Miss Hargreaves (11 page)

‘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.