“What things?”
Miss Pettigrew was not beaten.
“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew with delicate reserve. “Certain articles…of a lady’s clothing…”
“That’s all right. I know all about ‘em.”
“In theory, perhaps,” said Miss Pettigrew with dignity. “In practice…I hope not. We are fitting.”
“I don’t mind learning.”
“You choose to joke,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly.
“O. K.” said Phil resignedly. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
Miss Pettigrew shook her head with gentle amusement.
“If that suits you…but I don’t think you’ll like sitting for over an hour in a cold bedroom.”
“You can’t be discussing underclothes all the time.”
“There are other feminine interests.”
“Can’t I listen in?”
“You can not,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly.
“Why not? Ain’t it pure enough for my ears?”
Miss Pettigrew stood up and drew herself to her full height.
“I am,” said Miss Pettigrew, “the daughter of a curate.”
He was quelled.
“O.K., sister. You win. I’ll scram.”
“The contaminating effect,” thought Miss Pettigrew severely, “of too many cheap American films.”
Miss Pettigrew herself helped him on with his coat. All this time Miss LaFosse wore an air of vague detachment, as though she didn’t really care whether he went or stayed, but one must humour these middle-aged females. And once she winked at him at Miss Pettigrew’s expense. Miss Pettigrew noted, and her new, indecorous self gave full marks of approval for the delicate touch it gave to the whole conspiracy.
“Well, good-bye, baby,” said Phil. “See you anon.”
He took Miss LaFosse in his arms and kissed her, just as though he didn’t care whether Miss Pettigrew saw or not. And, of course, he couldn’t care. Miss Pettigrew sat down weakly.
“Oh dear!” Miss Pettigrew’s virgin mind strove wildly for adjustment. “Kisses…in front of me. I mean such…such ardent kisses. Not at all proper.”
But her traitorous, female heart turned right over in her body and thoroughly sympathized with the look of whole-hearted enjoyment registered by Miss LaFosse’s face. And even though he was obviously left a little drunk with the reciprocatory fervour of Miss LaFosse’s kisses, Phil still, very politely, remembered to say goodbye to herself.
A last kiss for Miss LaFosse, a last word for Miss Pettigrew, Phil opened the door and was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
11.11 AM—11.35 AM
With the banging of the door behind Phil, the door also banged on Miss Pettigrew’s exhilarating feeling of adventure, romance and joy. She felt suddenly tired, inefficient and nervous again. She had only been allowed the privilege of seeing romance for a short time, but it was not really her portion in life. Now all the practical, terrifying worries of her daily life poured back into her mind. She was now the applicant for a post and Miss LaFosse her possible employer. She would never learn who Phil was, or what his last name was, or why Miss LaFosse so urgently wanted him away when she so obviously enjoyed his kisses.
She pushed back a wisp of straying hair with shaking fingers and gathered herself together for the always terrifying ordeal of stating her negligible qualifications.
“About…” began Miss Pettigrew with an attempt at firmness.
Miss LaFosse swooped down on her and caught her hands.
“You’ve saved my life. How can I thank you! You’ve saved more than my life. You’ve saved a situation. I was utterly lost without you. I never could have got him away myself. I can never repay you.”
The remembrance of stern dictums, “To succeed, seize opportunity when it knocks,” came into Miss Pettigrew’s mind. With the last remnants of her courage she began feebly, “But you can…”
Miss LaFosse didn’t hear her. She began to speak urgently and dramatically, but Miss Pettigrew could see that laughter lit the backs of Miss LaFosse’s eyes as much as to say she quite realized she was hopeless but hoped Miss Pettigrew would humour her.
“Is your pulse fluttering?” asked Miss LaFosse. “Is your eyesight excellent?”
Miss Pettigrew’s pulse was fluttering, but she thought, “One lie today, why not two?”
“My pulse is not fluttering,” said Miss Pettigrew, “And my eyesight is excellent.”
“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse in great relief. “I knew you were the calm kind. Mine is, so I know I’m too agitated to see. You know the way it is in detective books. You’ve cleared everything away, or think you have, then the detectives go around snooping and they discover a pipe or analyse some ash and find it’s cigar ash and then they say, ‘Ha! So you smoke a cigar now, do you, miss?’ And you’re done for.”
“I see,” said Miss Pettigrew, not seeing at all, completely bewildered, and with visions of policemen, sergeants, detectives, descending on Miss LaFosse’s flat.
“No you don’t. I must explain everything. Nick’s coming this morning. At least I’m perfectly certain he’ll come, just to try and catch me out. He’s wickedly jealous.”
She explained this with the kind of tone that said, “There, I’ve told all, confessed all. Now I’m completely at your mercy, but I know you won’t fail me.”
Miss Pettigrew, completely submerged in unknown waters, did her best to surmount the waves.
“You mean another young man is coming this morning?” she questioned faintly.
“That’s it,” said Miss LaFosse in relief. “I knew you’d understand. Will you clear everything away, every single thing down to hair castings, that might faintly hint another man has been present.”
The waters nearly went over Miss Pettigrew’s head, but she managed a weak, faltering voice.
“The safest course would be not to let him in.”
“Oh. I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” questioned Miss Pettigrew in surprise.
“I’m sort of afraid of him,” said Miss LaFosse simply.
“If,” said Miss Pettigrew with brilliant courage, “if you are afraid of this young man, I…I will go to the door for you and say very firmly you are ‘not at home ‘.”
“Oh dear!” Miss LaFosse wrung her hands. “But I don’t think he’ll knock. You see he’s got a key. He’ll just walk in. And I couldn’t in any case. He pays the rent, you know. You see how it is.”
“I see,” said Miss Pettigrew in a small voice. She did see. It was nearly too much for her. She knew she should now gather her hat and coat, elevate her nose and walk out with outraged dignity. But she couldn’t. She heard her voice saying very weakly, “Then couldn’t you…couldn’t you have put off the other young man last night?”
“Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse, again hopelessly. “It’s so involved. I didn’t know Nick was coming. I only got to know quite by chance late last night. He told me he was coming home tomorrow. He’s been away, you know. I think he…he doubts me a little. So when Phil said could he come, I said all right. And then when I heard about Nick I couldn’t put Phil off without a perfectly cast-iron excuse, and I’m not good at them. And I couldn’t make him suspicious. He doesn’t know about Nick. He’s going to back me in a new show. You see how it is?”
“I see,” said Miss Pettigrew, shocked, excited, and, yes, thrilled. Thrilled right down to the very marrow of her bones. Why pretend? This was life. This was drama. This was action. This was the way the other half lived.
“So you see what you’ve got to do?” Miss LaFosse pleaded. “You see how vital it is. You’re sure you can manage?”
Miss Pettigrew stood still and fought her fight. ‘Stand for virtue’ ran her father’s teachings. ‘Cast out the sinner. Spurn him.’ All her maidenly upbringing, her spinster’s life of virtue, her moral beliefs, raised shocked hands of indignation. Then she remembered her place set at table, the cups of coffee, the thickly buttered toast piled on her plate, which, had Miss LaFos
se only known, were the first food and drink she had had that day.
“As I said before,” remarked Miss Pettigrew, “I have excellent eyesight.”
She went into the bedroom. When she had rapidly erased all possible male signs from the bedroom and adjoining bathroom, even down to nail parings, she came back into the sittingroom. Miss LaFosse was reclining on the chesterfield in front of the electric fire. She had been busy herself and cleared away all the tell-tale breakfast dishes, but she still wore her lovely négligé that made her look like Circe without her wickedness.
“Now,” thought Miss Pettigrew miserably, “it is really business. Nothing can put it off now.” She felt a sudden, unaccustomed sting at the back of her eyes. She had long ago learned that tears were never any use. “Oh dear!” thought Miss Pettigrew suddenly. “I’m so tired, so terribly tired of business and living in other people’s houses and being dependent on their moods.”
She walked across the room slowly with the hopeless dignity of the petitioner and sat down on a comfortable chair opposite Miss LaFosse. She folded her hands on her lap and held them very firmly together. She now believed it was quite possible Miss LaFosse might have a few stray children tucked away somewhere, but was beginning to be doubtful whether her past obliging willingness to help in the way of deceit would now recommend her to their mother. Mothers were queer creatures where their children were concerned. Sauce for the goose was not sauce for the gander.
“About…” began Miss Pettigrew desperately.
Miss LaFosse leaned forward eagerly.
“Is everything all right?”
“Absolutely,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You can set your mind at rest.”
“Oh, you darling!” Miss LaFosse leaned forward impulsively and kissed her again, and there, right on Miss Pettigrew’s clasped hands, fell two drops of water and two more were trickling down her cheeks. Miss Pettigrew flushed a delicate pink.
“I have not,” said Miss Pettigrew in humble excuse, “had much affection in my life.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” said Miss LaFosse gently. “I’ve always had such a lot.”
“I’m glad,” said Miss Pettigrew simply.
After that they were friends and Miss LaFosse, tactfully, ignored the tears.
“About…” began Miss Pettigrew again.
“It’s because you’re so understanding,” broke in Miss LaFosse eagerly. “I felt it at once. I’m very good at first impressions. Here’s a woman, I thought, who wouldn’t let another woman down.”
“No. I wouldn’t do that,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“I knew it. I’ve trespassed on your kindness a lot, I know, but don’t you think you could stay a bit? I mean, Nick might be here any minute. I’d appreciate it a lot.”
“Stay,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse pleadingly.
“If…if I could be of any assistance,” said Miss Pettigrew.
“You see, Nick’s a very dangerous person. That’s why he hadn’t to learn of Phil. He’s more money than Phil. He’s more influence than Phil. He might quite easily do something that might hurt Phil. I couldn’t have that happen. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair. After all, I led Phil on. Phil’s willing to back me in a show. Nick won’t. He’s too jealous. He won’t help me an inch with my career, and however much you like a man you still want your career. So you see I couldn’t have Nick trying to hurt Phil.”
“No,” agreed Miss Pettigrew firmly. “It wouldn’t be fair.”
“I know all the bad things there are to know about Nick, but it’s no use. When he’s there I can’t resist him. I’ve been trying to for a long time. He’s been away for three weeks and I’ve survived quite beautifully, so I thought now or never is the time to break. That’s why I want you to stay. Meet him alone and I know I’m lost. Already I can feel quivers of expectation. So you see, when I waver, and I know I’ll waver, I want you to be strong for me.”
Miss Pettigrew now forgot all about her original errand. For the first time for twenty years some one really wanted her for herself alone, not for her meagre scholarly qualifications. For the first time for twenty years she was herself, a woman, not a paid automaton. She was so intoxicated with pride she would have condoned far worse sins than Miss LaFosse having two young men in love with her. She put it like that. She became at once judicial, admonitory and questioning.
“I wouldn’t think of advising normally,” said Miss Pettigrew, “but I’m a great deal older than you and shall act in the place of a mother. If you are afraid of this new young man, wouldn’t it be easy to sever all connexion with him? I mean, he can’t do anything to you. Just fix your mind on that.”
“I know,” said Miss LaFosse sadly, “but you don’t quite understand yet.”
“I always considered I had a very receptive intelligence,” hinted Miss Pettigrew falsely.
“I know you have,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “I see you will understand.”
She leaned forward.
“Have you ever,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly, “had strange feelings in your stomach when a man kissed you?”
“Where,” thought Miss Pettigrew wildly, “have I read that there is something in the stomach that responds to osculation. Or was it the stomach? It doesn’t matter. I must reassure her.”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said Miss Pettigrew weakly. “I understand that it is a scientific fact that the stomach…”
“I’m not alarmed,” said Miss LaFosse. “That’s just it. I love it. It’s no use. I can’t escape him. He just looks at me and I’m wax in his hands.”
“A firm will…” began Miss Pettigrew hesitatingly.
“I’m a rabbit,” said Miss LaFosse, “and he’s a snake. When a snake fixes a rabbit with its eyes, the rabbit has no will. It stays there. It wants to stay there, even if it does mean its death.”
“Oh, not death,” said Miss Pettigrew, shocked.
“Worse than that,” said Miss LaFosse.
She got to her feet abruptly, went into the bedroom and returned with a small packet, which she opened and placed on Miss Pettigrew’s knees.
“Do you know what that is?”
“It looks,” said Miss Pettigrew cautiously, “very like a Beecham’s Powder. Very good, I understand, for nerves, stomach and rheumatism.”
“That’s cocaine,” said Miss LaFosse.
“Oh no! No!”
Terrified, aghast, thrilled, Miss Pettigrew stared at the innocent-looking powder. Drugs, the White Slave Traffic, wicked dives of iniquity, typified in Miss Pettigrew’s mind by red plush and gilt and men with sinister black moustaches, roamed in wild array through her mind. What dangerous den of vice had she discovered? She must fly before she lost her virtue. Then her common sense unhappily reminded her that no one, now, would care to deprive her of that possession. It was Miss LaFosse who was in danger. She must save her. She jumped to her feet, tore into the kitchen, scattered the powder down the sink and returned triumphant.
“There!” she said breathlessly. “That bit of temptation is beyond your reach now.”
She sat down weakly.
“Tell me,” she said in imploring accents. “You have not Contracted The Habit?”
“No,” said Miss LaFosse. “I haven’t taken any yet. If I did, Michael might see. There’s no flies on Michael. If he got to know he’d want to beat the daylight out of me. He’s liable to beat the daylight out of me. Then he’d be off to murder the man that gave it me.”
“Michael!” said Miss Pettigrew faintly. “Not another young man?”
“Oh, no!” denied Miss LaFosse hastily. “Not a bit like that.”
She stared at the fire.
“Michael,” explained Miss LaFosse gloomily, “wants to marry me.”
“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew weakly.
“A woman’s got to look out for these men,” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “If you don’t you’ll find yourself before the altar before you know where you are, and then where are you?”
Bang went all Miss Pettigrew’s cherished beliefs: scattered her naive imaginings that only the men dreaded the altar: gone for ever her former unsophisticated outlook. “I’ve lived too secluded a life,” thought Miss Pettigrew. “I’ve not appreciated how my own sex has advanced. It’s time I realized it.”
She ought to have said, “My dear, a good man’s love is not to be scorned.” But she didn’t. She shut her mouth with a snap. None of that weak woman stuff here. She saw how ridiculous had been her wild thoughts of protecting Miss LaFosse. Miss Pettigrew sat up.
“You’ve said it, baby,” said Miss Pettigrew calmly, happily, blissfully.
“Eh!” said Miss LaFosse.
“American slang,” explained Miss Pettigrew. “I heard it at the pictures.”
“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.
“I have always longed,” explained Miss Pettigrew, “sometimes to use slang. To let myself go, you understand. But I could never permit myself. Because of the children, you know. They might have heard.”
“Oh, quite,” said Miss LaFosse bewildered.
“I’m glad you understand,” said Miss Pettigrew simply.
“I’m glad you understand about Nick.”
“Of course,” said Miss Pettigrew.
She raised her head.
“He’s wicked and handsome and fascinating,” said Miss Pettigrew in a clear voice, “but he’s life and excitement and thrills.”
“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse.
“And this good young man, this Michael, who wants to marry you, has all the virtues, but he’s dull. He has no fire…no imagination. He would stifle your spirit. You want colour, life, music. He would offer you a…a house in surburbia,” ended Miss Pettigrew brilliantly.
Miss LaFosse gave her a quick look under her lashes.
“Well…” began Miss LaFosse guiltily, “I don’t know that…”
“Neither do I,” said Miss Pettigrew simply. “I cannot advise you. It would be impertinent. My own life has been a failure. How could I advise others?”
“Oh,” said Miss LaFosse. She said nothing more.
“You look,” said Miss Pettigrew shyly, “so lovely in that…that article of clothing. I can quite understand all the young men falling in love with you. I don’t think, my dear, you need decide about your future yet.”