Miss Hargreaves Read Online Free Page B

September evening and Cornford was looking its best, full of red brick and sunset with the bells from the parish church playing ‘Home, Sweet Home’, as they always do on Saturday nights, when the crowd’s thickest and nobody seems to want to have anything to do with home. I suppose it’s a sort of warning to exuberant laddies, flung out by the Church at the most crucial moment of the week–for anyone who lives in a provincial town knows that Saturday evening is that.
    Yes, it was lovely that evening; the market stalls full of dahlias, asters and Michaelmas daisies. Everybody was happy except a pinched-nosed-looking female in a stall selling political pamphlets something about Marx, not the–Brothers, but the German fellow who started all that Russian stuff. I felt sorry for the girl; she wanted a good steak and a little less hot air, you could see that. There were hordes of chaps and girls lounging up and down, some of them thronging round a black fellow selling medicine for the feet in Disraeli Square. From the bars of the Swan people were overflowing into the road, spilling their beer. Above all this tapered the Cathedral spire, indulgent and kind, as much as to say, ‘I know all about you, my children; centuries ago you wandered up and down on Saturday nights. You’re just the same; no different.’ I was awfully glad to be back. There’s no place like home, you can say what you like, but there isn’t. In the air was a feeling of autumn; not a sad feeling, but a mellow richness over everything. I like autumn; it doesn’t depress me. I like to think of winter evenings evenings when the great coke stoves will be burning in the Cathedral and only about two people will wander in to hear the anthem.
    I called into the shop, thinking I’d like to see father before I went to number 38. We don’t live over the shop, of course. It’s far too full of books.
    Father was working out a chess problem in his favourite corner. Nobody else was in the shop. It’s a funny thing, but people don’t buy books on Saturday night.
    ‘Hallo, Dad,’ I said.
    He didn’t look up or answer for some time. I sat down and waited, noticing how, in a month, the sun had shifted from the theology shelves, below the staircase, to topography, nearer the fireplace. Beautiful rich colour it was; it made you want to look at the books.
    Presently father said, ‘Hallo, Norman. Have we got a copy of the Kelmscott
Shakespeare
anywhere about?’
    ‘I had a jolly good holiday.’
    ‘Did you? I always liked Ireland.’
    ‘Didn’t know you’d been there.’
    ‘Read about it. Who’s that fellow–Moore, is it? Or Scott. I know it pretty well from maps. Hand me that pawn, will you? Do you know where the red queen’s got to? I’m having to use a clothes-peg and it’s awkward.’
    ‘Aunt Flossie was well,’ I said.
    ‘Yes? I’ve been playing the violin a good bit since you’ve been away. And what do you think? That fool Claribel’s had kittens.’
    ‘Go on!’
    ‘Yes, the Kreutzer Sonata. It’s fine work. I like the rondo.’
    ‘She had five only last April.’
    ‘But I’m damned if I can manage that tricky bit in the slow movement. By the way, have we got a copy of the Kelmscott
Shakespeare
?’
    ‘Have you looked on the top floor?’
    ‘No. Not yet. I’ll put that devil Squeen on to it.’
    Squeen’s father’s assistant. On Saturday he always goes home early.
    ‘Had a good holiday?’ asked father.
    ‘Oh, topping! Ireland’s wonderful.’
    ‘Henry looked in last night.’ Father scratched his moustache with the white queen. ‘Asked me whether I’d got a volume of poems by–who was it?–Harton, or something; Constance Harton. Called
Wayside Bundle
. Or was it
Puddle
? Published in ’95. I haven’t had time to look for it yet.’
    ‘Oh, Henry’s pulling your leg.’
    ‘Is he? Funny way to pull it. If I find the book I shall charge him for it.’
    ‘You’ll never find it. Well, I’ll be getting home. See you later,