Miss Hargreaves (24 page)

‘Oh, yes, you do!’ I dug about with my pole. I was angry with her now. It did seem to me that people ought to
try
to see, at least, how remarkable Miss Hargreaves was. ‘Jealous,’ I went on, ‘because she’s got style, and you haven’t.’

‘Oh. I haven’t got style? I see.’

‘There are hundreds like you. But there’s only one Miss Hargreaves. You ought to be proud to know her. She’s out of the rut. You ought to be proud to know
me
. It isn’t everybody could do what I’ve done.’

‘Look out for that pole, you idiot!’

‘Oh–sorry!’ I said to a beetroot-faced old gentleman in a motor-boat, who’d somehow got in the way of my pole.

‘Another thing,’ I continued, ‘Miss Hargreaves
has
got a mind. Thinking that the authors of books don’t matter! Huh!’

‘You needn’t say any more. This is the end.’

‘Amen,’ I said.

‘You’re not a man.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m a magician.’

Marjorie suddenly burst into tears. ‘Oh, you beast!’ she sobbed. ‘You horrid beast! Saying I’ve got no style when everybody knows I’m the best-dressed girl in Cornford. Even Jim admits that. You beast–you horrid beast!’

‘Oh, God!’ I groaned. ‘Don’t cry! I’m awfully sorry. You’ve got tons of style. You’re marvellous. You’re grand. Miss Hargreaves doesn’t come in it.’

‘Give her up–never see her again. Then I’ll know you love me.’

‘I wish I could, darling.’

‘Well, why can’t you?’

‘She won’t let me,’ I said. We didn’t speak another word.

I dropped in to see Archie Tallents early that evening. He was in the dark-room when I arrived at his studio and he asked me to wait. When he came out a few minutes later he was holding a plate up to the light and looking at it. ‘Just a minute, dear,’ he said. Resting the plate on a dish, he went over to the telephone.

‘Is that the
Cornford Mercury
?’ he asked presently. He continued: ‘I’ve got a nice picture of old Jezebel. Yes, got it this afternoon. Any use to you? All right. Send your boy round for it in half an hour. Good-bye.’

He rang off. ‘Always carry a camera with you,’ he said to me. ‘Never know what you might see. Look at that.’

He showed me the negative. It was a group of people in Disraeli Square, some on the pavement, some in the middle of the road. A long line of traffic was held up and a policeman was poking at something with a stick.

‘Can’t quite make it out,’ I said. ‘Somebody run over or something? Oh, yes–I can recognize the Dean. He seems to be backing away from my God!’ I held the plate against my sleeve in order to see it more clearly. ‘This isn’t a swan, is it?’

Archie nodded. ‘That’s Jezebel,’ he said. ‘The oldest royal swan on the river, so they say. She always was a spiteful one.’ I began to feel a little faint.

‘Will you open a window, Archie?’ I asked. ‘Bit close in here.’

He opened the window for me. ‘What’s the matter, dear?’

‘Nothing, Archie. I’m all right. Tell me about this Jezebel. What time did she turn up in the Square?’

‘About four. Dear old canary came waddling out of Canticle Alley–’

‘Did you say Canticle Alley?’ I asked faintly.

‘Canticle Alley, I said. She stopped in the middle of the road, by the traffic lights, as you can see. The policeman got a little huffy. So did Jezebel. She seemed to want to lay an egg or something. The Dean went for her with his umbrella. Most undeanly.’

‘Did they catch her?’

‘Catch Jezebel? Not likely! They had to turn the fire-hose on her.’

‘Fire-hose? Good God! She’ll catch cold.’

‘Is this fowl a friend of yours, Norman?’

‘She–Never mind. Go on.’

‘Well, she toddled away after that. Back to the river.’

‘I suppose, Archie, you’re quite sure it
was
Jezebel? I mean–there wasn’t anything unusual about the bird, was there?’

‘Unusual? Jezebel’s a very unusual sort of bird. Very old bird.’

‘Yes. A very old bird.’ I agreed. I turned to the door. ‘Well, so long, Archie,’ I said. I felt I couldn’t talk to him now. Something had to be done at once.

I rushed straight round to Canticle Alley and knocked at Mrs Beedle’s door. Mrs Beedle came herself.

‘Is Miss Hargreaves in?’ I asked. I was shaking so much I could hardly talk.

‘No, sir. She went out this afternoon and she ain’t come back yet.’

‘Oh. Do you know where she went?’

‘Over the hills and far away’ croaked Dr Pepusch bitterly from a room upstairs.

‘Drat that there bird!’ exclaimed Mrs Beedle. ‘ ’Uman, I calls that bird, simply ’uman. Miss ’Argreaves, she goes to the river. “Mrs Beedle,” she says to me, “I feels like a blow on the river.” Those was her words, her very words, Mr ’Untley. “What!” I says. “You go on the river, Mum! Well, just you mind you don’t catch a chill, then.” Because she’s the sort that
do
catch a chill, Mr ’Untley, and go off sudden.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I
know
, Mrs Beedle.’

‘ “There are times,” she says to me, grave-like, “times there be, Mrs Beedle, when I am driv willy-nilly to do things as don’t proper become a lady of my years.” Willy-nilly–they was her very words. And she puts on her ’at, the one like a chimney-pot, and off she goes.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yes, I see.’ I felt numbed.

‘She’s a very funny lady, ain’t she now?’ said Mrs Beedle. ‘Last night, look, you wouldn’t believe her, her ’eart were set on a balloon, nothing but a balloon it must be. Well, look, my little girl got a balloon or two, see, so I blows one up–took a lot of breath it did and I’m ashmatical too–and I gives it to her. “There,” I says, “there’s a balloon, Ma’am.” But she says, “That ain’t no good to me, Mrs Beedle. It’s a real balloon I want.” And she looks kind of wistful-like. She affect me, sir.’

‘Affects you? Oh. Does she?’

‘Affect me, she do. I don’t believe she’s got a friend in the world except you. She think the world of you. She tell me how you saved her life. Lonely-like, she is. Of course, she do wear odd ’ats, but look–’

I suddenly came to my senses. ‘What time did she go out?’ I snapped.

‘Well, it would have been about four, Mr ’Untley, yes, about four, because look, the wireless was playing that minuet what they call it and–’ ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Good evening.’

‘They go off sudden,’ shouted Mrs Beedle after me. ‘The nights is damp and she’ll catch ’er death. They go off sudden.’

I reeled out into Disraeli Square, Mrs Beedle’s gloomy words ringing in my ears. It was time for me to go home to supper, but I knew I shouldn’t be able to eat anything. A drink was what I wanted. I turned towards the Swan. The very sight of the great golden bird with his wings outspread above the doorway made me feel sick. A coincidence. I muttered to myself over and over again; a coincidence. It must be, it must be, it must be. A picture soared into my mind: the picture of a swan in a balloon sailing away into the clouds, over the hills and far away as Dr Pepusch had prophesied. ‘God!’ I said aloud. ‘No balloons–
please
. Whatever else has to happen, let there be no balloon. Change back,
dear
Miss Hargreaves; change back at once. Wherever you are now, change back to your proper self.’

I was staggering up St James’ Street, making for Henry’s house and hardly knowing what direction I was taking. I felt giddy and sick; I felt as useless as a pin without a head; I felt drunk with the knowledge of power that terrified me; I felt afraid.

I knocked at Henry’s door. ‘Damn fool,’ I muttered to myself. ‘There’s nothing in it. It
can’t
be true. Coincidence coincidence coincidence–’

He was having a late tea; deeply immersed in a book propped up on the teapot. I flopped down by the fire.

‘Half a mo,’ said Henry. ‘Just finish this chapter. Most extraordinary story about a stockbroker who fell in love with his wife’s boots.’

‘Thanks for offering me tea,’ I said.

‘Sorry, old boy.’ He poured some out and gave it to me. ‘Been wenching on the Thames?’ he asked presently. I nodded blankly. I felt unable to talk.

‘Bit late in the year,’ he observed, lighting his pipe and sitting in an armchair opposite me. ‘Had a good time?’

‘Interesting.’

‘Made it up with Marjorie, I hope?’

‘No. Made it worse.’

‘Oh? I hope you’re not throwing her over in favour of Connie.’

‘Shouldn’t be surprised at anything. Or rather, no–’ I added hastily. ‘I am
not
throwing her over in favour of Connie.’

‘How is the old fowl?’

I groaned. ‘
Need
you call her a fowl, Henry?’

‘Well–hen, then.’

‘I haven’t seen her since yesterday. I believe she’s changed a bit.’

‘Oh? Dyed her hair, or something?’

‘No. She’s gone–rather white.’

‘White?’

‘Yes. White. And her neck’s a bit stiff.’

‘Oh.’

Henry glanced at me rather strangely. Then he walked up and down the room in an uneasy sort of way, jabbing the stem of his pipe in the nape of his neck. You could tell he was thinking hard.

‘Look here, old boy,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an idea about you.’

‘Have you? That’s nice. Want me to see a doctor, I suppose.’

‘No. Not a doctor. This psycho-analyst fellow. I think you might see him.’

‘Who do you mean?’

Henry took up the book he had been reading. ‘Fellow who wrote this,’ he said. ‘Marvellous book! I’ve found out a whole lot about myself I never knew before.’

‘Why–do you think there’s something wrong with me?’

‘You never know. You’re looking rather peeky. And you’re growing extraordinarily absent-minded.’

‘I never had much of a mind to be absent, Henry.’

‘Well, it might as well be present, whatever it is.’

‘Wonder if I could work her into a flea?’ I mused, half to myself.

‘What?’ said Henry.

‘Flea. I should have her under control more. I don’t suppose a flea could hold up a line of traffic.’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Norman?’

‘Oh nothing. Let’s have a look at that book.’

It was a green book, with a long list of contents under several sub-headings. It was called
The New and the Old Self
, and it was by a Doctor Birinus Hals-Gruber. I opened it at random and read a bit. There was a lot about the
Sesame
Impulse
and the
Agamemnon-Reflex
which made, as they say, fascinating reading. But I couldn’t relate Miss Hargreaves to any of it.

‘It mightn’t be a bad plan,’ suggested Henry, ‘if you took Connie and had her psychoed too. You’d probably find she ogled you in your pram centuries ago.’

‘You can take her, if you like.’

‘Not me. No, thank you, old boy. Anyway, I’ve got a feeling that Connie doesn’t much care for me.’

‘You’re damn lucky.’

‘Well, what about it? He might help you. There’s no getting away from the fact, Norman, you’re up against something that we can’t understand at all. And, after all, these fellows know more about minds and subconsciousnesses and what-not than I know about cars or you know about organs.’