Miss Hargreaves (18 page)

Wonderful words. Almost automatically I looked east, up the choir to the great reredos.

The sign of the living God?

Well, I don’t know whether you could call a hat a sign, but I certainly never had seen a hat like that before.

Archie Tallents, who missed nothing that went on in the Cathedral, wrinkled his brow and gazed up to the Bishop’s Throne, near the south door to the choir.

‘The Angel
has
ascended in the east,’ he murmured.

It was true. Reposing calmly in the rich cushions under the carved canopy of the throne, sat Constance Hargreaves. On her head was a truly remarkable hat; a strange and very wonderful hat. It was cylindrical in shape, taller than a topper, with barely any brim, made of some smooth cream-coloured fur and softened by many veils. On anyone else it would have looked quite ridiculous. But somehow, as usual, Connie got away with it. You couldn’t laugh; you could only hold your breath and wonder. Sublimely unconscious of the attention she was attracting (the Bishop’s Throne is the most conspicuous seat in the Cathedral; more than a seat, it is really a house, with its own door, roof, and stalls for chaplains, amply furnished with octavo leather-bound prayer-books and tasselled cushions) sublimely unconscious of the–attention she was attracting, Miss Hargreaves sat in this sacrosanct place, idly gazing through her lorgnettes at the emblems of Our Lord’s Passion in the roof.

‘Ye gods!’ exclaimed Slesser.

‘And fishes great and small!’ added Archie.

‘That ’at,’ said Dyack, ‘would ’old about ten bloody pints.’

And I heard Baker, the solo-boy, say, ‘Mr Huntley’s friend’s come back again. Won’t he be pleased?’

A chorister giggled; the four probationers tittered. The clatter of a lozenge tin was heard; a service-book came tumbling out of Baker’s scob. The Dean hesitated, looked round sharply, then hastily went on with the lesson. Meakins stared up to the throne, half rose, sat down again, frowned and importantly adjusted his gown.

The lesson ended. We rose for the
Nunc Dimittis
. So did Miss Hargreaves. It was now clear that Meakins was prepared for action. Rushing the Dean home again, he gave a twist to his white moustache and set off at almost a sprint for the episcopal quarters. The boys, all eyes turned upon him, struggled weakly to reach the top F sharp in the
Nunc
Dimittis
. Meakins had got to the throne; we could see they were arguing, though we couldn’t, of course, hear what they said. After a few seconds Miss Hargreaves, looking very angry, limped ostentatiously down the choir, making far more noise than was necessary with her sticks, and finally seated herself in the Canonry stalls, bang in front of Miss Linkinghorne. In order to advertise her disapproval for all of us, she sat down during the rest of the
Nunc Dimittis
; she did not even rise for the
Gloria
, only slightly bowed her head. And I can tell you, it’s not easy to remain seated for the
Gloria
in Cornford Cathedral. People don’t like it at all.

Archie turned his large head to me and cooed, ‘Lord now lettest Thou Miss Hargreaves?’

‘Depart in peace,’ I sang. But I couldn’t see her doing that.

I suffered afterwards in the lay-clerks’ vestry. Archie had no mercy. Everything was brought up. Dr Pepusch, Sarah, the Duke of Grosvenor, the harp, the bath, the visit to the organ-loft. I was spared nothing.

‘Always knew you were one for the girls,’ said Slesser, ‘but old ladies–that’s vice, Huntley! Pure vice!’

‘Don’t you take any notice of these nasty remarks, dear,’ said Archie; ‘remember you have to live up to a nine-foot hat and be brave.’

‘Might ’a’ been a mitre from the size of it,’ buzzed Peaty. He is a little alto with a voice like a starving fly in a bottle. Sir Hugh Allan, who once attended Evensong, mistook him for a bassoon.

Archie put his head round the door and looked out into the transept.

‘The Queen of the May is waiting for my Norman,’ he said.

At this point Pussy Coltsfoot, one of our ancients, who always made the same sort of noise, whether he sang or spoke, asked whether we had observed the woman with the queer hat sitting in the Bishop’s Throne. Being deaf, he had heard nothing of the talk.

‘Huntley’s girl-friend,’ shouted Slesser above the organ. (The Doctor was wallowing in an endless Rheinberger sonata.)

‘I didn’t notice a bend,’ murmured Pussy. ‘It seemed quite straight to me. Like a drainpipe in the snow.’

‘Concubine,’ hummed Peaty right in his ear. ‘Huntley’s concubine.’

‘You needn’t be disgusting,’ I said. I don’t know about you, but I loathe that word ‘concubine’.

Wadge, the other tenor, a pleasant fellow who has a habit of putting in aspirates in unlikely places (he has a favourite solo in which he sings ‘Thou crownest the h-year’) turned and patted me on the back. ‘A faithful female friend is very nice for a h-young man,’ he said.

‘Wonder if that bloody ’at folds up?’ growled Dyack.

The voluntary had finished; it was time to go into choir for the full practice. Already the boys were trooping in with piles of music. I peered round the door. There she was, prowling up and down, tapping the pavement tiles critically with her stick. You immediately felt they were second-rate tiles; you would have said that she had always been used to walking on the best Roman tiles.

The Precentor came in. ‘Hurry up, gentlemen,’ he said. He looked at me with a slight smile. ‘Friend of yours waiting for you, I imagine.’ He went out, giving the others a vile leer. I don’t like that man.

Archie was just going out. I called him back. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘there’s been some ghastly mistake. I want you to understand, Archie, that I do not know this damned woman. Somehow she’s managed to hook herself on to me.’

‘Hook, dear? You supplied the eye?’

‘Don’t joke. It’s terribly serious. If she comes up and tries to talk to me, I’ve simply got to ignore her. I want you to help me, Archie. Walk out with me and talk loudly all the time. I shan’t look her way.’

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Blow out your chest. Scowl and be a man. Take a deep breath and look at her boots. Glare critically at her boots and you’re safe. Come on, dearie.’

Together we left the vestry and started to cross the transept. She was standing by Bishop Creighton’s tomb, examining some alabaster cherubs, and for a moment didn’t notice us.

‘Quick!’ I hissed. ‘Quick!’

But she was too sharp for me. Whipping round, she cried out and tottered towards us.

‘
Dear
Norman!’ she cried jubilantly. ‘It is so nice to see you again. What a truly beautiful anthem! Though I cannot imagine why you were not given the solo. Surely–’

‘No talking allowed in the transepts,’ said Archie severely. ‘Haven’t you seen the notices?’

‘Notices? What notices?’

Archie looked round him. ‘Ah!’ he said. ‘Meakins has taken them away to be cleaned. But the order still stands. Nothing but singing allowed in the transepts. Come along, Huntley.’

‘Ridiculous! Ridiculous!’ exclaimed Miss Hargreaves, flushing angrily. She followed us, talking all the time. ‘I have been in a score of cathedrals and never yet have I been told not to talk in the transepts. I shall report the matter to the Dean.’

‘The Dean himself made the transept by-law,’ said Archie, ‘and he will not tolerate it being broken.’

‘I shall write to Grosvenor about it,’ she snapped.

I bit my lip and said nothing.

‘My dear lady,’ said Archie, allowing her to catch up with him for a moment, ‘transept talk is strictly forbidden, even to royalty. Read the notices when they have been cleaned.’

‘We are now in the aisle,’ she said triumphantly.

‘Aisles, too,’ said Archie. ‘Except on Sundays.’

Slesser joined us, blithely humming ‘h-where did h-you get that hat?’

‘Norman,’ panted Miss Hargreaves, in a voice that broke my heart, ‘Norman–how can you–’ God! How unbearable it was! I hurried on, loathing myself.

‘We are all very busy now,’ said Archie. ‘The music of the Cathedral must come first.’

Baker was standing by the choir gates, his hands in his cassock pockets, an insolent smile on his face. Still she followed us. At the gates she was stopped by Meakins. Hurriedly we went inside.

‘Now, now,’ we heard Meakins saying, ‘we’ve had enough of you.’ (Oh, it was
intolerable
to hear her spoken to like that.) ‘No, you
can’t
come into choir. Sitting in the Bishop’s Throne–never heard of such a thing!’

‘I had no intention of trespassing upon the dear Bishop’s Throne,’ we heard. ‘I have never willingly sat on a throne, and I never will. Here is my card. I am a friend of Mr Huntley’s; a close friend. Kindly move. I abominate fuss.’

‘There’s a practice on, Ma’am. You can’t come into choir.’

‘Tut! All these absurd restrictions–! Why do you not have a notice forbidding one to use this ridiculous throne? Unless you are cleaning those notices too–come, come,my good fellow–perhaps–ah, I see we understand one another!’

We heard the jingling of money. Baker came sauntering in and pushed his way up decani side to his place.

‘Tipped old Meakins half a dollar,’ he said.

‘We shall have to get the Doctor’s permission,’ I heard Meakins say. I saw him take her arm and lead her gently round to the north transept.

Baker turned and spoke to me gravely.

‘Did you make that hat, sir?’

‘You turn round!’ I snapped. ‘And give out the music, you brat!’

‘Really, sir!’ said Baker.

A moment later the Doctor came into choir; he looked very irritable. ‘Huntley,’ he called. I left my seat and went down to him with a sinking heart.

‘This–er, lady friend of yours–she wishes to come into choir for the practice. Of course, you understand–’

‘But, Doctor,’ I began, ‘she is
not
–’

‘–you understand we can’t start a precedent like that. For years I’ve been fighting to keep people out of choir while the practice is on. Go and tell her, if you please. Of course she’s at liberty to wait in the nave.’

Anger mounted in me. I suppose because I loathe being made to look ridiculous. As I marched out on to the dais, I heard Collins say, ‘Mr Huntley didn’t half look furious, didn’t he?’

I stamped across to her.

‘Miss Hargreaves,’ I said, ‘nobody is allowed into choir during the practice. Dr Carless says you may wait in the nave.’

For a moment she said nothing; only looked at me reproachfully. I turned my head away.

‘What have I
done
,’ she said, ‘to deserve such treatment from you?’ Her voice rose; I felt that every ear in the choir was straining to hear her. ‘What have I
done
? If you knew what trouble I had been through lately’–her voice broke–‘Agatha–gone!’ She buried her face in her hands for a moment; her shoulders shook. ‘Dr Pepusch suffering from psittacosis,’ she continued. ‘And now–I return to my beloved Cornford, expecting to be greeted by my old friend, and–’

The choir had started on ‘O, where shall wisdom be found,’ by Boyce; I was supposed to be singing in the verse.

‘I’ll see you presently,’ I muttered, avoiding looking at her directly. It was no good. The moment she turned that heart-rending expression on me, I knew I was beaten.