Memento Mori

  Charmian was saying to him, “We did talk over the whole matter quite a lot last night. Let us leave the subject alone. I for one like Henry Mortimer, and I thoroughly enjoyed the drive.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew, too, was alarmed by this mental recovery of Charmian’s, induced apparently, by the revival of those old books. In reality it was also, in part, due to an effortful will to resist Mrs. Pettigrew’s bullying. Mrs. Pettigrew felt that there might now even be some chance of Charmian’s outliving Godfrey. Charmian should be in a home, and would be, if Godfrey were not weak-minded about it, trying to play on his wife’s sympathy and keep her with him.

  Godfrey looked across the fireplace at his ally and enemy, Charmian, and at Mabel Pettigrew, whom he so tremendously feared, sitting between them, and decided to give Mrs. Pettigrew the slip again this afternoon and go to see Olive.

  Mabel Pettigrew thought: I can read him like a book. She had not read a book for over forty years, could never concentrate on reading, but this nevertheless was her thought; and she decided to accompany him to the solicitor.

  After Charmian had gone to lie down after lunch Mrs. Pettigrew came in to her.

  Charmian opened her eyes. “I didn’t hear you knock, Mabel,” she said.

  “No,” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “You didn’t.”

  “Always knock,” said Charmian.

  “Mrs. Anthony,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “is getting too forgetful to manage the cooking. She has left out the salt three days running, as you know. There was a caterpillar cooked in yesterday’s greens. She put all that garlic in the sweetbread casserole, said she thought it was celery—well I mean to say. She boiled Godfrey’s egg hard this morning, he couldn’t touch it.”

  “Keep an eye on her, Mabel. You have little else to do.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s feelings—those which prompted every action—rose to her throat at this independent attitude which Charmian had been gradually accumulating all winter. Mrs. Pettigrew’s breath, as she stood over Charmian’s bed became short and agitated.

  “Sit down, Mabel. You are out of breath,” said Charmian.

  Mrs. Pettigrew sat down. Charmian watched her, trying to sort out in her mind this new complaint about Mrs. Anthony, and what it could signify, apart from its plain meaning. Her thoughts drifted once more, for reassurance, to the nursing home in Surrey, in the same way that, as she knew, Jean Taylor’s thoughts would, in the past, rest on her savings in the bank when from time to time her life with the Colstons had become too oppressive.

  Mrs. Pettigrew’s breathing was worse. She had been suddenly caught in a gust of resentment which had been stirring within her since Charmian’s partial recovery. She felt a sense of great injustice at the evident power Charmian exerted over Godfrey—so strong that she did not seem conscious of it. It was a spell of her personality so mighty that, for fear of his miserable infidelities in Spain and Belgium with Lisa Brooke coming to Charmian’s knowledge, he had been, so far, docile before all the threats and deprivations of the past winter. Mabel Pettigrew had only needed to indicate that she was in possession of the full correspondence between Lisa Brooke and Godfrey, dated 1902, 1903 and 1904, and his one immediate idea had been: Charmian must not know. Tell Eric, tell everyone. But keep it from Charmian.

  Mrs. Pettigrew was aware that in this he was not displaying any special consideration for Charmian’s feelings. That might have been endurable. The real reason was beyond her grasp, yet undeniably present. It was real enough to render Godfrey limp in her hands. What he seemed to fear was some superiority in Charmian and the loss of his pride before her. And, though Mabel Pettigrew indeed was doing better out of Godfrey than she had hoped, she sat in Charmian’s bedroom and overwhelmingly resented the inexplicableness of Charmian’s power.

  “You seem to have a mild touch of asthma,” Charmian remarked. “Better keep as still and quiet as possible and presently I will get Godfrey to ring the doctor.”

  Mrs. Pettigrew was thinking of that business scandal at Colston Breweries which had been hushed up at the time, the documents of which she now had in her keeping. Now, if Godfrey had been really frightened about her possible disclosure of these documents she would have understood him. But all he worried about were those letters between himself and Lisa Brooke. Charmian must not know. His pride before Charmian, Charmian, an old wreck like Charmian.

  Charmian stretched her hand towards the bell-push by her bed. “Godfrey will ring for the doctor,” she said.

  “No, no, I’m better now,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, gradually controlling her breath, for she had the self-discipline of a nun where business was concerned. “It was just a little turn. Mrs. Anthony is such a worry.”

  Charmian leaned back on her pillow and moved her hand wearily over her heart-shaped face. “Have you had asthma before, Mabel?”

  “It is not asthma. It’s just a little chest trouble.” Mrs. Pettigrew’s face was less alarmingly red. She breathed slowly and deeply after her ordeal, and lit a cigarette.

  “You have great courage, Mabel,” Charmian observed, “if only you would employ it to the proper ends. I envy your courage. I sometimes feel helpless without my friends around me. Very few of my friends come to see me now. It isn’t their fault. Godfrey did not seem to want them after my stroke. When my friends were around me every day, what courage I had!”

  “You would be better off in the home,” said Mabel Pettigrew. “You know you would. Lots of company, your friends might even come and visit you sometimes.”

  “It’s true I would prefer to be in the nursing home. However,” said Charmian, “Godfrey needs me here.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Pettigrew.

  Charmian wondered, once more, which of Godfrey’s secrets the woman could have got hold of. The Colston Brewery affair? Or merely one or more of his numerous infidelities? Of course, one was always obliged to appear to know nothing where a man like Godfrey was concerned. His pride. It had been the only way to live reasonably with him. For a moment, she was tempted to go to Godfrey and say, “There is nothing you can tell me about your past life which would move me in the slightest. I know most of your supposed secrets, and what I do not know would still not surprise me.”

  But she did not possess the courage to do this. He might—he would certainly—turn on her. He would never forgive her for having played this game, for over fifty years, of knowing nothing while at the same time knowing everything, as one might be “not at home” while actually in the house. What new tyranny might he not exert to punish her knowledge?

  And the simple idea of facing each other with such a statement between them was terrible. This should have been done years ago. And yet, it should not have been done. There was altogether too much candour in married life; it was an indelicate modern idea, and frequently led to upsets in a household, if not divorce….

  And she, too, had her pride to consider. Her mind munched over the humiliations she had received from Godfrey. Never had she won a little praise or recognition but she had paid for it by some bitter, petty, disruptive action of Godfrey’s.

  But I could sacrifice my pride, she thought, in order to release him. It is a matter of courage. The most I can do is to stay on here at home with him. She envied Mrs. Pettigrew her courage.

  Mrs. Pettigrew rose and came to stand by her bed.

  “You’re more of a hindrance to Godfrey here than you would be in a nursing home. It’s ridiculous to say he needs you.”

  “I shall not go,” said Charmian. “Now I think I must have my nap. What is the time?”

  “I came,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “to tell you about Mrs. Anthony. She can’t do the cooking any more, we shall all have stomach trouble. I will have to take over the meals. And besides, this cold supper she leaves for us at night is not satisfactory. It doesn’t agree with me, going to bed on a cold supper. I will have to take over the cooking.”

  “That is very good of you,” murmured Charmian, calculating meanwhile what was behind all this, since, wi
th Mrs. Pettigrew, something always seemed to be behind her statements.

  “Otherwise,” said Mrs. Pettigrew, “one of us might be poisoned.”

  “Well, really!” said Charmian.

  “Poisoned,” said Mrs. Pettigrew. “Poison is so easy. Think it over.”

  She left the room.

  Charmian was frightened, and at the same time a long-latent faculty stirred in her mind to assess the cheap melodrama of Mrs. Pettigrew’s words. But Charmian’s fear predominated in the end, and, as she lay fearfully in her bed, she knew she would not put it past Mrs. Pettigrew to poison her once she took control of the food. A poisoning was not easy to accomplish, but still Mrs. Pettigrew might know of undetectable methods. Charmian thought on and on, and frightened herself more and more. Another woman, she thought, would be able to go to her husband and say, “Our housekeeper is threatening to poison me”—or to insist on an investigation by her friends, her son, the doctor. But Godfrey was craven, Eric was hostile, the doctor would attempt to soothe her down, assuming she had started to entertain those wild suspicions of the aged.

  Then it is settled, Charmian thought. This is the point where my long, long duty to Godfrey comes to an end. I shall go to the nursing home.

  The decision gave her a sense of latitude and relief. In the nursing home she could be a real person again, as she had been yesterday with Henry Mortimer, instead of a frightened invalid. She needed respect and attention. Perhaps she would have visitors. There, she could invite those whom she was prevented from seeing here at home through Godfrey’s rudeness. The nursing home was not far from Stedrost. Perhaps Guy Leet would be driven over to see her. Guy Leet was amusing.

  She heard the front door slam and then the slam of the car door. Mrs. Pettigrew’s footsteps followed immediately, clicking towards the front door. Charmian heard her open the door and call, “Godfrey, I’m coming with you. Wait.” But the car had already started and Godfrey was gone. Mrs. Pettigrew slammed the door shut once more and went to her room. A few seconds later she had descended the stairs and left the house.

  Mrs. Pettigrew had informed Godfrey of her intention of accompanying him to his solicitor. When she found he had once given her the slip she felt pretty sure he had no intention of keeping his appointment with the lawyer. Within a few moments she had put on her hat and coat and marched up the road to find a taxi.

  First of all she went to the bombed building off the King’s Road. There, sure enough, was Godfrey’s car. There was, however, no sign of Godfrey. She ordered the taxi to drive round the block in a hope that she would catch Godfrey before he reached his destination, wherever that might be.

  Godfrey, meanwhile, was on his way to Olive’s flat, about seven minutes’ walk for him at his fastest pace. He turned into Tite Street, stooping his head still more than his natural stoop, against a sudden shower of rain. He hoped Olive would have tea ready. He hoped Olive would not have any other visitors to-day, obliging him to enquire, in that foolish way, for the address of her grandfather. Olive would be in a listening mood, she was a good consoling listener. She would probably have heard from Eric. Godfrey wondered what she had heard from Eric. Olive had promised to write and tell Eric, in strictest confidence, about his difficulties with Mrs. Pettigrew. She had promised to appeal to Eric. Eric would no doubt be only too glad to be on good terms with his parents again. Eric had been a disappointment, but now was his chance to prove himself. Eric would put everything right, and no doubt Olive had heard from Eric.

  He reached the area gate and pushed it open. There was an unusual amount of litter down in the area. The dust-bin was crammed full; old shoes, handbags and belts were sticking out beneath the lid. On the area pavement were scattered newspapers, tins, rusty kitchen utensils, empty bottles of numerous shapes, and a battered lampshade. Godfrey thought: Olive must be having a spring-clean, turning out all her things. Very wasteful and untidy. Always complaining of being hard up; no wonder.

  No one answered his ring. He walked over to the barred window of Olive’s front room and it was then he noticed the curtains had gone. He peered in. The room was quite bare. Must he not have come to the wrong house? He walked up the steps and looked carefully at the number. He walked down the steps again and peered once more into the empty room. Olive had definitely departed. And on realising this his first thought was to leave the vicinity of the house as quickly as possible. There was something mysterious about this. Godfrey could not stand anything mysterious. Olive might be involved in some scandal. She had said nothing, when he had seen her last week, about moving from her flat. As he walked away down Tite Street he feared more and more some swift, sudden scandal, and his one desire was to forget all knowledge of Olive.

  He cut along the King’s Road, bought an afternoon paper, and turned up the side street where his car was waiting. Before he reached it a taxi drew up beside him. Mrs. Pettigrew got out.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said.

  He stood with the newspaper hanging from his hand while she paid the taxi, bewildered by guilt. This guilt was the main sensation Mrs. Pettigrew touched off in him. No thought, word or deed of his life had roused in him any feeling resembling the guilt he experienced as he stood waiting for Mrs. Pettigrew to pay the taxi and turn to ask him, “Where have you been?”

  “Buying the paper,” said Godfrey.

  “Did you have to park your car here in order to walk down the road to buy the paper?”

  “Wanted a walk,” said Godfrey. “Bit stiff.”

  “You’ll be late for your appointment. Hurry up. I told you to wait for me. Why did you go off without me?”

  “I forgot,” said Godfrey as he climbed into the car, “that you wanted to come. I was in a hurry to get to the lawyer’s.” She went round to the other side of the car and got in.

  “You might have opened the door for me,” she said.

  Godfrey did not at first understand what she meant, for he had long since started to use his advanced years as an excuse to omit the mannerly conformities of his younger days, and he was now automatically rude in his gestures as if by long-earned right. He sensed some new frightful upheaval of his habits behind her words, as he drove off fitfully towards Sloane Square.

  She lifted the paper and glanced at the front page.

  “Ronald,” she said. “Here’s Ronald Sidebottome in the paper. His photo; he’s got married. No, don’t look. Watch where you’re going, we’ll have an accident. Mind out—there’s the red light.”

  They were jerked forward roughly as Godfrey braked for the red light.

  “Oh, do be careful,” she said, “and a little more considerate.”

  He looked down at her lap where the paper was lying. Ronald’s flabby face beamed up at him. He stood with Olive simpering on his arm, under the headline, “Widower, 79, weds girl, 24.”

  “Olive Mannering!” Godfrey let out.

  “Oh, you know her?”

  “Grand-daughter of my friend the poet,” Godfrey said.

  “The lights, Godfrey,” said Mrs. Pettigrew in a tired tone.

  He shot the car forward.

  “‘Wealthy ex-stockbroker…’” Mrs. Pettigrew read out. “She knows what she’s doing, all right. ‘Miss Mannering…film extra and B.B.C. actress…now given up her flat in Tite Street, Chelsea…’” The jig-saw began to piece itself together in Mrs. Pettigrew’s mind. As heart is said to speak unto heart, Mrs. Pettigrew looked at Olive’s photograph and understood where Godfrey had been wont to go on those afternoons when he had parked his car outside the bombed building.

  “Of course, Godfrey, this will be a blow to you,” she said.

  He thought: God, she knows everything. He went up to his solicitor’s offices like a lamb, while Mrs. Pettigrew waited in the car below. He did not even attempt to circumvent her wishes, as he had half-hoped to do when finally forced to the alteration of his will. He did not now even think of the idea he had previously dabbled with, of confiding the facts to his lawyer. Mabel Pettigrew knew everythi
ng. She could tell Charmian everything. He instructed a new will to be drawn up leaving the minimum required by law to his son, and the bulk to Mrs. Pettigrew, and even most of Charmian’s share, should she outlive him, in trust for Mrs. Pettigrew.

  “Now,” said the solicitor. “This might take some time to prepare, of course.”

  “It must be done right away,” said Godfrey.

  “Would you not like some time, Mr. Colston, to think it over? Mrs. Pettigrew is your housekeeper?”

  “It must be done right away,” said Godfrey. “No delay, if you please.”

  “Disgusting,” said Godfrey later that evening to Charmian. “A man going on eighty marrying a girl of twenty-four. Absolutely disgusting. And he’s deaf as a post.”

  “Godfrey,” she said, “I am going to the nursing home on Sunday morning. I have made arrangements with the doctor and the bank. Universal Aunts are coming tomorrow to pack my things. Janet Sidebottome will accompany me. I do not wish to put you out, Godfrey. It might distress you to take me yourself. I am afraid I simply can’t stand these anonymous telephone calls any longer. They will bring me speedily to my grave. I must be protected from the sight of the telephone. I have spoken to Lettie, and she approves my decision. Mrs. Pettigrew thinks, too, it will be the best course—don’t you, Mabel? Everyone is agreed. I must say, I feel most sad. However, it had to be eventually. You yourself have often said—”