1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew negligently. “Nothing at all. I assure you. It’s just natural.”

  “No children,” said Joe brilliantly.

  “I am not married,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity.

  “Men are blind,” said Joe gallantly.

  Miss Pettigrew was weak with joy. All these compliments were going to her head. She could have done with more, but the dance came to an end. Tony looked sternly at Joe. Joe said blandly, “Youth must needs take second place, my boy.”

  “Ha!” said Tony, “monopolize the belle, would you?”

  Miss Pettigrew squirmed with pleasure. Joe stayed planted in the chair beside her. Miss Pettigrew was radiant. George had joined the party and sat with unobtrusively adoring eyes on Angela.

  “I’m hungry,” said Miss LaFosse. “I can’t sing any more on an empty inside.”

  “I thought one was supposed to,” said Julian.

  “I’m different,” said Miss LaFosse.

  “I’m hungry too,” said Michael. “The effect of my dinner has also worn off.”

  Supper was ordered. The music began again, a dreamy, melting melody. The couples left the table again until supper should arrive. Joe looked at Miss Pettigrew.

  “Our dance, I think,” said Joe.

  “But I told you I couldn’t dance,” said Miss Pettigrew with deep regret.

  “I am quite confident,” said Joe, “that you do the Old-fashioned Waltz perfectly.”

  Miss Pettigrew’s face lit.

  “Is it the Old-fashioned Waltz?”

  “It is so,” said Joe.

  Miss Pettigrew stood up.

  Joe bowed. He put his arm around her waist. They hesitated a few beats then swung into the crowd. Miss Pettigrew shut her eyes tight. This was the crowning moment. See Naples and die. She simply surrendered herself to Joe’s arms and the dreamy, lilting rhythm.

  Joe danced it well. Despite his dark hints, Miss Pettigrew felt his bulk only as a comfortable pressure against her own body. In her youth, at the very few social assemblies she had attended which permitted a little mild waltzing, her lot for partners had always fallen among the elderly generation, and Miss Pettigrew well knew the rather embarrassing awkwardness of a partner’s over-generous waistline.

  “Perfect,” said Joe. “The modern generation don’t know how to waltz. I wouldn’t have missed that for worlds.”

  Treading on air Miss Pettigrew returned to her seat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

  “Well, you giddy old fraud,” accused Miss LaFosse. “Telling me you couldn’t dance. You only wanted to sit out with Joe.”

  “Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew, pink now with embarrassment. “I assure you the Waltz is the only dance I know.”

  She was haughty with Joe for several minutes in case he should think things. Supper arrived. Miss Pettigrew found surprisingly she was quite hungry again. She set to with a will.

  “Have an ice,” offered Michael.

  “I will,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  He winked.

  “Should be good here. Owner’s speciality, I understand.”

  Miss Pettigrew relapsed into giggles, despite Miss LaFosse’s indignant glare at Michael. But the ice was a marvellous concoction. Miss Pettigrew had never thought she was greedy before, but this was no chilled custard. There was cream and fruit and nuts and icecream and a wonderful syrup, all skilfully blended. She slowly turned each ambrosial spoonful round her tongue.

  The band started a slow, drowsy foxtrot. The lights were lowered. Only a dull glow pervaded the room. Miss Pettigrew looked up with dreamy enjoyment and saw Nick approaching their table. The ice suddenly lost its flavour.

  Nick came threading his way slowly between the tables, his gaze on Miss LaFosse. His face was quite expressionless, his eyes blank, yet suddenly Miss Pettigrew shivered. She had a feeling that only a thin shutter of restraint was drawn over his eyes. Any second it might open to reveal them in full flame.

  Miss Pettigrew glanced wildly round the table. No one else had seen Nick. The lowered lights, the treacly music, the rich food, were all conducive to repose and romance. Each couple had edged a little closer together. Michael was the closest of all. His arm was obviously round Miss LaFosse and his brown head bent above her fair one. He was talking earnestly. Miss LaFosse’s face wore a serious, almost shy expression.

  Nick reached the table.

  “Delysia,” said Nick. “Our dance, I think.”

  Every one at the table was suddenly still. The band played on. Dancing couples crossed the floor. The lights remained discreetly lowered. No one noticed the tables in the corner.

  Miss LaFosse’s body gave a jerk and her eyes came round to meet Nick’s. Her face shone white in the dimness.

  “Oh! Nick!” said Miss LaFosse in a dazed whisper.

  Michael went rigid. Two muscles on each side of his jaw stood out. He shifted his hold very slightly on Miss LaFosse’s shoulder.

  “Sorry, old man,” said Michael, “Delysia’s sitting this one out with me.”

  “Delysia has forgotten,” said Nick in a quiet voice. “I have a prior claim.”

  Turbulent thought surged through Miss Pettigrew’s mind. She gazed hopelessly round. All the other couples, with discreet, non-committal faces, were gazing somewhere else. This was between Nick, Delysia and Michael. None of their business and Nick wasn’t a pleasant enemy. No help there. But something must be done. Miss LaFosse was slipping. The snake had fixed its eyes and the rabbit was helpless. Slowly, inch by inch, Miss LaFosse was drawing away from Michael’s restraining hold. Miss Pettigrew almost sobbed.

  There Nick stood, as handsome as sin, brilliant eyes beginning to show smouldering lights, dark face bitter and compelling, body charged with a tense, violent, jealous male anger, willing, forcing Miss LaFosse into the brief paradise of his passionate desire.

  Miss LaFosse was already sitting upright on her chair, her wide eyes full on Nick’s.

  “Are you coming, Delysia?” said Nick.

  “I…” began Miss LaFosse. She stood up.

  With a convulsive jerk Michael stood beside her.

  “Delysia.”

  Miss LaFosse caught in her breath with a little, hopeless sound. She flung a look of wild appeal at Nick.

  “I’m afraid this dance is booked,” said Michael in a choking fury.

  “Sorry if there’s been a mistake,” said Nick smoothly, “but I have something to say to Delysia. It’s important.”

  He turned the full strength of his compelling gaze on Miss LaFosse again. Miss LaFosse took a step forward.

  “Lost…lost,” wept Miss Pettigrew’s thoughts. “If she goes now she will never escape him.”

  Gone was all Miss Pettigrew’s thought of herself. Every faculty, every nerve, was bent on the hopeless task of saving Miss LaFosse. Her eyes ranged wildly between the protagonists. Michael’s desperate face, Miss LaFosse’s helpless air of submission, Nick’s hard, dark, compelling glance.

  Miss LaFosse moved a hesitating step forward. Helplessly Michael exhorted, “Delysia.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” said Miss LaFosse helplessly. She gave him a tragic glance.

  “Oh!” thought Miss Pettigrew, her eyes smarting. “What will Michael do? He’ll go on a blind again. He’ll sock another policeman. They’ll give him sixty days next time. What can I do? What can I do?”

  A light broke on her mind.

  “We might be a while,” said Nick.

  “Sock him one,” hissed Miss Pettigrew.

  Michael socked. Nick went down, taking a chair and a table with him. He leaped to his feet, face pallid, eyes blind with fury. Michael danced on his two feet, a look of unholy joy on his face: body poised for action, eyes shining, a glorious grin on his mouth.

  Nick’s furious leap carried him almost to striking distance; then he stopped. The faintest, tiniest quiver of hesitation came over his face. The fastidiousness of the Latin. Michael cared nothing for dignity. Nick did. Three wa
iters rushed to intervene. He didn’t stop them. Lights went up. Dancers came to a standstill and looked round in surprise. The band blared out. More waiters appeared. Voices rose in a babel of sound. Miss Pettigrew grabbed Michael’s arm.

  “Out,” hissed Miss Pettigrew, mistress of fate, kingmaker.

  Michael obeyed. Reluctantly: but Delysia was worth more than the satisfaction of a glorious blood lust.

  Michael grabbed Miss LaFosse’s arm and towed her towards the door. She went. Tony grabbed Miss Dubarry, Julian grabbed Rosie, Martin grabbed Peggie, George made hay while the sun shone and grabbed Angela. General Pettigrew urged on the troops. Joe rumbled behind her, “Never did like the fellow.”

  They reached the door and tumbled into the vestibule, leaving behind the braying band, the excited voices, the soothing waiters, the raging Nick. The girls hastened to the cloakroom. Miss Pettigrew grabbed her fur coat; then they were downstairs again, the men were waiting, and they all spilled into the street.

  The cold, damp November air struck their faces. It was raining in a miserable, half-hearted fashion. Miss Pettigrew’s eyes blinked in the gloom after the brilliant lights inside. In the darkness they seemed a far bigger crowd than inside. Every one was talking excitedly, laughing hysterically. There seemed to be about ten voices calling ‘Taxi, taxi’. Every female was linked possessively by some male. All but herself. Suddenly, in the crowd, Miss Pettigrew had a lost, frightened, lonely feeling. Her bubble of exaltation was pricked. Suddenly she remembered she was a stranger. Then, loud above the others, a voice was heard shouting, “Miss Pettigrew. Where’s Miss Pettigrew? I’m taking Miss Pettigrew home. Where’s Miss Pettigrew?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  2.3 AM—3.6 AM

  “Here,” said Miss Pettigrew in a tiny voice.

  Joe loomed above her. He said no word, but his arm went through hers with that glorious, proprietary, warding male attentiveness never hitherto experienced by Miss Pettigrew. She simply leaned on him weakly.

  Taxis appeared. Couples bundled in. Miss Pettigrew made to follow, but Joe’s grasp was firm. The taxis disappeared. Another cruised by hopefully.

  “Ours, I think,” said Joe.

  “Where to, sir?” asked the man.

  “Just drive on,” said Joe; “I’ll let you know later.”

  Miss Pettigrew found herself in the cold, dark interior, out of the rain, alone with a man. The taxi quivered. Miss Pettigrew quivered. But not with fear. With excitement, with bliss. Her thoughts raced with such wild elation she was almost dizzy. She couldn’t believe it.

  “But I never asked him,” thought Miss Pettigrew happily; “he chose me all himself. I wasn’t even near. He deliberately said he was taking me home. I wasn’t even thinking about it. He never need have said a word. It’s unbelievable, but he simply must have wanted to. What other explanation is there?”

  She was weak with sheer gratification, but she thought that such unruly jubilation was not quite modest and felt guilty.

  “Oh dear!” said Miss Pettigrew. “What about Angela?”

  “Angela,” said Joe comfortably, “is with George. Didn’t you see? They were the first to get in a taxi. He will see her, if less safely, quite as competently home.”

  “Won’t she be offended?” asked Miss Pettigrew timidly.

  “I’ll buy her a present,” said Joe. “She’s never offended if I buy her a present.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew, nonplussed.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Angela,” said Joe consolingly. “She wouldn’t worry about you.”

  “To take another woman’s escort…!” began Miss Pettigrew, half in real concern, half in a wicked meekness, because she was thoroughly enjoying all this reassurance.

  “You didn’t take me,” said Joe. “I took you.”

  Miss Pettigrew abruptly cast scruples to the winds. Angela had everything: youth, beauty, assurance, another man. She could spare Joe for one night.

  “The address,” said Miss Pettigrew, “is Five, Onslow Mansions.”

  “Isn’t that Delysia’s address?”

  “I am staying with Miss LaFosse,” lied Miss Pettigrew.

  “You can’t go there yet,” said Joe earnestly.

  “Oh dear, why not?” asked Miss Pettigrew nervously.

  “Well, live and let live,” said Joe. “They’ve only just got together, haven’t they? They’ll want a little time to themselves. Didn’t you notice they grabbed a taxi on their own?”

  “Oh dear, what shall I do?” said Miss Pettigrew with a sinking heart.

  “That’s easy,” said Joe cheerfully. “We’ll drive around a bit first.”

  “In a taxi?” said Miss Pettigrew, scandalized.

  “Sure. Why not?” said Joe.

  Miss Pettigrew sat up.

  “Certainly not,” said Miss Pettigrew severely. “And the meter simply ticking round. It would cost you a fortune. I couldn’t dream of letting you. I am a very good walker, I assure you. Perhaps, if we got out, we could walk back. I’m sure it’s fair now. I…I wouldn’t trouble you to come with me, only I am very nervous in the dark, and I know I wouldn’t be able to find my own way.”

  She looked at him with nervous apology. Joe went into a low rumble of laughter.

  “If they’d all been like you I’d be a wealthier man than I am,” chuckled Joe.

  He found the speaking-tube.

  “Drive round ‘til I give you an address.”

  “Oh, please,” said Miss Pettigrew in distress.

  “Listen,” said Joe. “There’s a lot of money in corsets. My bank manager eats out of my hand.”

  He sank back comfortably. He was finding it a most original experience to be with some one who worried that he should spend rather than that he should not.

  “If you’re quite sure?” said Miss Pettigrew from her rigid posture.

  “I’ll buy you the taxi,” said Joe.

  Miss Pettigrew slowly settled back herself. It was his business. He knew best. She had now quite obviously betrayed her lack of wealthy background. She hoped he wasn’t laughing at her, but it was too late now to make amends. Suddenly she just couldn’t be bothered to pretend any longer.

  “I know there are people with a lot of money,” said Miss Pettigrew humbly, “but I find it quite impossible to think in terms of pounds. I count in pence.”

  “Once,” said Joe, “my greatest dissipation was a gallery seat at a music hall.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Pettigrew happily, “then I’m quite sure you understand.”

  She settled more happily. The cold November wind found chinks in the cab and came sweeping in. She drew her fur coat with luxurious bliss more closely round her.

  “It is cold,” said Joe, and calmly put his arm round Miss Pettigrew and held her close.

  Miss Pettigrew sat in a taxi with a strange man and he had the effrontery to put his arm round her, and Miss Pettigrew…Miss Pettigrew relaxed. She sank in her seat. She laid her head on his shoulder. She had never been so wicked in her life and she had never been so happy. She wasn’t going to pretend any more. She heard her own voice saying very loudly and very firmly, “I am forty,” said Miss Pettigrew, “and no one, in all my life before, has flirted with me. You mayn’t be enjoying it, but I am. I’m very happy.”

  She found his free hand and very firmly took hold of it. Joe’s returning clasp was warmly reassuring.

  “I am very comfortable myself,” said Joe.

  “Mr. Blomfield…” began Miss Pettigrew.

  “Why not Joe?” said Joe persuasively. “Let’s thaw.”

  “Joe,” said Miss Pettigrew shyly.

  “Thank you.”

  “My own is Guinevere,” offered Miss Pettigrew timidly.

  “So I had heard,” said Joe. “If I may…”

  “I’d like you to.”

  “I’m very happy to know you, Guinevere,” said Joe.

  “I’ve had a wonderful day,” said Miss Pettigrew confidentially. “You wouldn’t believe
it. At first it was watching things happen to other people, but now I am right in it myself. I’ll never forget this day in all my life. You are giving it the perfect finish.”

  Miss Pettigrew was the oddest lady Joe had ever put his arm around, but he found her oddity giving him a peculiar sense of contentment. She was different, and even a man in the middle fifties can like a change. Certainly her odd conduct, her bewildering remarks, her shy delight, were something he had never struck before. They gave him a most comfortable sense of satisfaction. What, after all, was a baby face…only something to look at…against the sense of complacency Miss Pettigrew inspired in a man.

  “Comfortable?” said Joe, giving Miss Pettigrew a comforting squeeze.

  “Very,” said Miss Pettigrew shamelessly.

  This was obviously a perfect excuse to draw her closer, and Joe was no slowcoach. He drew her closer. Miss Pettigrew came.

  “I don’t care,” said Miss Pettigrew suddenly, “whether you are wishing you were with Angela or not.”

  “I am not,” said Joe solemnly, “wishing I was with Angela.”

  Miss Pettigrew turned her head a little and looked at him. Was it the sherry she had taken, or Joe’s encircling arm that gave her a sense of audacity?

  “I cannot understand,” said Miss Pettigrew severely, “how sensible men like you can get taken in by the young creatures. You only suffer in the long run and I should not like to see you hurt.”

  “I am never,” said Joe, “taken in by young creatures.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew doubtfully.

  “You see,” explained Joe, “when I was a kid I had no fun at all. No parties, no dances, no girls. So that now, when I have a bit of money and leisure, I like a bit of life and movement. I buy them a few presents and in return they are very…charming. Their youth brings back mine. We both get what we want, but they don’t fool me. No, sir, not me.”

  “I quite understand,” said Miss Pettigrew surprisingly. “I have never had any fun or amusement. To-day has taught me a lesson. I have discovered a lot of frivolous tendencies in myself hitherto quite unsuspected.”