1938 - Miss Pettigrew lives for a day

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Nick! When will you stop having heroics? I said I wouldn’t have any men in the place. Now are you satisfied? Where’s that drink, or have I got to get it myself?”

  “Sorry.”

  He flung an abrupt arm round Miss LaFosse and kissed her. Miss Pettigrew did a hasty disappearing act into the bedroom.

  “Oh dear!” she gasped to herself. “There’s times when two are company. I didn’t know there were kisses like that.”

  She was in such a trembling state of reaction after Mrs. Brummegan that she felt like collapsing, but she didn’t dare. She had to sustain Mrs. Brummegan to the end. She quite forgot in the heat of the moment that it would be the best thing possible if Nick did fly off the handle and depart in a rage. Nick had frightened her. He had frightened Miss LaFosse. He must not be allowed to do it again. After a hasty terrified glance at herself in the glass, she returned to the sitting-room.

  Nick was bringing in the drinks on a tray. Miss LaFosse was sitting quietly with the radiant, shining look on her face of the woman who has just been thoroughly and satisfactorily kissed. It caught at Miss Pettigrew’s heart. It made her look so defenceless. Then Miss Pettigrew remembered again.

  “He’s got her again,” thought Miss Pettigrew, “but I won’t let him. I’ll save her yet.”

  Nick brought up her drink. Miss Pettigrew took her glass without a word and downed it like a toper, without a single thought of its possible effect on her wits.

  “That,” remarked Miss Pettigrew, “was very good. I’ll have another.”

  Miss LaFosse and Nick were still sipping their first. Nick gave her an admiring glance. She had gone up in his estimation. The old dame had guts: smoking cheroots and bending her elbow with the best.

  “Sure you won’t have a whisky?” he offered solicitously. “There’s sure to be some in the cupboard.”

  “No, thank you,” said Miss Pettigrew blandly. “I prefer them light in the morning.”

  Her voice hinted at dark hours of intemperance in the evening.

  “Oh dear!” she thought wildly, “it can’t possibly be me speaking like that. What’s come to me? What’s happening to me?”

  But she didn’t care. Not really. The thought was only a guilty, placating concession towards her former values. The excitement of adventure had entered fully into her, and also, perhaps, a little of the wine to her head. She was ready for anything.

  Nick brought her drink.

  “Young man,” said Miss Pettigrew, “when you are not being a fussy old woman, I quite like you.”

  “Thanks,” said Nick with a grin. “You’re a lady.”

  They drank to each other.

  This friendly little interlude had not at all lessened Miss Pettigrew’s determination to tear Miss LaFosse from his grasp. It was merely the polite exchange of amenities during an armistice.

  They finished their drinks. Nick stood up.

  “I’ve got to see Dalton. Business. Or I’d take you to lunch. He’s putting up half the money and we’re opening a new place. Can’t afford to offend him. See you tonight.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Miss LaFosse. She weakened. “When?”

  “I’ll collect you when your turns are over and we’ll come straight back.”

  Miss LaFosse’s hand was lying along the arm of her chair. He leaned forward, closed his hand on her wrist and stood looking at her. Miss LaFosse raised her eyes to his and they remained silent.

  Miss Pettigrew felt a fainting sensation inside and a queer feeling, that was almost pain, right in the pit of her stomach, precisely as Miss LaFosse had once said. The look was not for her. No one had ever looked at her like that, but she knew exactly what Miss LaFosse was feeling: breathlessness, terror, ecstasy; a slow melting of all her senses towards trembling surrender. And the look on Nick’s face made one want to give him anything he asked. Even Miss Pettigrew felt the effect, knowing what she knew. To an outsider it was two lovers for the first time catching a glimpse of innocent, earthly paradise: to an insider, like Miss Pettigrew, it was a very wicked man seducing a darling lady to her damnation.

  Yet only by an effort of common sense could Miss Pettigrew keep in mind that Nick was really an evil, selfish man, who a year today might be looking at another woman with the same compelling urge, while poor Miss LaFosse might be ruined and broken-hearted. Miss Pettigrew could never forget the cocaine and she was not an ignorant fool.

  By the rapt look on Miss LaFosse’s face and air of defenceless submission, Miss Pettigrew knew she was wavering: knew she had wavered, but before she could speak the fatal words of surrender, Miss Pettigrew came into action like a howitzer.

  She thudded across the room with the Brummegan stalk. The sherry bottle and glasses were standing on the tray. She splashed out another drink and lifted the glass negligently in her hand. Through years of endurance she knew to a calculated nicety the demolishing effect of a negligent gesture.

  “Young man,” said Miss Pettigrew in the most strident voice her throat could compass, “you can come back for a drink if you like, but no late hours, I warn you. I’m not as young as I was and I will not have my short stay here ruined by disturbed nights leaving me half-dead next day. I sleep with Miss LaFosse and while I’m here she comes to bed early, and I’m not having you hanging around to all hours. I’m too old a friend of Miss LaFosse and too old myself to pretend to be polite, and that’s that.”

  Nick’s hand sprang from Miss LaFosse’s as from a hot poker and he spun round.

  “What?”

  “What what?”

  “Are you staying here?”

  “You know I’m staying here. I said so. Until tomorrow the invitation was and until tomorrow I stay, and what’s it got to do with you, pray?”

  “???…!!!…???…!!!” exploded Nickagain.

  Miss LaFosse turned a starded gaze on Miss Pettigrew, denial, indignation, resentment, eloquent in her glance. Miss Pettigrew returned the look, steadily, sternly, remorselessly. Miss LaFosse remembered. She blushed. She rallied her drooping forces about her.

  “You said tomorrow, Nick darling,” quavered Miss LaFosse.

  “Telegrams are cheap,” stated Miss Pettigrew.

  “How the hell should I know my…”

  “I was lonely,” faltered Miss LaFosse, “with you away.”

  “I’m coming round tonight.”

  “There’s only one bed.”

  “What the…”

  “Come if you like,” broke in Miss Pettigrew amiably. “You can sleep on the chesterfield. They say it’s healthy to sleep with your knees bent. But nothing,” she eyed the couch, “will make me sleep on it. At my age I insist on my proper bed.”

  Nick was beaten. The old dame was his match and seemed to have a claim on hospitality. He must curb his temper and mind his step. The girl friend had a temper of her own which could crop up at the most inconvenient of occasions.

  Nor had he any intention of sleeping on a lonely sofa.

  He preferred a comfortable bed for his nightly rest. The couch, plus Miss LaFosse, might have held some inducement, but the couch as a place of rest, with Miss LaFosse sleeping in tantalizing innocence in the next room, held none.

  He went to his hat and coat and picked them up. Miss LaFosse hovered about him nervously. He put on his hat and coat in silence and moved to the door. Miss Pettigrew saw firmness, indecision, surrender, battle on Miss LaFosse’s face.

  “If she succumbs now,” thought Miss Pettigrew, “she is lost. I can do no more. If he goes away without speaking she will probably run after him.”

  Then Nick spoke.

  “Maybe I should have wired.”

  Miss Pettigrew drew a deep breath. Miss LaFosse twined her hands nervously. She gave a timid, pleading smile.

  “I’m…I’m terribly sorry.”

  “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Tomorrow,” promised Miss LaFosse hastily.

  “Maybe,” thought Miss Pettigrew grimly.

  “Take
you to lunch.”

  “Lunch,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

  He moved and took hold of her arms above the elbows and pulled her to him.

  “After all, you’ll keep.”

  Miss Pettigrew thought his young face with its old look of experience a little frightening. He took hold of Miss LaFosse’s chin and tipped up her face.

  “No good thing was spoiled by a little waiting.”

  He kissed her. The door closed behind him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  12.52 PM—1.17 PM

  Immediately the door closed behind Nick tension relaxed. It was like coming out of a fog into clear, bright air. Miss Pettigrew drew a long breath. Her legs felt wobbly. Reaction had set in. She felt weak, unstrung, thoroughly upset. She found a chair and sat down. Suddenly she burst out crying.

  Miss LaFosse was standing staring at the closed door. Nick had gone. She had let him go. She didn’t know why. She was a fool. She had never so much wanted him as now, when he was gone. She was on the verge of running after him. Miss Pettigrew’s tears made her swing round. She forgot everything in concern.

  “Don’t do that. Please don’t do that.”

  All the terrible things she had done crowded into Miss Pettigrew’s mind: the lies she had told, the drink she had taken, the swear words she had used.

  “I’ve never sworn in my life before,” wailed Miss Pettigrew.

  “No?” marvelled Miss LaFosse.

  “Never. Not even in my mind. Our Vicar once said that to swear in your mind was just as bad and even more cowardly than to swear out loud. He did neither.”

  “What a man!” said Miss LaFosse in awe.

  “He was,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

  “But I didn’t hear you swear,” consoled Miss LaFosse.

  “You must have been too upset. I said ‘damned‘ and ‘hell’ and meant them…that way.”

  “Oh!” said Miss LaFosse with a reassuring beam. “They’re not swear words. They’re only expressions. I assure you, fashions change in words, same as everything else. I think they’ve quite come out of the sinful category now. There now, what you need is another drink.”

  She went over to the tray and further depleted the sherry bottle. She came back with a brimming glass.

  “Come along now. It’s only sherry. I know you like your drinks light in a morning.”

  Miss Pettigrew looked up. Her tears began to dry. Her face took on a look of dawning wonder and remembrance.

  “Oh!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. “Oh, I did. I dealt with a situation.”

  “Oh boy!” said Miss LaFosse with reverence. “You sure did.”

  Miss Pettigrew’s eyes began to shine through her tears. She was tremulous, bewildered, unbelieving.

  “I did. I saved it.”

  “Oh, quick,” hurried Miss LaFosse. “Drink your sherry, and tell me how you did it.”

  Miss Pettigrew refused it.

  “No, thank you, my dear. I have had two already and a little I pretended to drink. It’s a wise woman who knows her limit. I have never been rendered ridiculous by alcohol yet and I have no intention of starting now.”

  “You’re sure you’re all right then?”

  “Quite.”

  Miss LaFosse swallowed the sherry herself and sat down.

  “Oh, quick,” she implored. “Quick. I can’t wait to hear any longer. How…Did…You…Do…It? I forgot the kitchen. I never thought about the kitchen. I never looked for any signs there. Rank carelessness. I was born careless. You were marvellous.”

  Miss Pettigrew made a hasty disclaimer of any brilliance.

  “It was very simple,” she said earnestly, “very simple indeed. Nothing really to it. Please don’t think I’m clever or you’ll be disappointed. When I was tidying the bedroom I discovered the packet and I thought my bag was the safest place for it. When Nick came in so angry I remembered and the rest all followed. There was nothing to it, really.”

  “Nothing to it!” said Miss LaFosse. “Nothing to it! It was brilliant, marvellous. The best bit of acting I’ve seen in years.”

  “Oh no! It wasn’t acting. It was copying.”

  “Copying?”

  “It was Mrs. Brummegan.”

  “Mrs. Brummegan?”

  “My late employer. If you’ll forgive me speaking ill of the absent, a dreadful woman.”

  “But I don’t quite follow,” said Miss LaFosse, bewildered.

  “I endured her two years,” said Miss Pettigrew simply. “I had to. I was in a very good position to know the effect of her personality. I did my best to emulate it.”

  There was no wool in Miss LaFosse’s brain. Her eyes shone.

  “Oh!” she breathed. “A Mimic. A born mimic. God! What a performance! I wouldn’t have said you had it in you. You were wonderful.”

  “Oh no,” denied Miss Pettigrew, deprecating, thrilled, delighted as a child.

  “You’ve never thought about entering the Profession, have you?”

  “The Profession?”

  “The stage, you know.”

  “The stage!” gasped Miss Pettigrew. “Me?”

  “There’s a great dearth of really good character actresses,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly. “You know how it is. The ones that started young, when they’re getting on and have the experience, they don’t like to be relegated to minor roles. They don’t like the old boys to say, “By Jove, I remember her when we were both young. You should have seen her then, my boy, when she played lead in ‘Kiss me, Daddy’.” No. They don’t. They like to stay young and play young leads, and when they can’t they quit. I don’t blame them. I’ll do it myself.”

  “You’re on the stage yourself?” queried Miss Pettigrew, tactfully leading the subject from her own histrionic powers.

  “Yes,” agreed Miss LaFosse, “but I’m resting just now, only I’m working while I’m resting. I didn’t want to sign a poorer contract while Phil was getting ready to back me in ‘Pile on the Pepper ‘, so I refused to sign a small contract and I’m singing just now at the Scarlet Peacock.”

  “A very odd name,” murmured Miss Pettigrew, “Scarlet Peacock?”

  “Very,” agreed Miss LaFosse, “but it’s very fetching, don’t you think? Nick is partner in it with Teddy Scholtz. Nick’s a bit conventional and wanted to call it’ The Scarlet Woman ‘, and Teddy’s a bit unimaginative and wanted to call it ‘The Green Peacock.’ So they cut for it, only they didn’t know they’d got hold of Charlie Hardbright’s fake pack and they both cut the Ace of Spades. Neither would give in and cut again, so they split the difference and called it ‘The Scarlet Peacock’.”

  “How terribly interesting,” breathed Miss Pettigrew. “I mean, you know, knowing the inside histories of things. I’ve always been on the outside before.”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss LaFosse. “You’re certainly on the inside when Nick’s around.”

  Talking about Nick brought him close again. She got up and began fiddling with an ornament on the mantelpiece with her head half-turned from Miss Pettigrew. Her merry, laughing face was clouded and a little unhappy.

  “You see how it is,” said Miss LaFosse in a muffled voice; “he just…gets you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

  “There’s some men like that.”

  “Assuredly.”

  “You can’t explain it.”

  “Not to other men.”

  “There’s no words for it.”

  “Being a woman,” said Miss Pettigrew, “I don’t need any.”

  Miss LaFosse leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece and rested her brow on the palm of her hand. Her voice sounded a little hopeless.

  “He’s bad and I know it and I want to break with him. While he’s been away these three weeks I was determined when he came back I would finish everything. I even asked you to help me to be firm. But you saw how it was. The minute he returned I was soft again. If you hadn’t been there I’d have agreed about tonight and everything he asked, but you mayn’t be there next tim
e.”

  Miss Pettigrew saw things needed firm handling. She was getting to know her new role and was beginning to find a certain zest in attacking problems boldly.

  “Sit down,” said Miss Pettigrew. “Looking back I don’t know why I acted as I did. It was purely automatic. I never thought. He has a very…very intimidating personality. You were afraid. I was afraid. But something had to be done about it, so I did something. I was very foolish. I should really have let him discover about Phil, even if it meant sacrificing Phil to his anger, then all would have been safely over between you. I cannot think why I destroyed the opportunity.”

  “But I’m so glad you did,” breathed Miss LaFosse.

  “Sit down.”

  Miss LaFosse sat down.

  “You need a talking-to,” said Miss Pettigrew.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “If you don’t mind,” said Miss Pettigrew, “I’ll talk.”

  “Not at all,” said Miss LaFosse. “Please do.”

  “You’re pitying yourself,” accused Miss Pettigrew. “You think it’s very hard you should be picked out to love a person you think you shouldn’t love. You don’t think it’s fair and you’re a little aggrieved at so much worry and so you’re pitying yourself.”

  “I suppose I am,” agreed Miss LaFosse honestly.

  “In my life,” said Miss Pettigrew, “a great many unpleasant things have happened. I hope they never happen to you. I don’t think they will because you’re not afraid like me. But there’s one thing I found fatal: pitying myself. It made things worse.”

  “I expect you’re right.”

  “I am right. You’ve got to face up to facts. I did. My way,” said Miss Pettigrew simply, “was dumb endurance. It was the only way I could. I hadn’t the courage for fighting. I’ve always been terrified of people.”

  Miss LaFosse turned unbelieving eyes on her.

  “It’s true,” pursued Miss Pettigrew, “you must not judge by today’s events. I’ve never acted like that in my life before.”

  “I couldn’t dumbly endure.”

  “No,” agreed Miss Pettigrew. “I’m glad. You’d probably kick back and end safely somewhere. But you’ve got courage and I haven’t.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”