,’ I said.

‘Well, come and try the slow movement of this Delius. It’s a bit soggy, but it’s got heart.’

‘I’m very worried, Dad. I’m honestly wondering whether I oughtn’t to see a doctor or something. I asked her how “Agatha” was–just making up the name on the Spur of the Moment, see?’

‘I warned you years ago about that Spur, my boy.’

‘And all she said was, “sinking”. Like that. It was amazing. What do you think it means?’

‘Delius is all right for a change; like going on to pudding after the joint. But you can’t live on puddings. Take the Elgar concerto–as a concerto you can’t beat it. Have an apple?’

‘Do you think “Agatha’s” a monkey? Oh, by the way, she stopped and actually spoke to the Dean. He was furious, glared at me. That horrible bird of hers screamed the Venite at him. He didn’t like it, you could see that.’

‘Monkeys like music,’ he remarked, rolling himself a cigarette. ‘If she plays the harp, as you suggest, probably she’s got a monkey.’

‘Do you suppose I’ve suffered some ghastly lapse of memory? I mean, I might have met her years ago, at Bournemouth.’

‘Memory’s a funny thing.’ He twisted his moustache and a reminiscent light came into his grey eyes. ‘I had a beard once. Before you were born, that was. Well, one night I shaved it off–or I suppose I did. Yet, to this day, I could swear I was trimming the veronica hedge in your grandfather’s garden. He liked veronica very much, and I must say, one way and another, it does make good hedging.’

‘I suppose Marjorie’ll be furious with me for cutting the dance. Well, I can’t help it.’

‘Shall be glad to see her. Tell her to come round to the shop. By the way, who are you talking about? Agatha who?’

‘Don’t be silly. Miss Hargreaves.’

‘Hargreaves? Oh. Ah. Yes. The woman you met at the Three Choirs Festival, you mean?’

‘Oh, anything you like,’ I sighed.

‘It’s astonishing what a number of interesting folk one does meet at that Festival,’ he went on, tuning his G string as he spoke. ‘I saw Tennyson there once, skulking behind a pillar and fumbling about in his beard. He dropped a bit of paper and I picked it up. There were only three words on it; I’ve got it somewhere in the shop. Remind me to look for it some time. Valuable, really.’

He started to play a tune he had composed for the G string.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘put in your accompaniment, then I’ll give you some whisky.’

I went over to the piano and drifted in a few chords under his melody. It was a sort of saraband, very grave, soothing, yet–somehow–that particular evening, curiously disturbing. It was never quite the same each fresh time he played it. He’d never written it out. Towards the middle he invariably improvised something new. So my accompaniment had to be prepared for any modulation he might make, while the skeleton of the music remained always the same.

When we had finished, I sat for a long time looking up at the Three Magi and wondering, as I always did, whether any of them had moved while the music had been going on.

Father sighed, rather uneasily I thought, and looked out at the sign of the Happy Union–an old man and an old woman–swaying in the breeze from the red-bricked wall of the house.

‘Can’t help thinking,’ he murmured, ‘that the most lovely music is never written down. Like speech, like something said and soon forgotten, but still alive. You accompanied well, my boy; you’ve got real creative power, you know. Only, like me, you can’t be bothered to control what you create. Well, perhaps we’re not meant to; perhaps what we create ought to control us.’

‘I don’t like the idea of that,’ I said. And I thought of Miss Hargreaves, perhaps at this moment playing her harp to Dr Pepusch. ‘I don’t like it at all. I–’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Shaved it off. When I looked in the glass next morning, it had gone. Well, of course it had gone. You can’t shave off a seven-inch beard and expect to see it on your chin next morning. But I never remember, and to this day I’ll swear I was trimming your grandfather’s veronica hedge.’

In my bedroom that night I sat up late, going through a lot of old diaries. There were a good many entries I couldn’t make head or tail of, such as: ‘Pall Mall ancients. Shove-’apenny sorrow.’ But there wasn’t anything that I could remotely connect with Miss Hargreaves. I gave it all up and went to bed.