1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day Page 9

  “Most certainly,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity.

  “‘England expects!’ I am quite aware that due care is essential.”

  “Shoes,” said Miss Dubarry.

  Miss Pettigrew tried on a pair.

  “Why!” marvelled Miss Pettigrew. “They are a trifle too large.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing,” said Miss LaFosse thankfully. “It’s better than too small. We’ll stop and buy a pair of soles.”

  “Now her coat,” said Miss Dubarry.

  Miss Pettigrew had a terrified vision of all her splendour being eclipsed by her shabby brown tweed. But no! She suddenly found herself encased in a fur coat so soft, so silky, so blissfully warm, she knew she had never known luxury before.

  “Oh!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. “Oh! I can’t believe it. All my life I’ve longed to wear a fur coat, just once.”

  “No hat?” asked Miss Dubarry.

  “None of mine are suitable,” decided Miss LaFosse. “She’ll have to go without. No one will notice.”

  Gloves, handkerchief, a new handbag.

  “Ready?” asked Miss Dubarry, after a last touch to herself.

  “All set,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “Let’s get going.”

  A last look round: a final inventory. They all made for the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  5.2 PM—6.21 PM

  MISS PETTIGREW found herself wafted into the passage. She was past remonstrance now, past bewilderment, surprise, expostulation. Her eyes shone. Her face glowed. Her spirits soared. Everything was happening too quickly. She couldn’t keep up with things, but, by golly, she could enjoy them.

  “I don’t care,” thought Miss Pettigrew rapturously. “My dear mother would have been shocked. I can’t help it. I’ve never been so thrilled in my life before. She always said be careful of strangers, you never know. They may be leading me to destruction, but who can possibly want to destroy a middle-aged spinster like me? I refuse to credit it. I don’t know why these things are happening. I don’t care. They’re happening. That’s enough.”

  “Feeling O.K.?” asked Miss LaFosse solicitously.

  “Lead on,” said Miss Pettigrew joyfully, radiantly.

  “Taxi, miss?” asked the porter downstairs.

  Miss Pettigrew had never been in a taxi for pure frivolity before. It was the final touch: the gesture perfect. She sat back and watched the London streets fly past her with the sense of being in a dream, but a perfectly sensible dream. No nightmare round the corner. She didn’t know where they went. She had always been terrified of the London maze and had never yet learned to get her bearings. They stopped and bought a pair of soles. They went on. They stopped in front of a house. All the windows were lit. They got out. Miss LaFosse paid off the taxi. They knocked and were admitted. No one challenged Miss Pettigrew. “We’re very late,” remarked Miss Dubarry.

  The maid led them to a dressing-room. There were no other occupants.

  “That’s all right, Maisie,” said Miss LaFosse. “We know the way.”

  The maid left them.

  Miss LaFosse and Miss Dubarry powdered their noses.

  “Come along now, Guinevere,” said Miss LaFosse. “You must powder your nose again. It isn’t done not to. Last gesture before entering a room—powder your nose. It gives a sense of confidence.”

  With trembling fingers, nervous, clumsy, contented, for the first time in life Miss Pettigrew powdered her own nose.

  “Do you know,” she said happily, “I think you’re right. It does add a certain assurance to one’s demeanour. I feel it already.”

  “Attaboy,” praised Miss Dubarry.

  They walked downstairs. From behind a closed door came high sounds of revelry. Suddenly Miss Pettigrew felt qualms. She stood rooted to the spot. Stage-fright engulfed her. She forgot absolutely what she now looked like. Her glimpses had been too short. She would need solid hours of close concentration to get her new image soaked in. She simply felt as she had always felt: Miss Pettigrew permanently seeking a new job, nervous, incompetent, dowdy and shy. She began to shake. They would laugh at her, stare at her, make remarks. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t face any more ridicule. She had had so much in her life.

  Miss LaFosse and Miss Dubarry had also stopped.

  “We’re here,” said Miss Dubarry in a weak voice.

  Miss Pettigrew stared at her. All Miss Dubarry’s gay insouciance had gone. She looked limp as a rag: drooping, nervous, more terrified than herself. She was so surprised she forgot her own nervousness again.

  “Buck up, Edythe,” Miss LaFosse implored. “You can’t let him see. Everything will be all right. She’s bound to think of something.”

  They both turned to Miss Pettigrew.

  “You won’t forget Tony,” said Miss LaFosse urgently.

  “I’ll point him out when we get in, if he’s there,” said Miss Dubarry with equal urgency.

  “How kind,” thought Miss Pettigrew, touched. “She’s so friendly she wants me to see her former young man, even if they have quarrelled.”

  “I should love to meet your young man. Thank you very much,” said Miss Pettigrew earnestly.

  “There,” said Miss LaFosse proudly. “What did I tell you? She’s thinking of something already.”

  “Please…” began Miss Dubarry.

  “No instructions,” begged Miss LaFosse again. “They only muddle people. You must let her do her own act. It’s far the best way.”

  “You won’t forget,” said Miss Dubarry with a last despairing reminder.

  Miss Pettigrew hadn’t the faintest idea what they were talking about, but so many of their speeches were odd and beyond her comprehension she didn’t trouble herself and there was certainly no time to question. Miss LaFosse opened the door, and she was swept in.

  She blinked, dazzled. The room was full of people, men and women. Their jumbled voices assaulted her ears. It was a large room. At the far end was what looked like a counter and behind it a lot of bottles. She had very little time to gather clear impressions because at their entry there were loud cries and they were immediately surrounded by people. Miss LaFosse and Miss Dubarry were obviously popular.

  “Delysia.”

  “Edythe.”

  Miss LaFosse beamed. A surprising transformation took place in Miss Dubarry. She laughed, talked, joked. No sign of depression or unhappiness. Miss LaFosse had firm hold of Miss Pettigrew’s arm. She piloted her round. Miss Pettigrew said ‘How-do-you-do?’ politely to, she was sure, about a hundred people. No one stared at her. No one laughed at her. No hostess gave her a freezing welcome. She did not know for sure who her hostess was. She had a vague idea that a dreamy woman, in a brilliant scarlet frock, who said, “Delysia darling, how good of you to come,” might be she. But then another woman in diaphanous green said, “Delysia, my pet, how sweet to see you.” So doubt could enter.

  She found a drink in her hands, placed there by a charming young man with dark, wavy hair, a cajoling voice, and a wicked twinkle in his eyes, but Miss LaFosse gave an urgent shake of her head.

  “I wouldn’t,” she whispered. “I mean, not that drink. That’s Terence’s own. I’ll get you one myself. I mean, I wouldn’t like to hurt your feelings, Guinevere, but I don’t think you’re very used to strong liquor, and, well, there’s Tony, you know, and that’s very strong.”

  “Just as you advise, my dear,” said Miss Pettigrew, flustered. “I wouldn’t dream of doing anything you didn’t advise.”

  Miss LaFosse brought her another.

  “Now,” said Miss LaFosse in a moment’s breathing space, “would you like a seat, and, if so, where? You mustn’t tire yourself before tonight.”

  “I think,” said Miss Pettigrew simply, “I will stand just over there, so that if I look up I can see myself in the mirror across the room. Please don’t think that pure vanity dictates this wish, though I admit a little is present. I am not accustomed to myself yet, and if I can glance up every now and then merely to reassure
myself of what I don’t look like, it will give me tremendous strength and encouragement.”

  “An excellent idea,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

  She led Miss Pettigrew to the desired vantage-point. Miss Pettigrew at once took a surreptitious peep at herself in the mirror. She gave a tremendous sigh of relief. She still retained her new personality. There was little to distinguish her from any other woman present. Very carelessly she loosened her fur coat to show off more of the velvet gown. She felt so elated she didn’t care whether she was left alone or not. She was here to watch and enjoy and remember. That was sufficient. But she wasn’t left alone. Miss LaFosse disappeared after a time, but to Miss Pettigrew’s surprise others immediately took her place. In fact a considerable number of people in turn took her place. They spoke to her pleasantly and offered her drinks, which, of course, she refused, and seemed to regard her with deference. Miss Pettigrew grew more elated and more excited every minute. She couldn’t understand it. She seemed to be holding quite a little court of her own. She didn’t find conversation at all difficult, as she had dreaded. She merely agreed with what any one said to her and smiled, and they at once looked gratified. If she did venture a remark of her own they took it with such a look of wondering admiration she began to think she had never before had a chance to test her conversational powers to the full.

  She laughed so much and shook her head so much, every now and then she was sure she was becoming untidy and dishevelled and a little disordered. Then, all she had to do was take a peep at herself in the mirror at once to be reassured. No Miss Pettigrew, governess, stared back at her, but a strange lady, whose disarray had a distinctive and becoming charm.

  And still people came for a little friendly intercourse. She was happily innocent of Miss LaFosse’s chattering. Miss LaFosse couldn’t keep a good thing to herself. Details could not be given, but a brief sketch, of an imaginary incident, couldn’t be resisted.

  “Yes,” said Miss LaFosse. “The most brilliant mimic I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Good party,” said Reggie Carteret, variety star, to Florence Somers, vaudeville beauty.

  “Moira certainly draws the crowds,” agreed Miss Somers.

  “Who’s the lady?” asked Reggie.

  “Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Don’t think we’ve met.”

  “What?” With assumed condescension, “Never seen her take off Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Mrs. Brummegan.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Never heard of Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “No.” Anxiously, “Should I?”

  “You certainly should.”

  “Then I’d better.”

  “Can’t afford not to be in the know these days,” agreed Miss Somers.

  “You’re right. Doesn’t pay.”

  “Well, bye-bye,” said Miss Somers. “There’s Charlie. See you anon.”

  “Good party,” said Reggie Carteret to Maurice Dins-more, superior juvenile lead.

  “Pretty fair,” said Maurice carelessly.

  “They certainly always manage to get the new celebrities.”

  “Celebrity! Who?”

  “Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Miss Pettigrew?”

  “Never seen her take off Mrs. Brummegan?” incredulously.

  “Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Surely you know Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Oh…ah! Yes. Come to think of it, I believe we’ve met. At the Desmonds, wasn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Miss Pettigrew do her well?”

  “Brilliant mimic. Knock spots off Dora Delaney.”

  “You don’t say so.”

  “Umm…don’t breathe a word, but I believe Phil Goldberg’s going to back her. She’s a friend of Delysia’s and Delysia’s got Goldberg…like that.”

  “Good Lord!” said Maurice.

  “Fact. Friend of Goldberg’s, well, who wouldn’t want to know her?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” agreed Maurice.

  He hastened away.

  “Ah! Hello, Eveline,” said Maurice to his more superior lady juvenile lead.

  “Howdy, Maurice.”

  “Met the lady?”

  “What lady?”

  “My dear girl, surely you know her.”

  “Know who?”

  “Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Oh…ah…Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Future star.”

  “Oh…er. Come to think of it, I believe I have read notices.”

  “Never seen her do Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Sure,” condescendingly. “You’ve heard of Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Oh…er. Yes. Sure I’ve heard. So she does Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “Raised the roof in the provinces, I understand.”

  “Oh. The provinces!” more coldly.

  “London next,” blandly.

  “London?”

  “Sure. Phil Goldberg’s behind her. Comedy star of his new revue. Sharing honours with Delysia LaFosse.”

  “Why, now you mention it, I believe I heard,” agreed Miss Somers.

  “You never can tell. Nobody one day. Queen of London the next.”

  “Ah, yes. Think I’ll have a word with her.”

  Miss Pettigrew received them all: eyes shining, face radiant, hair loosening—but very artistically, still in Miss Dubarry’s waves. Ear-rings twinkling with worldly sophistication: cheeks now developing a natural flush: bosom heaving with so much excitement.

  Miss LaFosse touched her arm. Miss Pettigrew turned from her latest admirer.

  “That’s Tony,” whispered Miss LaFosse.

  Miss Pettigrew looked; an average-sized young man, with brown, untidy hair, hot, smouldering eyes, and something rugged and stubborn about his face.

  “Oh!” thought Miss Pettigrew in relief. “A nice face. I expected…I expected…a lounge lizard. Just shows how you can misjudge a girl’s appearance.”

  Miss Dubarry and Tony had had a meeting.

  “Howdy, Tony?” said Miss Dubarry airily.

  “Grand party,” said Tony equably.

  Miss Dubarry passed on. They were very cool and poised about it, very modern and nonchalant. After that they avoided each other. Miss Dubarry was full of life in one corner. Tony full of life in another.

  “Ah!” thought Miss Pettigrew. “Very conscious of each other. Showing off. Oh dear, what a pity! Shows they care for each other.”

  Later Miss Dubarry came up.

  “That’s Tony,” she whispered.

  “I know,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

  She looked at Miss Dubarry. Tony wasn’t looking their way and Miss Dubarry let her gaze rest on him. For a brief flash Miss Pettigrew thought she glimpsed a sick look in her eyes, then Tony turned and Miss Dubarry was laughing with some one else.

  Suddenly Miss Pettigrew was not so interested in the people round her. After all, they were strangers, but Miss Dubarry was her friend. She couldn’t feel so happy again, knowing how Miss Dubarry felt.

  She edged away and found a corner by herself at the end of the bar. She discovered a high stool and sat down.

  “Oh dear!” thought Miss Pettigrew sadly. “I do hope that young man comes to his senses. I can’t bear Miss Dubarry to be unhappy like that. One is young for so little a time.”

  Miss LaFosse came up.

  “Guinevere,” said Miss LaFosse, “meet Tony, a pal of mine.”

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

  “How-do-you-do?” said Tony.

  “Have a confab,” said Miss LaFosse cheerfully. She disappeared.

  “Fetch you a drink,” offered Tony amiably.

  “Thanks,” said Miss Pettigrew thoughtfully, “I think I will.”

  “I have had two already,” thought Miss Pettigrew judiciously, “and feel no ill effects. One more can do no harm and an affirmative answer seems to impress them a great deal more.”

&
nbsp; Tony eyed her critically. He liked to think he was a nice judge of a woman. He noted the sly twinkle of the ear-rings, the sleek cut of the gown. He judged accordingly.

  “Snake’s Venom?”

  “Oh…er. Is it? Yes of course,” said Miss Pettigrew, somewhat taken aback.

  Tony brought a drink. Miss Pettigrew drank nearly half in a gulp. Tony eyed her admiringly. For a wild moment Miss Pettigrew wondered whether it really had been poison. She sat perfectly still in her chair. She didn’t dare move. Fire ran down her throat. The room heaved. Her chair swayed. Her eyes played tricks. Then everything settled. The room was not moving. Her chair was quite stationary. She was still seated safely upon it. She made a tentative movement. She could still retain her balance. Miss Pettigrew beamed.

  She felt grand. She felt brimming with authority and assurance. It was a marvellous sensation. She thought scornfully of her former timid self. A futile creature! Fear! Had she once known fear? Impossible. She felt surging with pugnacious intentions. She wanted to do battle with some one for the sheer sake of downing them gloriously and proving her powers. She eyed the room with the light of battle in her gaze. Who would offer her combat?

  Tony was standing very submissively by her side. He did not seem to want to return to the crowd. He struck a chord of memory in Miss Pettigrew’s mind. She saw that his eyes followed Miss Dubarry when Miss Dubarry wasn’t looking at him. She remembered. Very slowly and very carefully Miss Pettigrew stood up.

  “Ha!” barked Miss Pettigrew. “So you’re Tony?”

  He started.

  “Sure. I’m Tony.”

  “I wanted to meet you.”

  “Very kind of you, I’m sure.”

  “Not at all. Stupid young men,” said Miss Pettigrew, “always interest me.”

  “What?” Tony gasped in surprise.

  “Stupid,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “Me?”

  “You!”

  “Oh!” said Tony engagingly. “I didn’t know you knew me.”

  “Too well.”

  He looked interested.

  “But why stupid?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t be interested,” said Miss Pettigrew haughtily. “I merely take an academic interest in hearing of the follies of young people. I’m past the age, you see, when I can be a young fool myself, so the interest has no repercussions.”