1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day Read online

  “Just as I said, my dear. It was the hot air in the room.”

  “You’ve said it,” agreed Miss LaFosse with a twinkle. “They’d talk the hind leg off a donkey in there.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Hot air,” explained Miss LaFosse.

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew. It dawned. “Hot air…Oh how funny! How extremely funny!”

  Miss Pettigrew began to laugh. She laughed and laughed until the tears ran down her face.

  “Well,” said Miss LaFosse cheerfully, “you have had one over the eight.”

  But she felt very pleased her mild joke had such an appreciative audience. Together they mounted the stairs in hilarious accord. Miss Pettigrew refused further aid. She took firm hold of the banisters and drew herself up.

  Outside the bedroom which was being used as the ladies’ cloakroom Miss LaFosse beat a tattoo on the door. Then she opened it.

  “Well, well,” said Miss LaFosse. “Do mine eyes deceive me, or is there a man present? Oh, shades of virtue, where hast thou flown?”

  “Cheese it,” said Tony.

  “Delysia,” cried Miss Dubarry. She was no tidier, in fact, a great deal less tidy than when Miss Pettigrew had seen her depart ostensibly to repair her makeup.

  “Edythe,” responded Miss LaFosse. She suddenly smiled tenderly. Miss Dubarry flew to her arms and gave her a hug.

  “Delysia. We’re going to be married.”

  “No!” cried Miss LaFosse. She embraced Miss Dubarry with equal joy, then firmly removed her friend’s arms and insisted on embracing Tony likewise. Tony did not take it amiss.

  “Congratulations, you old sinner. Why the devil did you wait so long?”

  Tony grinned.

  “I hadn’t the price of a licence.”

  “You could always have borrowed it from Edythe.”

  “Well,” said Tony seriously, “I thought I’d better wait a bit before showing quite so obviously why I was really marrying her. I mean, it was no use throwing away the ship for a ha’porth of patience.”

  “None at all,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “The restraint does you credit.”

  “I’m glad you appreciate my manly capabilities,” said Tony modestly.

  “Oh, all of them,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly. “I’ll be godmother for the first two, but after that I refuse further responsibility.”

  “The thirteenth as well,” begged Tony. “It must have some luck to counteract its fatal number.”

  “You darling,” said Miss LaFosse. “You certainly deserve another kiss for that.”

  She kissed him again. Tony appeared to enjoy it. Miss Pettigrew, by this time, was beginning to get hardened to so much indiscriminate affection. No one else seemed to mind it, why should she? She was slightly puzzled. The atmosphere did not appear to be quite in keeping with the occasion. Shy smiles and blushes were completely absent from Miss Dubarry’s countenance, and an air of grave awareness of his future responsibility did not mantle Tony. It was very difficult to give voice to all the beautiful and tender sentiments which surely the moment demanded. But she could contain herself no longer.

  “Oh,” broke in Miss Pettigrew shyly, in a flutter of romantic enjoyment, “may I…may I offer my congratulations as well.”

  “Thanks,” said Tony.

  “Young love…” began Miss Pettigrew.

  Miss LaFosse and Miss Dubarry swung towards her. By a certain look in Miss Dubarry’s eye, Miss Pettigrew knew she was about to descend upon her again. She was right. She did. Miss Pettigrew found this wholesale display of affection very bewildering, but extremely gratifying. It was not at all in keeping with the rules for a gentlewoman’s behaviour. It lacked that becoming touch of the ‘English reserve’ so esteemed on the continent, but for once Miss Pettigrew didn’t care a damn for a gentlewoman’s reticence.

  Miss Dubarry swooped and gathered Miss Pettigrew in a mighty hug.

  “Oh, you dear, dear thing. How can I ever thank you!” Tears actually trembled in her eyes again.

  “Oh, Guinevere,” cried Miss LaFosse, equally moved, “what would we have done without you?”

  “I can never repay you,” said Miss Dubarry in a quiver of happy emotion. “If there’s anything you ever want, come to me. A wrinkle removed. A change of hair. A fresh face.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Tony.

  “Nothing,” chorused Miss LaFosse and Miss Dubarry.

  “Nothing for male ears,” said Miss LaFosse kindly. “A purely feminine matter.”

  Miss Dubarry gathered her wraps.

  “See you tonight,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “We’ll be there,” said Miss Dubarry.

  The door closed behind them.

  “A very delightful girl,” said Miss Pettigrew, “but a little beyond my comprehension.”

  “We’ll scram,” said Miss LaFosse, “before the rest pile up.”

  They left the house. Miss LaFosse hailed a passing taxi and bundled Miss Pettigrew inside. She stopped at a florist’s and got out.

  “There,” she said cheerfully on return, “I’ve ordered your buttonhole. Who said I had no memory?”

  “Oh, how kind you are!” whispered Miss Pettigrew, tears in her eyes.

  “After what you’ve done for Edythe!” said Miss LaFosse. “What’s a buttonhole?”

  “But,” began poor Miss Pettigrew, “I assure you I don’t…”

  “No depreciation,” said Miss LaFosse. “I won’t hear it.”

  They arrived at Onslow Mansions. They went into the building, rode up in the lift, walked along to Miss LaFosse’s door and Miss LaFosse inserted her key in the lock.

  Miss Pettigrew had a strange sensation of coming home. The afternoon’s visit had been an exciting, thrilling experience, food for thought for many a day, but it was nothing like the feeling as of content after a good meal which invaded her the minute she crossed Miss LaFosse’s threshold again. The sense of simple joy was so poignant it was almost pain. She would not let herself think of tomorrow when all this would only be a dream. This was today.

  Miss Pettigrew bustled in. She turned on the electric light: switched on the electric fire: punched cushions to plump invitation. All the lights had deep crimson shades so that the room was filled with a comfortable, red, glowing look of warmth.

  Miss LaFosse flung off her fur coat.

  “Thank God for a moment’s peace.”

  She sank into a comfortable chair in front of the fire.

  Miss Pettigrew took off her fur coat and laid it aside with a great deal more care. The borrowed gown gave her a luxurious feeling of importance. She could not help walking with a new show of dignity. The rich, black velvet compelled a sense of majesty.

  “Sit down, Guinevere,” said Miss LaFosse. “You’ll tire yourself out.”

  “I’m not a bit tired,” said Miss Pettigrew blissfully. “I’m much too excited to be tired.”

  “Legs O.K.?”

  “My legs,” said Miss Pettigrew with renewed dignity, “were always all right. My head was only a little fuddled with the heat, that is all.”

  “Have it your own way,” said Miss LaFosse with a grin.

  Miss Pettigrew came and sat beside her happily. The electric fire sent out a glow of warmth after the chill, dark November streets. She and Miss LaFosse were alone in the room with a comfortable, cosy sense of intimacy. Curtains drawn, doors shut, chairs drawn up to the fire. She felt it was about the happiest moment in the whole of a marvellous day. But she only wanted it to be a breathing space. There was a great many years stretching ahead of her which would be simply packed with quiet, uneventful periods. At the present time peace was decidedly not her desire. Quite the reverse. Something must happen again soon. If it didn’t she would feel cheated, but surely the fates had been far too kind to her so far to turn round and desert her now. Something would happen. She would be sensible and enjoy this relaxation while it lasted to allow her to recuperate before events
started happening again.

  “I don’t know about you,” said Miss Pettigrew daringly, “but I could just do with a nice cup of tea.”

  “Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.

  “The other drinks were very nice for a change,” said Miss Pettigrew earnestly, “and certainly give one delightfully odd feelings, but I always say you can’t beat a really nice…cup…of…tea.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Miss LaFosse kindly. “I shall go and make one.”

  “Sit still,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly. “If you only knew how I…how I enjoy doing it…particularly for some one who appreciates it.”

  Miss LaFosse allowed her to have her own way.

  Miss Pettigrew hurried into the kitchen. She moved around in a happy swirl of busy domesticity. It was so different working for Miss LaFosse. A pang shot through her heart. How blissful to own a place like this for oneself! Never to work for any one else again: never to sit on the outskirts while others basked in the centre: never to be ignored, looked down on, disregarded. She pushed the feeling away. Her day was not yet over. Obviously it was not over. Miss LaFosse had planned for the night as well, or why the flowers from the florists?

  The electric kettle boiled. Miss Pettigrew made the tea. She put it on a tray with some biscuits and carried it to the waiting Miss LaFosse.

  “You’re quite right,” said Miss LaFosse; “this tea is definitely refreshing.”

  Above her own fragrant cup Miss Pettigrew beamed contentedly.

  “I always say, a nice, refreshing cup of tea and you’re set up for hours.”

  “What time is it?” asked Miss LaFosse.

  “Nearly seven,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Ah!” said Miss LaFosse luxuriously. “Hours before I need change.”

  “I understand,” said Miss Pettigrew with careless sophistication, “that you sing at a night club.”

  “That’s right. The Scarlet Peacock. Nick’s place, you know.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew with foreboding.

  “Didn’t Tony and Edythe look happy?” sighed Miss LaFosse. Her face took on a dreamy, ruminating look of the female ripe for a little male attention. Miss Pettigrew’s heart sank still lower.

  “The culmination of all true romance,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly, “is marriage. Unless the thought of marriage enters both partners’ heads, you may be sure there will be no permanent happiness.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.

  “And I hope,” said Miss Pettigrew, “you are not contemplating marriage with Nick. I really couldn’t advise it.”

  “Lord love you, no,” said Miss LaFosse, shocked. “Nick…married! He wouldn’t be faithful five minutes.”

  “I congratulate your acumen,” said Miss Pettigrew. “He would not.”

  “But he’s a grand lover,” said Miss LaFosse wistfully.

  “No doubt,” said Miss Pettigrew. “All practice makes perfect.”

  “He reaches marvellous heights,” pursued Miss LaFosse pleadingly.

  “What interests me,” said Miss Pettigrew, “is the staying power.”

  “Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.

  “You see,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “I see,” agreed Miss LaFosse sadly.

  “Time you did,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.

  “You do damp a girl’s enthusiasm,” sighed Miss LaFosse.

  “Only when necessary,” retorted Miss Pettigrew.

  “You’re getting so stern,” said Miss LaFosse with a twinkle, “I’ll be afraid of you soon.”

  “And very good if you were,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  Miss LaFosse chuckled.

  “What’s in a drink!”

  “Oh!” Miss Pettigrew subsided in a fluster. “Oh, my dear Miss LaFosse…I assure you…you are quite wrong. I was…”

  “There…there,” soothed Miss LaFosse. “Just a joke. What about a spot of dinner? What shall I order?”

  “Dinner?” said Miss Pettigrew. “For me? Oh no, thank you. I’m much too excited to eat. I should get indigestion and possibly hiccups again and my night would be ruined.”

  “I’m not very hungry myself,” agreed Miss LaFosse lazily. “Shall we leave it over then, and have a bite of supper later on?”

  “Much the best plan,” concurred Miss Pettigrew.

  She poured herself out another cup of tea. This interlude was very pleasant, but it was getting a little protracted. Something should happen soon. She had only known Miss LaFosse for part of a day, but something had happened the whole time. She sat waiting for something to happen now. She would have been gravely disappointed if events had not kept up to standard. She was not a bit surprised when the bell rang. She leaped to her feet at once, expectancy in her eyes, nerves attuned for battle, murder or sudden death. Miss LaFosse made preparations for uprising.

  “I’ll go,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  But it was only the flowers. Miss Pettigrew slowly returned with the package.

  “There,” said Miss LaFosse when she opened the box, “the very thing.”

  A single scarlet rose, in a nest of feathery green, glowed with a brilliant colour. Miss LaFosse tried it on Miss Pettigrew’s shoulder.

  “Just as Edythe said,” exulted Miss LaFosse. “That one touch of colour against the black gown and the green ear-rings and necklace gives just the right air of…of…! Perfect,” she ended, words failing.

  She laid it carefully on the table and sat down again. Suddenly a sense of guilt descended on Miss Pettigrew.

  All day she had accepted benefits, chattered in equality with Miss LaFosse, visited Miss LaFosse’s friends. What would Miss LaFosse think when she discovered her real mission? No excuse to say she had tried to tell her. They had been very half-hearted attempts. Obviously, had she really wanted, she could have made the opportunity. There had been numerous periods during the day when it had never even come into her head to try and tell Miss LaFosse. Conscience smote Miss Pettigrew.

  She began to tremble, trying to push away the small, clear voice. She wanted to go where they were going tonight, with a pathetic, passionate eagerness. She wanted to visit a night club, to partake of its activities, to be at one with the gay world. Simply and honestly she faced and confessed her abandonment of all the principles that had guided her through life. In one short day, at the first wink of temptation, she had not just fallen, but positively tumbled, from grace. Her long years of virtue counted for nothing. She had never been tempted before. The fleshpots called: the music bewitched: dens of iniquity charmed. She actually wanted to taste again the wonderful drink Tony had given her, which left one with such a sense of security and power. There was no excuse. She could not deny that this way of sin, condemned by parents and principles, was a great deal more pleasant than the lonely path of virtue, and her morals had not withstood the test.

  She glanced despairingly round the room. The thought of losing this last, perfect finish to a perfect day rendered her sick with disappointment. But she could accept no further kindness from Miss LaFosse under false pretences. Her conscience had been trained too rigorously.

  She came and sat in front of Miss LaFosse.

  “There’s a little matter,” began Miss Pettigrew in a husky, quivering voice, “I really think we should get settled before…”

  “I had no mother,” said Miss LaFosse.

  Miss Pettigrew gaped.

  “At least,” amended Miss LaFosse, “there was a woman who brought me into the world. But I didn’t choose her. I don’t miss her.”

  “Your mother!” gasped Miss Pettigrew, shocked.

  “She wasn’t a very nice woman,” said Miss LaFosse simply. “In fact, she was a very unpleasant woman. You know, the kind that sends shivers down your back when you think of them. Not good for children at all. A very bad influence. Seeing you sitting there, you’re just the kind I’d choose if I had my choice. Not, mind you,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly, “that you’re old enough to be my mother. I know that. Bu
t that’s what I feel. You inspire confidence and affection. I’m glad I’ve met you.”

  “Oh, my dear!” quavered Miss Pettigrew. “I can’t bear any more kindness. No. I can’t. I’m not used to it.”

  Miss Pettigrew’s eyes flooded with moisture.

  “If you only knew…” she faltered.

  Rat-tat-tat. Bang-bang-bang. Thump-thump-thump, thundered some one’s fist on the door.

  “There,” said Miss LaFosse in an annoyed voice. “Who can that be? As if they couldn’t use the bell respectably. Suppose I’ll have to answer it.”

  But Miss Pettigrew was on her feet. Her tears had dried like magic. She was electrified, galvanized, quivering like a hound at the scent. That knock heralded no ordinary visitor. Cone was her confession.

  She was across the room in a flash. Eyes beaming, face radiant, body tensed, Miss Pettigrew flung open the door.

  CHAPTER TEN

  7.25 PM—8.28 PM

  “Ha!” thundered a loud, masculine voice. “Don’t tell me she’s not in, because I won’t believe it.”

  “Come in,” said Miss Pettigrew ecstatically.

  The visitor strode into the room: a tall man, in evening dress. Black coat, not properly fastened: silk hat aslant: white muffler, floating loose. A magnificent body, a rugged face, a fighter’s chin, a piercing eye, a stormy expression. A Hercules of a man: a Clark Gable of a man.

  He flung off his hat, tore off his muffler, cast gloves on the floor and glared round the room with the quenching, thrilling, piercing, paralysing eye of the traditional strong hero, but not, like him, silent. His gaze fastened on Miss LaFosse.

  “So, you little devil,” he said furiously, “I’ve caught up with you at last, have I?”

  “Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse.

  She did not even rise to greet her guest. She seemed fastened to her chair by pure fright or shock, or dismay, or at least some strong emotion, Miss Pettigrew diagnosed. Strong emotions, however, at the moment, were Miss Pettigrew’s meat. She revelled in them. She got ready to interpose her body between Miss LaFosse and a possible assailant, but the latest visitor whipped past her as if she were not there and towered above Miss LaFosse.

  “Well! What have you got to say for yourself?”