1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day Read online

  “Excellent,” said Joe. “We can enjoy life together.”

  The words were only a phrase, Miss Pettigrew knew, but she had a sudden vision of a life rich, varied; a little vulgar perhaps. He would get drunk sometimes. He would undoubtedly shock her. He was not refined. He would bring odd people to the house. Her standards would be turned topsy-turvy, but what a sense of ease, of security, of fullness he would bring to existence!

  She stole a look at him. Big, bluff, hearty, a hint he could be a little brutal maybe, but also kind and considerate. He was not a gentleman. Her mother would have been shocked by him. Mrs. Brummegan might have cut him, if she had not first heard of his money. Her father would definitely not have admitted him within the circle of his intimates. She was lowering her dignity as a well-bred gentlewoman in accepting his attentions, but she had sunk so low in one short day she simply didn’t care whether he was vulgar or not.

  Joe’s conventionally encircling arm was now definitely a warm, comfortable embrace. Miss Pettigrew, there was no other word for it, simply snuggled in. She was quite shamelessly happy.

  The rain outside had not stopped, but turned to a horrid, wet sleet, neither snow nor rain, that plastered one window of the taxi where the wind blew against it. Miss Pettigrew watched it from the serene comfort of the warm interior of the taxi.

  “You were quite right,” said Miss Pettigrew. “It’s not a night to be out in.”

  “Catch your death of cold,” agreed Joe.

  “Especially in this modern evening wear,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Very attractive,” said Joe gallantly, “but not sensible.”

  “No real warmth in a single garment,” admitted Miss Pettigrew.

  “We have to wear silk too,” said Joe gloomily.

  “Wool,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I don’t care what people say. Wool is still the best wear for winter.”

  “I quite agree,” said Joe fervently. This was a vital subject.

  “But the young girls!” Miss Pettigrew shook her head. “Silk it is and silk it has to be. No warmth at all. I don’t know how they don’t all die of pneumonia. You cannot make them understand that they look better for wool. A warm body means a glowing face. A cold body means a pinched look and a red nose.”

  “What about the men?” said Joe with earnest gloom. “I’m used to wool. I was brought up on wool. My mother insisted on wool. I like my woollen vest and pants. But dare I wear them! No. I don’t. They’d think I was an old fogey. They think I should wear silk as well as themselves. I’d blush if they discovered me in wool.”

  “I presume,” said Miss Pettigrew scornfully, “you are speaking of the young girls you are so fond of. You are a very stupid man. You should remember your age. No. I will not flatter you. You are not a young man. You will undoubtedly get rheumatism. You go straight home tonight and tomorrow insist on pure woollen underwear. Whether I am rude or not, let me tell you this. They won’t get romantic over you whether you wear silk or wool. So you may just as well wear wool and be comfortable.”

  “Could you?” asked Joe.

  “Could I what?”

  “Get romantic over me?”

  Miss Pettigrew blushed. She positively wriggled with pleasure. She looked almost arch. This, thought Miss Pettigrew delightedly, is flirting Why had she waited so long to savour its enjoyment?

  “I,” said Miss Pettigrew subtly, “am not a young girl.”

  “Ah!” triumphed Joe, who was all there. “Then you could?”

  “I might,” said Miss Pettigrew coyly.

  “I insist.”

  “I am not in the habit,” said Miss Pettigrew with tremendous boldness, “of getting romantic over every handsome man I meet.”

  “Me?” said Joe, pleased. “Handsome?”

  “No mock modesty,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You know there is no need for you to worry over looks.”

  “I return the compliment,” said Joe.

  They were both pleased. Joe beamed. Miss Pettigrew felt immensely at ease. She ventured another sly allusion.

  “Woollen underwear,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  Joe’s delighted, booming laugh rang out. His wits were never slow.

  “It leads one’s thoughts astray,” chuckled Joe, “but in the right direction.”

  Miss Pettigrew looked demure.

  “I will revert to sense and warm vests tomorrow,” promised Joe.

  A common belief in woollen underwear was a bond to shatter the last barrier of constraint. They obviously had important tastes in common. Miss Pettigrew held very firmly to his warm, free hand. Joe’s arm remained around her. They were both content. To Joe, the knowledge that at his age, fifty-five, his arm round a woman definitely thrilled her, gave him a thrill in return. It made him feel years younger. With those brazen young girls, you were never sure.

  “Speaking of clothes,” said Joe, “I know a bit about clothes. Got to in my job. Your black get-up lacked only the one touch.”

  “What’s that?” asked Miss Pettigrew, faintly dashed, but intensely interested.

  “Pearls,” said Joe. “A string of pearls and you were perfect.”

  “Pearls!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. “Me? I’ve never even owned an imitation string in all my life.”

  “I’ll buy you some,” said Joe simply.

  Miss Pettigrew sat very still. It had come at last. A man was trying to buy her with presents. It was the first step: a crucial moment. Always, in films, when the man produced the first gift of jewellery, you knew that danger hovered. He was that sort of man! No good man offered a lady gifts. Not jewellery! There was something sinister, subtly immoral about the offer of jewellery. Chocolates, yes, flowers, handkerchiefs, extravagant dinners and theatres, but not jewellery, not fur coats. Fur coats and jewellery were the bad man’s betrayal: the good girl’s warning.

  “All my life,” said Miss Pettigrew, “I’ve longed for some jewellery. I’d love some.”

  “I’ll get you some tomorrow,” said Joe.

  “I’ll accept,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Why not?” asked Joe in surprise.

  “Ladies don’t,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Are you a lady?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “I knew it,” said Joe gloomily. “I suspected it. I felt you were different.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Miss Pettigrew humbly.

  “It does rather complicate matters, doesn’t it?” said Joe sadly.

  “Does it?” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Doesn’t it?” said Joe hopefully.

  “No,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I find it much pleasanter not to be a lady. I have been one all my life. And what have I to show for it? Nothing. I have ceased to be one.”

  “Ah!” said Joe, brightening. “That simplifies matters.”

  “What matters?” asked Miss Pettigrew.

  “A kiss matters,” said Joe tentatively.

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew.

  She became bold.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Then…suppose we try it.”

  They tried it. Inexpertly, it is true, on Miss Pettigrew’s part, but Joe’s tuition was sound, his technique polished.

  When Miss Pettigrew at last left Olympus and came back to earth, she was a changed woman. She never need hang her head again. She could now speak with authority. She was inexperienced no longer. She had been kissed soundly: with experience, with mastery, with ardour. Her face had such a radiance Joe felt humble.

  “I’ve never been kissed before,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Then I’m a lucky man,” said Joe. “I shall make up for lost time.”

  Miss Pettigrew started.

  “Oh dear! I had forgotten all about the time. What will Miss LaFosse think? I must return at once.”

  Miss Pettigrew became agitated. Joe was a sensible man. He acted the gentleman at once. He sat up and picked up the speaking-tube.

  “Five, Onslow Mansions,” said Joe.
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  The taxi slowed, wheeled, turned.

  “If I may,” said Joe, “I will call at Delysia’s in the morning and take you to lunch.”

  Reality, like a thousand tons of bricks, came tumbling about Miss Pettigrew.

  “I won’t be there,” said Miss Pettigrew in a flat voice.

  “That doesn’t matter. Where will you be?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Don’t know,” said Joe in surprise.

  Miss Pettigrew slowly sat up. She turned away her head. She fought to keep back weak, hopeless tears.

  “I have been leading you astray,” said Miss Pettigrew in a muffled voice. “I am not what you think I am. I never thought you would ever want to see me after tonight, so I didn’t think you need know. I must tell you the truth now.”

  “I often think,” said Joe cautiously, “that truth is the better course, but if you don’t want to tell me…”

  “I have lied to you,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I am not really a friend of Miss LaFosse.”

  “But she said you were,” said Joe, bewildered.

  “She was only being kind,” said Miss Pettigrew. “These clothes I have on. They’re not mine. They’re hers. She only loaned them to me for the night.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?” asked Joe.

  “This face you see,” said Miss Pettigrew valiantly, “which I…I think you like. It isn’t really mine. Miss Dubarry and Miss LaFosse just made it up on top of my own. I’m really a very plain, dowdy, spinster. You wouldn’t really like me.”

  “I think I might,” said Joe, manfully keeping his face straight.

  “I happened to do a little thing for Miss LaFosse this morning,” explained Miss Pettigrew in a tremulous voice, “and she very kindly entertained me all day and brought me tonight, but she doesn’t really know me.”

  “Don’t you think,” said Joe, “if you, well, began at the beginning. I’m a little bewildered.”

  “I met Miss LaFosse for the first time in my life this morning,” confessed Miss Pettigrew, “when I went there to try and get a post.”

  She thought she had better not tell Joe what kind of a post, as he might know nothing about the child, or children, Miss LaFosse probably had tucked away, so she skipped the employment tactfully and in a stammering voice told Joe the history of her day’s adventures. Joe was delighted with them. He thumped his knee with appreciation.

  “You’re a world’s wonder,” said Joe delightedly. “What do I care whether you are in work or out of work! What’s your real address? I’ll call there.”

  Miss Pettigrew flushed, then went white. She stammered painfully.

  “I haven’t any. I owe my landlady rent. She said if I did not get a post today, I had to leave. I have not got a post.”

  “If I could be of any assistance,” offered Joe tactfully.

  “Oh, perhaps you could.” Miss Pettigrew turned with eager hopefulness. “You seem such an important man. You must know a lot of people. Perhaps among your numerous friends one of them might be wanting a governess and you could at least mention my name. That’s what I am. A governess.”

  “Oh!” said Joe, whose offer of assistance had meant a much more immediate pecuniary advantage.

  “Of course I will,” he added hastily. “I am quite sure I will be able to find you something. Have no fear.”

  Miss Pettigrew’s face lightened with pathetic relief, then clouded again.

  “Oh dear!” she said in distress. “I had better be honest. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair to you, giving a personal recommendation, not knowing. I am not a very good governess,” said Miss Pettigrew hopelessly. “It would have to be a very simple post. In my last place I’m afraid the term governess was only a polite fiction for a kind of nursemaid. You had better know the worst.”

  “I quite understand,” said Joe. “The difficulty is not insurmountable.”

  “You are so kind,” stammered Miss Pettigrew.

  “And now,” said Joe, “I’m very lonely back here all by myself.”

  He drew Miss Pettigrew back and his arm, very firmly, went round her again.

  They arrived at Onslow Mansions. Joe dismissed the taxi and came into the building with Miss Pettigrew. The hall was empty. The night porter was not in sight. Joe prepared to ascend with Miss Pettigrew to have a private word with Miss LaFosse, but Miss Pettigrew stayed him.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Miss Pettigrew shyly, “I had better go up alone. Miss LaFosse has been exceptionally good to me. I could not take it upon myself to bring up an uninvited guest. It would be trespassing on her kindness too much. I could not do such a thing. I am quite sure she would not like it.”

  “Just as you wish,” said Joe, valiantly trying to reach Miss Pettigrew’s standard of politeness, and to see Miss LaFosse as an outraged hostess. Delysia, he was well aware, wouldn’t notice anything amiss if Miss Pettigrew arrived back with ten strange men.

  “Here is my card,” said Joe firmly. “You are to be there tomorrow at twelve prompt. If you do not come I shall put detectives on your track. Promise.”

  “Oh!” whispered Miss Pettigrew. “You really think you will be able to find something for me?”

  “I am quite sure,” said Joe with such a meaning glance that Miss Pettigrew’s heart missed two beats, “I will be able to find some position for you.”

  “Oh, thank you,” said Miss Pettigrew breathlessly. “I…I wouldn’t trouble you only…only I’m getting a little cowardly. It is so very worrying being out of a position.”

  “No trouble,” said Joe. “A pleasure. No more worrying.”

  “Good night,” said Miss Pettigrew shyly. “And thank you for the happiest night of my life.”

  She held out her hand, but Joe was not accustomed to such formality. Miss Pettigrew was once more engulfed in a hearty masculine embrace and soundly kissed.

  “Until tomorrow,” said Joe.

  Miss Pettigrew walked up the first few stairs a little dazed with happiness.

  Joe routed out the night porter and inquired Miss LaFosse’s telephone number. He waited ten minutes and put through a call.

  “Hallo!” said Miss LaFosse’s voice.

  “That you, Delysia?” inquired Joe.

  “Yes,” said Miss LaFosse. “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me, Joe, but don’t say anything. Miss Pettigrew there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keep her tonight, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll explain in the morning. Don’t tell her.”

  “That’s O.K.”

  “I’ll be around early.”

  “Not too early. I’ll keep the bird.”

  “Right you are. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Joe hung up the telephone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  3.6 AM—3.47 AM

  Miss Pettigrew walked up the first few stairs like a sleep-walker. Her feet sank into the deep carpet. The building was silent. Dim lights lit the stairs and corridors. The quietness induced meditation. Slowly her sense of happiness departed. She faltered. Her steps lagged. Her fairy-tale world faded. She stared in front of her at a phantom fear which loomed ahead.

  Her day was over. It had been a wonderful day, but it was over. She saw herself clearly again just as she really was: as she had been on her first trip up these stairs so short a time ago, penniless, out of work, nervous, unattractive. That was her real self. She had been something a little eccentric and highly entertaining to Miss LaFosse for a day, and Miss LaFosse was accustomed to indulge her whims, but she knew quite well what Miss LaFosse’s final reaction would be.

  She would arrive, give Miss LaFosse back her clothes, put on her old ones again, return to her old self, look a little seedy, a little down-at-heels, unprepossessing. Miss LaFosse would feel uncomfortable and a little irritated and would wonder how she could most conveniently rid herself of an encumbrance.

  Miss Pettigrew couldn’t bear her to t
hink that. Anything rather than that. She made a terrified vow.

  She would rush in, pretend she was in a hurry, hustle into her own clothes, give hasty thanks and make a quick departure. Miss LaFosse’s memory of her shouldn’t be tinged by a single minute’s discomfort.

  Having made this courageous vow, Miss Pettigrew’s steps still refused to quicken. Instead they went even slower and slower, while she tried to fight off a paralysing terror. Mrs. Pocknall would never let her in now. She would never dare knock up Mrs. Pocknall at this scandalous hour. She would have to walk the streets for the remainder of the night. She leaned trembling against the wall.

  After a few seconds’ complete submission to panic she slowly resumed her upward climb. She reached Miss LaFosse’s corridor: saw the now familiar door. Was it only this morning she had looked upon it as a strange door and approached it with timid apprehension, wondering what reception it had for her, dreading failure, praying for once her fear would be wrong, never in wildest imagination dreaming what did await her?

  “But it’s over,” thought Miss Pettigrew. “I’ve had my day. I have been very lucky. Some never even have that. I must be brave.”

  She took another step towards the end. The silky fur of Miss LaFosse’s coat still enveloped her, but it was only there in fact, not in spirit. In spirit Miss Pettigrew was again wearing her old tweed coat, her battered felt hat, her down-at-heels shoes. In spirit she was the ineffective governess again, with neither courage, initiative nor charm. No man would ever like her as she really was. Flirting was a charming game. Men knew you expected them to flatter you and gratified your wish, but they expected you also to greet their remarks in like spirit. It was only her stupid inexperience which had made her take everything seriously.

  If she turned up tomorrow in her true guise, would not Mr. Blomfield wonder what in heaven’s name to do with her and how to get rid of her politely? She would sit in an agony of hurt and shame and embarrassment. She could not face it. She would never go near him again.

  “No…No. Never that,” whispered Miss Pettigrew to herself. “At least he shall always think of me as he saw me tonight.”

  She stood at Miss LaFosse’s door while the seconds ticked a minute. She could not bring herself to ring, to end everything.