Miss Hargreaves (43 page)

Lady Hargreaves sat very still on the sofa, looking before her into space, as though she saw something we couldn’t see. Her lips moved; I heard her muttering something.

‘A joke. He told me once–I am only a–joke–’

Nobody said anything. Father shook his head and looked at me significantly. The front door closed and the house was silent.

‘Give her a glass of wine, Norman,’ said father presently.

I offered her some claret. She smiled, but refused it. ‘Thank you. Thank you. But–no. Mr Huntley, take some wine yourself, I beg you. And you, Norman.’

She rose in a valiant attempt to fill our glasses. But she could not manage to walk far without her sticks.

‘You sit down now,’ said father. He took her arm, helped her back to the sofa while I arranged cushions behind her. ‘Might as well be comfortable,’ said father, returning to the claret.

‘My dear, dear friends,’ she said. ‘I have treated you so badly. Can you set it down to this detestable title? I do not know how I came by it; I never asked for it and I feel it was not meant for me. I am no aristocrat. I belong to no class.’

‘You know,’ said father, his hand on the decanter, ‘on the District Railway they used to have
four
classes. Extraordinary!’

‘Oh, Cornelius!’ She smiled affectionately at him. ‘You must let me call you by your first name–’

‘Anything you like. Got three Christian names, but never use them nowadays.’

‘Cornelius, how I love your drollery! I sometimes think you understand me better than anybody except, of course, Norman. No one can understand me as Norman does. And now he sees me for what I really am: a lonely old woman who–’

‘Oh, don’t!’ I muttered. ‘Don’t!’

Outside, Henry’s motor-horn tooted again. The clocks struck ten-fifteen. In an agony of uncertainty I walked to the window, then back to the centre of the room.

‘Yes, a lonely old woman,’ she went on, ‘who broke beyond the bounds prescribed for her by her maker.’ She paused and looked at me. I
knew
then that she knew; I knew, too, that it could never be mentioned openly between us.

‘I have no friends,’ she said, ‘no friends except Norman and you, Cornelius. And–there is somebody else. Another friend–a young man–a friend of yours, Norman. I cannot quite remember.’

‘You mean’ I looked at her ‘Henry Beddow?’

‘Yes. Henry Beddow. He, too, understands me understands something of my terrible limitations.’

– I had a sudden idea. ‘Father,’ I whispered, ‘look after her for a minute.’

I ran out and went to the door; down the drive I saw Henry’s car. ‘Henry!’ I called. ‘Henry!’

I ran to the car.

‘You’re late,’ he said. ‘Don’t say you’ve changed your mind now.’

‘No. We must see it through. But–it may be the last time, Henry. I want you to come in. I can’t–’ I couldn’t speak.

‘Do you know,’ said Henry, getting out of the car. ‘I wanted to come in.’

Slowly we returned to the house.

As we came into the room, she looked up, smiled, and rose, walking towards us on father’s arm.

‘Henry!’ she murmured. ‘
Dear
Henry!’

We all three stood silently looking at her, smiling, unable to find a word to say.

‘Oh, my friends!’ she cried suddenly. ‘Can you believe will you ever believe in spite of my unkindness to you recently–that I cannot exist without your friendship–I might almost say, without your co-operation?’

‘We know that,’ muttered Henry thickly.

‘You mustn’t rely on Norman,’ warned father.

She clasped her hands before her and a strange, far-away light came into her eyes. ‘Can I see,’ she cried, ‘a future stretching away for us? Away! Away somewhere! How weary I am of this Cathedral society! Sometimes I pine for the open country for a caravan, a donkey, the benison of friends. The world is so dull. Could not we four polish up the tarnished armour of life and make it glow again? We four on some far-off horizon where sunward floats the gull? My friends, my friends! Life, if we choose it to be so, lies in the hollow of our hands!’

Father poured himself a second glass of claret and thoughtfully examined the palms of his hands.

‘Never again,’ she cried, with a burst of old energy, flinging out her arms, then clutching to the sofa for support, ‘never again must we four be parted! Never! Our fate–yours too, Cornelius–for, in some way I know not, you are truly one of
us
–’

‘That’s right,’ said father. ‘Blame me.’

‘Our fates are intertwined,’ she said. ‘I feel as close to you as the mistletoe to the oak.’

‘Remarkable stuff, mistletoe,’ observed father. ‘Ever tell you how my Uncle Arly found some growing in an old horseshoe that used to hang over the place where he shaved every morning? Well, really extraordinary he took that shoe, see? And shod his mare with it horse called Sorrel it was, and–’

‘Father stop!’ I cried. I couldn’t bear his talking.

‘Sorry,’ he said. He really looked hurt.

‘Do not stop him,’ murmured Lady Hargreaves. ‘Never stop him. He must never be stopped.’

I knew I must say something.

‘Miss Hargreaves’ I went closer to her.

‘Yes, dear?’

‘Connie, I–’

‘Yes, dear? What do you require of me? What do you both require of me?’

‘I–I–’I struggled for words. Never had I so hated myself; never had I so loved her. But she had said she felt as close to us as the mistletoe to the oak. It was too close.

‘Norman,’ groaned old Henry. He was sweating. ‘We can’t do it. We–’

‘We
can
,’ I muttered. I turned again to Miss Hargreaves. ‘We’re going away,’ I said slowly.

‘Away?’ Disappointment, fear, clouded her face.

‘For a few days. To Ireland.’

She said nothing. She only looked at me in a long searching gaze which I could not bear to interpret.

‘To–Lusk,’ I whispered.

‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Yes?’ I could barely hear her.

When I could bring myself to look at her I saw there were tears in her eyes. For what seemed a long time we stood there looking at each other, saying nothing. Then she came forward and took both my hands in hers. I knew what had passed in her mind; I knew she had been tempted to make a last stand for her existence.

‘Listen.’ She spoke to us all. ‘Let it be said. I am not as other people.’ She stood in the centre of the room, all three of us gathered round her as though we feared she would collapse. ‘For a little while,’ she went on, ‘I broke into a life which I was never intended to lead. But now–I know what I am. “ . . . a thought, a piece of thistledown, a thing of naught, rocked in the cradle of a craftsman’s story . . . ” Yes. When I read those lines, I remembered–what I was.’ She paused. Then. ‘Come! It grows late. I am tired. But before you go–oh, I am so very tired!–I want to play you one of my dear Irish airs.’

Slowly we moved to the doors. Stopping for a moment, she laid her hand on Henry’s shoulder and smiled at him. ‘I did not get to know you well enough,’ she said. ‘But perhaps there may yet be time. I do not know.’

We all three went into the drawing-room. Sitting on a little stool, she drew her fingers across the strings of her harp. Very slowly and lingeringly she played ‘Over the sea to Skye’.

When she had finished, nobody spoke. She walked with us to the door, wrapping a silk shawl round her shoulders. There was a hint of frost. As we opened the door the Cathedral clock chimed the half-hour.

Father coughed. ‘Well, sorry we never played your piece, Miss Hargreaves; must do it–another time. Good-bye. Like your cotoneaster here.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Henry.

‘Good-bye,’ I said. For a moment I held her hand.

‘I have–enjoyed it all, so much,’ she said.

We went down the drive. I stopped at the gate and waved. Faint in the misty air, I saw her waving back.

I ran across the road and leapt into Henry’s car.

‘Quick!’ I muttered. ‘For God’s sake, drive quickly!’

10

F
AR behind us stretched the long road from Dungannon. We tramped on silently through the rain. Lusk had not changed. The chopper still lay in the butcher’s window; the oak tree still stood in the middle of the road, its last tattered leaves moping to the ground.

We stopped by the church gate and tried to dry ourselves on our handkerchiefs. We were silent, horribly aware that the moment had come. We still did not know what we were going to do. The wind howled round us; clouds massed, dark and heavy, against a sky already sunless. I opened my mouth to speak; I closed it again. My mind was a blank. I groaned. Had we come all this way for nothing? Should we return to Cornford to find her still there–and could I be sorry if we did? Which was more bearable? I did not know.

Suddenly, Henry caught my arm and looked at me. I couldn’t understand his expression. Neither, for the moment, could I understand what he meant when he said in a queer, strained voice:

‘Might as well’–and here he paused as though in search of the right words–‘take a look at Lusk church, don’t you think?’

What did he mean? Why did he speak in that unnatural way? I stared at him, knowing dimly that he expected a particular answer from me; that he was playing a game which demanded an accomplice like the game
I
had played here eleven weeks ago when I had demanded his support.

‘There might be,’ he said slowly, still holding my arm and digging his fingers tightly into it, ‘some old brasses worth looking at.’

Immediately, in a flood of understanding, I knew what he was doing. For a moment all thought of Miss Hargreaves slipped from my mind as I said, with an almost sinister promptitude:

‘I hate brasses.’

I thought I heard him sigh, as though with relief that I had found my cue. Releasing my arm he said in a tone deliberately casual:

‘Well, we can shelter from the rain, anyhow. Come on.’

I followed him up the path. My mind went whirling back through the year; from November to October–from winter to autumn–from autumn to dying summer–to the evening when we had first walked up this path. Vividly the memorable occasion came back to me, the actual words of our conversation becoming clearer and more accurate in my mind. I knew what Henry must say; knew what I must say. Something had inspired him to utter the same words he had spoken that August evening; the words that were responsible for our going into the church; the words that were responsible for–

This was the formula we had wanted, I saw in a flash. And, as in August, Henry had, on an impulse, dragged me into this place, so now, in November, on another impulse, he must do the same. All that we had said then must, as closely as possible, correspond with what we said now.
For how long?
At what precise point must the repetition be varied? At what precise point must the recapitulation find its coda?

I suddenly realized that Henry was rattling the door of the church. As before, it was locked.

‘Thank God for that!’ I exclaimed, remembering my lines as an actor does when he sees a familiar bit of business on the stage. ‘Let’s get back to Dungannon and have a last binge at the hotel. I detest Lusk.’

‘I’m going to get the key,’ said Henry.

But–I was still asking myself–at what point must we steer another course? All depended on that.