1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day Read online

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” said Miss Pettigrew faintly.

  Miss LaFosse sat in front of the mirror in preparation for the greatest rite of all, the face decoration. The dressing-table bore so many bottles and jars Miss Pettigrew lost count of them.

  “Now, Alice,” said Miss LaFosse, “sit down. You’ll tire yourself out standing round like that.”

  With the happy sense of being looked after, never experienced since she was eighteen and took her first post, Miss Pettigrew found a chair and pulled it close to the dressing-table.

  “Excuse me,” said Miss Pettigrew. She flushed slightly. “My real name is Guinevere. It’s a very silly name, I know, given me by my mother, and not at all suitable. She had been reading Sir Lancelot and Guinevere. Alice, as you say, is much more suitable. I look,” said Miss Pettigrew sadly, “much more like Alice.”

  Miss LaFosse swung round.

  “Nonsense,” she said ecstatically. “It’s a lovely name: a perfectly marvellous name. And actually your own. It gives you importance at once. It…it makes you somebody.” She lowered her voice. “My own name,” she confided, “is Sarah Grubb. There! I’ve told you and I wouldn’t confess it to another living soul, but I think a lot of you. You’ve saved my reputation today. When I went on the stage I took another name. I called myself Delysia LaFosse. I made up the LaFosse myself. I thought it was very good.”

  “You look,” said Miss Pettigrew, “much more like a Delysia.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss LaFosse; “I kind of thought I did.”

  “What’s in a name,” quoted Miss Pettigrew dreamily.

  “The hell of a lot,” said Miss LaFosse simply; “a damned, snooping little newspaper man with a spite against me dug up my real name once and I daren’t tell you what I had to do to make him keep it out of his wretched little gossip column.”

  Miss Pettigrew didn’t dare think.

  “Ruined I’d have been,” continued Miss LaFosse. “Can’t you see it? Sarah Grubb. Enough to damn any one. Who could get enthusiastic over a Sarah Grubb! But the fates were kind. He got drunk as usual one night and got run over by a lorry so that was one worry the less for me.”

  “Very kind,” agreed Miss Pettigrew feebly.

  “What’s the full label?” asked Miss LaFosse, interested.

  Miss Pettigrew’s wits were becoming remarkably sharpened in one day. She understood at once.

  “Pettigrew,” said Miss Pettigrew. “Guinevere Pettigrew. Very ridiculous, I’m afraid you’ll think.”

  “Perfect,” breathed Miss LaFosse; “absolutely perfect. A marvellous combination. And all your own. No chance of some wretched little tyke making a fool of you by dishing up an Ethel Blogg. You’re sure,” pressed Miss LaFosse earnestly, “you’ve never thought of going on the boards? I mean, with your powers of mimicry and all that. I have a bit of influence, you know.”

  “No,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly, but with a new sense of importance, of prestige, or consequence, “never.”

  “A pity.” Miss LaFosse shook her head. “A great pity. A perfect name lost from the lights.”

  She drew the comb through her hair.

  “You have beautiful hair,” said Miss Pettigrew wistfully. She looked at her own straight, lustreless locks a little sadly in the mirror. “It makes such a difference.”

  “All the difference in the world,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “I’m lucky. My hair has a natural wave, but if it hadn’t, it’s a perm, you want. There’s nothing like a good perm, for working a transformation. I mean, even if you do go out in the rain, it stays in curl. Not like a marcel, that goes straight at once and looks worse than it did before.” She looked critically at Miss Pettigrew.

  “I really think we’ll have to. I don’t mean to offend, but don’t you think an outsider sometimes knows better what suits you than you do yourself? Alphonse is the very man. He’ll know just what to do. We’ll go to him.”

  Miss Pettigrew sat, face pink, eyes shining, mouth trembling.

  “Oh, my dear,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You couldn’t offend me, but aren’t you forgetting that…”

  There was a loud ring at the bell.

  “There!” said Miss LaFosse. “Do you mind…?”

  Mind! Miss Pettigrew was on her feet in a flash. She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her. One never knew. Her feet nearly tripped over themselves hurrying over the floor. She stood in front of the door for one perfect, breathless second of expectancy; then she flung it open.

  CHAPTER SIX

  3.13 PM—3.44 PM

  “OH!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. She was nearly knocked over by the flying passage of a female body belonging to a lady of startling attractions. Miss Pettigrew gaped, blinked and devoured them avidly. The lady was young, slim, arresting. Her face was of a deep, creamy pallor, devoid of any colour except the wicked red bow of her mouth. Hair, like black lacquer, parted in the middle, was coiled in an elaborate roll at the nape of her neck. A tiny hat was perched at an acute angle at the side of her head. Black brows curved with an unnatural slant above eyes of a surprisingly vivid blue for a brunette. Long, black lashes, as thick and curled as the most famous of film star’s, held Miss Pettigrew’s fascinated attention. Vivid green ear-rings dangled from tiny, shell-like ears snug against her head. As she moved, a delicate perfume, subtly alluring, beguiled Miss Pettigrew’s senses. Her clothes…Miss Pettigrew gave it up. Her experience had not fitted her to describe Parisian confections. The lady had flung open her fur coat and tossed her gloves on the couch. Obviously here to stay. Miss Pettigrew turned and shut the door.

  The visitor glanced distractedly round the room.

  “I don’t know you.”

  “No,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Is Delysia in?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must see her. I simply must see her. I can see her?”

  “Certainly,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

  “I mean,” she threw a wild glance at the closed bedroom door, “I’m not butting in. I hear Nick’s back.”

  “Miss LaFosse is alone.”

  “Thank God!”

  “If you will tell me your name,” said Miss Pettigrew helpfully, “I will acquaint Miss LaFosse of your presence.”

  The visitor was already on her way to the door. She threw a surprised glance over her shoulder.

  “That’s all right. She knows me.”

  She hurried to the door and flung it open.

  “Delysia.”

  “Go away,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “I know. When haven’t you. That’s why I’m saying go away. I’m busy just now. If you distract me while I’m making up my face I’ll make a mistake and look a fright. I’ll not be long.”

  “I’ve simply got to talk to you.”

  “Guinevere,” called Miss LaFosse.

  “Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew, immediate attention.

  “Edythe, meet Guinevere. She’ll look after you. Guinevere, meet Edythe. For the love of God take her away and do something with her. She’s a terrible woman, but I’ll not be long.”

  “Delighted,” said Miss Pettigrew happily.

  She shut the bedroom door firmly. Miss LaFosse wanted to be alone. Miss LaFosse should be alone. She turned a little diffidently to her new visitor. She was not quite sure how one talked to young women like this. They could not all be as simple and kindly as Miss LaFosse.

  “Pettigrew is the surname,” she said a little apologetically, in case the visitor should not like the familiarity of Christian names.

  “Ah! Mine’s Dubarry.”

  “How-do-you-do?” said Miss Pettigrew politely.

  “Lousy,” said Miss Dubarry. “How are you?”

  “Oh…oh, fine,” said Miss Pettigrew, gasping, but hastily seeking sophisticated ease. “Just fine.”

  “Then you’re safely married,” said Miss Dubarry gloomily, “or you’re not in love. I’m neither.”

  “Neither what?” qu
eried Miss Pettigrew, surprised into rudeness.

  “I’m not safely married and I am in love.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew, thrilled, interested, frankly curious. “How lovely.”

  “Lovely?” exploded Miss Dubarry. “Lovely? When the dirty dog’s walked out on me!”

  “Oh, how tragic!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

  “Tragic’s the word,” groaned Miss Dubarry. “That’s why I’ve come to Delysia. She’s got brains, that woman, even if she is a natural beauty as well. Don’t you be deceived.”

  “I’m not,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “No, you wouldn’t be. It’s the men who make the mistake. They see she’s got the looks and think she can’t have the grey matter as well, and they try to take her for a ride. Their mistake, of course.”

  “They deserve all they get,” said Miss Pettigrew belligerently, but without the faintest idea of what they were talking about.

  “That’s what I say. But she’s got brains. She gets away with it. I haven’t, so I always land in a mess.”

  She glanced so unhappily round the room that Miss Pettigrew’s kind heart melted.

  “Have a seat,” said Miss Pettigrew kindly.

  “Thanks, I will.”

  Miss Dubarry sat down.

  “Men are awful,” said Miss Dubarry miserably.

  “I quite agree,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  The subject of the conversation still eluded her, but she didn’t care. She was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was in a state of spiritual intoxication. No one had ever talked to her like that before. The very odd-ness of their conversation sent thrills of delight down her spine. Come to think of it, hardly any one had ever troubled to talk to her about anything at all: not in a personal sense. But these people! They opened their hearts. They admitted her. She was one of themselves. It was the amazing way they took her for granted that thrilled every nerve in her body. No surprise: they simply said ‘Hallo’, and you were one of themselves. No worrying what your position and your family and your bank balance were. In all her lonely life Miss Pettigrew had never realized how lonely she had been until now, when for one day she was lonely no longer. She couldn’t analyse the difference. For years she had lived in other people’s houses and had never been an inmate in the sense of belonging, and now, in a few short hours, she was serenely and blissfully at home. She was accepted. They talked to her.

  And how they talked! She had never heard the like before. Their ridiculous inconsequence. Every sentence was like a heady cocktail. The whole flavour of the remarks gave her a wicked feeling of sophistication. And the way she kept her end up! No one would ever dream she was new to it.

  “I never believed,” thought Miss Pettigrew with pride, “that I had it in me.”

  She stood beaming down at Miss Dubarry. Miss Dubarry sat staring gloomily at the electric fire, quite unaware of the elation she was causing her friend Delysia’s friend. Miss Pettigrew thought she must do something to lighten Miss Dubarry’s distress. She soared to the heights. With carelessness, with ease, with negligent poise, as featured in countless Talkies.

  “Have a spot,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  Miss Dubarry brightened.

  “That’s an idea. Blessings on the woman.”

  Miss Pettigrew resorted once more to the cupboard in the kitchen. She came back with a laden tray. She had put on a bottle of most things she could discover.

  “Perhaps you’ll mix your own,” she said with careless airiness. “Every one to their own poison, I always say.”

  Miss Dubarry rose with alacrity.

  “Just a little gin I think, and…where’s the lime juice? Ah! Here. I think a gin and lime will do me grand.”

  Miss Pettigrew watched her with veiled concentration.

  “What’ll yours be?” offered Miss Dubarry helpfully.

  Miss Pettigrew started.

  A hasty refusal came to her lips, then she changed her mind. This was no time for squeamishness. A hostess must drink with her guest.

  “I’ll mix my own,” said Miss Pettigrew recklessly.

  Miss Dubarry retired with her drink. Hastily Miss Pettigrew filled a glass with soda and just coloured it with sherry to give it a look of authenticity. She returned to her seat.

  “Mud in your eyes,” said Miss Dubarry.

  Miss Pettigrew knew no happy rejoinders, so made one up.

  “Wash and brush up,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  They drank.

  “Another?” offered Miss Pettigrew.

  “I don’t think I’d better,” said Miss Dubarry reluctantly. “I mean, if we’re going to the Ogilveys’, we’d better arrive sober. I mean, we nearly always leave drunk.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

  “And then, if Tony’s there, I’ll need all my wits about me.”

  “Precisely,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “So I’d better not have another.”

  “The bar has closed,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Well, perhaps just a splash ,” said Miss Dubarry.

  She splashed. Already she looked a great deal more cheerful. Her air of funereal gloom had almost departed. She regarded Miss Pettigrew with interested curiosity and made no bones about satisfying her inquisitiveness.

  “Friend of Delysia’s?”

  Miss Pettigrew stared at her toes, glanced at the closed bedroom door, looked back at Miss Dubarry.

  “Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Close friends.”

  “Very,” lied Miss Pettigrew.

  “Well,” said Miss Dubarry, “I always say ‘a friend of Delysia’s is a friend of mine ‘.”

  “Thank you,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “She sees things in people I don’t and she’s always right, so I follow her lead.”

  This sounded a little doubtful to Miss Pettigrew, so she only smiled.

  “New to London,” diagnosed Miss Dubarry brilliantly.

  Miss Pettigrew forbore to tell her that for the last ten years all her posts had been in and near London. Suddenly she was ashamed to acknowledge it. Obviously she had gained nothing by this advantage.

  “I was born in a village in Northumberland,” she prevaricated.

  “Ah!” said Miss Dubarry brightly. “Scotland.”

  “Well. Not quite,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “It’s a long way from London,” said Miss Dubarry darkly.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Here for good now?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Ah. You’ll soon learn things here. There’s no place like London. Takes time, you know. But you’ll soon leave the provinces behind.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “No doubt at all, with a little expert advice.”

  Miss Dubarry stood up abruptly. She circled Miss Pettigrew, eyes intent, expression concentrated. Miss Pettigrew sat petrified. Miss Dubarry frowned. She held her chin between thumb and forefinger. She shook her head. Suddenly she barked, “You shouldn’t wear those muddy browns. They’re not your colour.”

  “Oh!” Miss Pettigrew jumped.

  “Certainly not. Where’s your taste? Where’s your artistic discrimination?”

  “I haven’t any,” said Miss Pettigrew meekly.

  “And your make–up;’s wrong.”

  “Make-up!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

  “Make-up.”

  “Me?” said Miss Pettigrew faintly.

  “You.”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “No make–up;,” said Miss Dubarry shocked. “Why? It’s indecent, walking around naked.”

  Miss Pettigrew stared at her blankly. Her mind was whirling: her thoughts chaotic. A mental upheaval rendered her dizzy. Yes, why? All these years and she had never had the wicked thrill of powdering her nose. Others had experienced that joy. Never she. And all because she lacked courage. All because she had never thought for herself. Powder, thundered her father the curate, the road to damnation. Lipstick, whispered her mothe
r, the first step on the downward path. Rouge, fulminated her father, the harlot’s enticement. Eyebrow pencil, breathed her mother, no lady…!

  Miss Pettigrew’s thoughts ran wildly, chaotically, riotously. A sin to make the best of the worst? She sat up. Her eyes began to shine. All her feminine faculties intent on the important, earnest, serious, mighty task of improving on God’s handiwork. Then she remembered. She sat back. Her face clouded.

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew in a flat voice. “My dear…at my age. With my complexion.”

  “It’s a beautiful complexion.”

  “Beautiful?” said Miss Pettigrew incredulously.

  “Not a mark, not a spot, not a blemish. Colour! Who wants natural colour? It’s always wrong. A perfect background. No base to prepare. No handicaps to overcome. Blonde, brunette, pink and white, tanned, creamy pallor. Anything you like.”

  Miss Dubarry leaned forward intent. She tipped Miss Pettigrew’s face this way: she tipped it that way. She patted the skin. She felt the texture of her hair.

  “Hmn! A good cleansing cream. A strong astringent to tone up the muscles. Eyebrows definitely darkened. Can’t make up my mind about the hair yet. Nut-brown, I think. Complexion needs colour. Definitely colour. Brings out the blue of the eyes. Whole face needs a course of treatment. Shockingly neglected.”

  She stopped abruptly and looked apologetic.

  “Oh dear! You must excuse me. Here I am, forgetting myself again. I’m in the trade, you see, and I can’t help taking a professional interest.”

  “Don’t mind me,” breathed Miss Pettigrew. “Please don’t mind me. I love it. No one’s ever taken an interest in my face before.”

  “Obviously not,” said Miss Dubarry sternly. “Not even yourself.”

  “I’ve never had any time,” apologized Miss Pettigrew.

  “Nonsense. You’ve had time to wash, haven’t you? You’ve time to get a bath. You’ve time to cut your nails. A woman’s first duty is to her face. I’m surprised at you.”

  “Ah well!” sighed Miss Pettigrew hopelessly. “I’m long past the age now…”

  “No woman,” said Miss Dubarry grimly, “is ever past the age. The more years that pass the more reason for care. You should be old enough to know better.”

  “I’ve never had any money.”