Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (2 page)

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew, touched. “How…how exceptionally kind of you.”

She suddenly wanted to cry, but she didn’t. Surprisingly she lifted her head firmly and said authoritatively, “Now you two sit down and I’ll serve breakfast. Everything’s ready.”

Phil enjoyed his breakfast. He ate leisurely through a grapefruit, ham and eggs, toast and marmalade, fruit. Then he leaned back comfortably in his chair and dug out of his pocket a packet of villainous-looking cheroots.

“Dash it all, I’m sorry,” he apologized to Miss Pettigrew. “Haven’t got a cigarette on me to offer you. Always mean to carry ‘em and always forget.”

Miss Pettigrew fluttered in her chair and looked a little pink with pleasure. She couldn’t look quite as antiquated as she had always imagined if a man thought she smoked.

“I do wish you wouldn’t smoke those nasty things,” grumbled Miss LaFosse. “I don’t like the smell.”

“Force of habit,” said Phil apologetically. “Bought ‘em when I couldn’t afford cigars, and now I don’t want cigars.”

“Oh, well. Every one to his taste,” said Miss LaFosse philosophically.

All this time Miss Pettigrew’s delicate female perceptions had been aware that their hostess was in a high state of agitation behind her smiling front. Suddenly Miss LaFosse jumped to her feet and made for the kitchen.

“I must have some more coffee.” Miss Pettigrew followed her with her eyes. She saw her stop in the doorway and make frantic signs of appeal. Miss Pettigrew had never been an actress in her life, but now she gave a brilliant performance. She rose to her feet with just the right touch of tolerant amusement in her voice.

“I’d better go myself. She’s quite capable of pouring it over herself.”

In the kitchen Miss LaFosse clutched her arm frantically.

“You must get him out. My God! What shall I do! You must get him out at once. You can do it without his guessing. I’m sure you can do anything. Please, please get him out for me.”

She wrung her hands in distress, her lovely face quite white with agitation. The kitchen pulsed with drama. No one could have resisted Miss LaFosse’s appeal, let alone Miss Pettigrew with her susceptible heart. She felt strong with compassion and sympathy, though for what she hadn’t the faintest idea. Yet behind her solicitude, rather guiltily, Miss Pettigrew felt the most glorious, exhilarating sensation of excitement she had ever experienced. “This,” thought Miss Pettigrew, “is Life. I have never lived before.”

But feeling pity wasn’t enough. This lovely child looked to her to act. Miss Pettigrew had never in her life before dealt with a situation that needed such finesse. What should she do? Her mind ranged in panic over her past life. From what experience could she draw? She thought of Mrs. Mortleman in that Golder’s Green post and her terrible husband she had managed so well. If only…Miss Pettigrew, from nowhere, felt an amazing, powerful assurance pouring into her veins. This beautiful creature believed in her. She would not fail her. Could a Miss Pettigrew not be a Mrs. Mortleman?

“I have never,” said Miss Pettigrew, “told a black lie in my life, and very few white ones, but there is always a time to begin.”

“He mustn’t guess I want him away. You’re sure you won’t let him guess.”

“He won’t guess.”

Miss LaFosse flung her arms round Miss Pettigrew and kissed her.

“Oh, you darling! How can I thank you? Oh, thank you, thank you…you’re sure you can manage?”

“Leave it to me,” said Miss Pettigrew. Miss LaFosse made for the door. Calmly, collectedly, full powers in control, Miss Pettigrew chided her gently.

“You’ve forgotten the coffee.” Miss Pettigrew filled the coffeepot, turned around and went back into the room. Her heart was thumping, her cheeks were flushed, she felt weak with nervousness, but she had never felt so exhilarated in her life. Things were happening. Miss LaFosse followed meekly behind.

Miss Pettigrew sat down, poured out another cup of coffee for herself and Miss LaFosse and waited, with devilish tact, for a few minutes. That marvellous sense of assurance still upheld her. Phil looked set for the morning. At last Miss Pettigrew spoke. She leaned forward with her gentle, engaging smile.

“Young man, I am a busy woman and I have a lot of things to discuss with Miss LaFosse. Would you mind very much if I were so rude as to ask you to leave us alone together?”

“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.

11.11
AM
—11.35
AM

W
ith 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 LaFosse 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.”