Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (20 page)

“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 waiters 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?”

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.”

“Excellent,” said Joe. “We can enjoy life together.”

The words were only a phrase, Miss Pettigrew knew, but she had a sudden vision of a life rich, varied; a little vulgar perhaps. He would get drunk sometimes. He would undoubtedly shock her. He was not refined. He would bring odd people to the house. Her standards would be turned topsy-turvy, but what a sense of ease, of security, of fullness he would bring to existence!

She stole a look at him. Big, bluff, hearty, a hint he could be a little brutal maybe, but also kind and considerate. He was not a gentleman. Her mother would have been shocked by him. Mrs. Brummegan might have cut him, if she had not first heard of his money. Her father would definitely not have admitted him within the circle of his intimates. She was lowering her dignity as a well-bred gentlewoman in accepting his attentions, but she had sunk so low in one short day she simply didn’t care whether he was vulgar or not.

Joe’s conventionally encircling arm was now definitely a warm, comfortable embrace. Miss Pettigrew, there was no other word for it, simply snuggled in. She was quite shamelessly happy.

The rain outside had not stopped, but turned to a horrid, wet sleet, neither snow nor rain, that plastered one window of the taxi where the wind blew against it. Miss Pettigrew watched it from the serene comfort of the warm interior of the taxi.

“You were quite right,” said Miss Pettigrew. “It’s not a night to be out in.”

“Catch your death of cold,” agreed Joe.

“Especially in this modern evening wear,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Very attractive,” said Joe gallantly, “but not sensible.”

“No real warmth in a single garment,” admitted Miss Pettigrew.

“We have to wear silk too,” said Joe gloomily.

“Wool,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I don’t care what people say. Wool is still the best wear for winter.”

“I quite agree,” said Joe fervently. This was a vital subject.

“But the young girls!” Miss Pettigrew shook her head. “Silk it is and silk it has to be. No warmth at all. I don’t know how they don’t all die of pneumonia. You cannot make them understand that they look
better
for wool. A warm body means a glowing face. A cold body means a pinched look and a red nose.”

“What about the men?” said Joe with earnest gloom. “I’m used to wool. I was brought up on wool. My mother insisted on wool. I like my woollen vest and pants. But dare I wear them! No. I don’t. They’d think I was an old fogey. They think I should wear silk as well as themselves. I’d blush if they discovered me in wool.”

“I presume,” said Miss Pettigrew scornfully, “you are speaking of the young girls you are so fond of. You are a very stupid man. You should remember your age. No. I will not flatter you. You are not a young man. You will undoubtedly get rheumatism. You go straight home tonight and tomorrow insist on pure woollen underwear. Whether I am rude or not, let me tell you this. They won’t get romantic over you whether you wear silk or wool. So you may just as well wear wool and be comfortable.”

“Could you?” asked Joe.

“Could I what?”

“Get romantic over me?”

Miss Pettigrew blushed. She positively wriggled with pleasure. She looked almost arch. This, thought Miss Pettigrew delightedly, is flirting Why had she waited so long to savour its enjoyment?

“I,” said Miss Pettigrew subtly, “am not a young girl.”

“Ah!” triumphed Joe, who was all there. “Then you could?”

“I might,” said Miss Pettigrew coyly.

“I insist.”

“I am not in the habit,” said Miss Pettigrew with tremendous boldness, “of getting romantic over every handsome man I meet.”

“Me?” said Joe, pleased. “Handsome?”

“No mock modesty,” said Miss Pettigrew. “You know there is no need for you to worry over looks.”

“I return the compliment,” said Joe.