Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (15 page)

“Do I look like a cannibal?”

“No,” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Do I look like a wife-beater?”

“Certainly not,” denied Miss Pettigrew indignantly.

“There,” triumphed the new-comer. “What more could you expect in a man? Not a brute, not a cannibal, not a wife-beater. A testimonial from your own sex. Damnation, I think I’m too good for you.”

Miss LaFosse began to giggle. She couldn’t help it. Miss Pettigrew sat up with delighted interest. The big man’s smile was extraordinarily engaging.

“Oh, please,” giggled Miss LaFosse. “Do behave.”

“That’s rudeness,” said the visitor indignantly, “that’s ingratitude. That calls for a pick-me-up. I want a drink. Good Lord, woman, where’s your sense of hospitality? Where’s that admirable gift of a true hostess, anticipation of a guest’s wants?”

“There’s plenty in the back,” said Miss LaFosse.

“I’ll get it,” offered Miss Pettigrew.

“You’ll do no such thing. I can carry a bottle, can’t I?” He banged into a table. “My God, Delysia, who the devil furnished this room, it’s like the seduction scene in From Chorus Girl to Duchess”

“It’s very nice,” said Miss LaFosse heatedly. “I chose it myself.”

“Your taste is deplorable.”

He charged into the kitchen. They heard him thumping round the kitchen, clattering chairs and table, banging cupboard doors, rattling glasses on a tray.

“A very noisy young man,” said Miss Pettigrew happily.

“You’ve hit the nail on the head,” agreed Miss LaFosse.

Suddenly howls of rage were heard in the kitchen.

“Oh!” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse.

His irate face appeared in the doorway.

“Good God, woman!” he roared. “How many times have I to tell you that Whiskey, W-h-i-s-k-e-y, is a man’s drink? There’s rum there, there’s port there, there’s sherry there, there’s even that damn-awful gin there, but not one drop of whiskey. Where’s your sense? Where’s your consideration for your visitors?”

“Oh dear!” said Miss LaFosse weakly. “Won’t any of it do?”

“It will not. At the moment I want a drink. At the moment I feel I need a drink. At the moment I must have a drink. That porter seemed to have an intelligent face. I won’t be a minute.”

He stamped across the room and banged the door behind him.

“Oh dear,” quavered Miss Pettigrew.

“That,” said Miss LaFosse gently, “was Michael.”

“Michael?” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Michael,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Good…good gracious!” said Miss Pettigrew feebly.

She groped for a chair and sat down. It took her quite a minute to gather her faculties together again: banish her preconceived notions of Michael: readjust her mental attitude towards the man in the flesh. Then her eyes began to shine, her face became pink, her body quivered with delight. She sat straight. She fixed shining eyes on Miss LaFosse.

“Oh, my dear!” said Miss Pettigrew joyfully. “I congratulate you.”

“Eh!” said Miss LaFosse. “What about?”

Miss Pettigrew was not to be damped. She was now a partisan, and there is no stronger partisan anywhere than a middle-aged spinster with romantic ideals.

“If I were twenty years younger,” said Miss Pettigrew with a radiant face, “and could, I’d steal him from you.”

“Would you really?” asked Miss LaFosse with interest.

“I’ve been worried,” stated Miss Pettigrew happily, “secretly worried, my dear, though I didn’t show it, but it has gone. I’m quite serene now.”

“I didn’t think you liked Michael,” said Miss LaFosse. “Your previous tone certainly gave me that impression.”

“I hadn’t seen him then,” apologized Miss Pettigrew.

“It just goes to prove how wicked it is to indulge in preconceived ideas.”

“And you recommend…Michael?” said Miss LaFosse in surprise.

“For you…absolutely right,” said Miss Pettigrew firmly.

All her troubles had fled. Miss LaFosse’s future was assured. No life with Michael could possibly be dull, obscure, frustrated. A fig for her ridiculous fears. He was the perfect mate. Miss LaFosse, married to Michael, would continue to live the gorgeous, colourful life that was her due. Who could imagine a mediocre existence with that young man? All was well. A load had been lifted from her heart.

“White velvet and a veil and orange blossom,” said Miss Pettigrew blissfully. “Oh, my dear. I know it’s presumptuous in so short an acquaintance, but if you will only let me know the date, if it’s the last thing I do, I’d like to get to the church.”

“Oh, Guinevere!” chuckled Miss LaFosse. “You’re going much too fast.”

Her face sobered. She fiddled with the fastening of her sleeve.

“It isn’t as simple as all that.”

“Why not?” demanded Miss Pettigrew boldly. “He wants to marry you, doesn’t he?”

“He did,” said Miss LaFosse dubiously.

“Did!” Miss Pettigrew’s heart sank. “You told me he did,” she implored.

“I hadn’t seen him then.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Well. You saw how he was.”

“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew, “he seemed a little annoyed over something.”

“I think he was very annoyed,” said Miss LaFosse.

“If…if I could be of any assistance,” said Miss Pettigrew hopelessly.

“It’s very complicated,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Not again,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“It’s not a very appetizing story.”

“I can bear it.”

“Well,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “I’d better try and explain before Michael gets back. Michael wanted to marry me. He kept pestering me. Then in a rash moment I thought if I married Michael, I’d be safe from Nick. So I said yes. He got a special licence and we arranged to get married at once at a registry office. Then Nick came that morning…and…well…I just didn’t turn up. Michael went on a blind and when a bobby was trying to run him in for being drunk and disorderly he socked him one and got thirty days, no option. I thought he might have cooled off before he came out, but he doesn’t seem to have cooled off.”

“A blind!” said Miss Pettigrew faintly. “Socked him one.”

Her mind was in a whirl of excitement. By giving the closest attention to Miss LaFosse’s story, she had managed to construe it correctly. Through heartbreaking disappointment Michael had gone out and got drunk and struck a policeman. He was a gaolbird: a drunkard: a man who had committed the most heinous of sins under the British Constitution. He had assaulted a policeman in the performance of his duty. He was branded for life with a prison record. He should at once be consigned to the lowest depths of her contempt. But was he? He was not. He went rocketing still higher in Miss Pettigrew’s esteem. She thrilled at the very thought of him. He was a man among men. All her sympathies poured out to him. Who would not excuse folly when committed for love? Even Miss LaFosse must be moved by this powerful proof of the depth of his heart-break. She turned with quivering expectancy towards Miss LaFosse. “He was quite right,” Miss LaFosse was saying. “I was only pretending I funked it. It wasn’t really that. If it weren’t for Nick I think I might marry Michael…though I don’t know,” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “It takes a lot of thinking about. When you think how…”

“Oh, but now!” broke in Miss Pettigrew breathlessly, “I mean now…when you’ve seen them both on the same day…when you see there’s no comparison…surely…”

Miss LaFosse stood up. She leaned her head against the mantelpiece.

“You don’t understand,” she said in a muffled voice, “I still feel the same about Nick.”

Miss Pettigrew had no words. How could any woman prefer Nick before Michael, however fascinating Nick might be? The one was gold, the other just gilt. But who was she to advise a young lady with three lovers all at once, when she had never had even one in all her life! She made a valiant effort.

“Oh, but my dear Miss LaFosse,” said Miss Pettigrew agitatedly, “please, please consider. Michael is a man. Nick is only a…a disease.”

“It’s no use,” said Miss LaFosse hopelessly. “Haven’t I told myself all that before?”

“Does Michael know about Nick?” asked Miss Pettigrew sadly.

“He knows we’re friendly,” said Miss LaFosse cautiously, “but, well, not quite so friendly as we are.”

“I should hope not,” said Miss Pettigrew severely.

“What the eye doesn’t see…” said Miss LaFosse sententiously.

“Quite,” agreed Miss Pettigrew with abandon, without a thought for her old moral standards.

“And now,” said Miss LaFosse gloomily, “I suppose I’ll have to say good-bye to Michael.”

“Oh no!” said Miss Pettigrew, almost in tears.

“Well, you see,” explained Miss LaFosse simply, “I’ve never fooled myself about Michael, even if he thinks I have.. I knew all along a time would come when he said ‘the end’. I would have to say yes or no. It’s come. You heard him. He means it. I know Michael. Oh dear. I know it’s dog in the mangerish. But I didn’t want him to go.”

“Oh please!” begged Miss Pettigrew. “Couldn’t you say yes. Once it’s over you’ll never regret it, I’m sure.”

“I don’t know,” said Miss LaFosse again darkly; “there’s reasons why…”

Michael banged on the door again. Miss LaFosse’s reasons remained unexplained. She hastily powdered her nose. Miss Pettigrew opened the door.

“What did I tell you?” asked Michael. “That man has intelligence. A little tact. A little persuasion. A small inducement, and immediately the necessary is produced.”

He plonked a whiskey bottle on the table. Miss LaFosse produced a corkscrew. Miss Pettigrew brought glasses.

“Say when,” said Michael.

“When,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Soda?”

“No, thanks.”

“Stout girl.”

Miss Pettigrew stood braced for adventure.

“When?” asked Michael.

“When” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“Oh, come!” expostulated Michael.

“Quit pressing,” said Miss LaFosse. “Guinevere’s refined. She’s not like you. She doesn’t go round getting drunk and bashing coppers. Put some soda in.”

“I always wanted to taste whiskey,” said Miss Pettigrew happily. “I’ve never had it, ever, even when I’ve had a cold, as medicine.”

“Where were you brought up?” commiserated Michael.

“Sip it slowly,” begged Miss LaFosse.

“Bottoms up,” said Michael.

Miss Pettigrew sipped. She pulled a face. She slipped her glass surreptitiously on the table.

“Ugh!” thought Miss Pettigrew, disappointed. “Not what it’s cracked up to be. Why men waste money getting drunk on that, when they can get a really cheap palatable drink like lemon squash…!”

“I feel better,” said Michael.

He put his empty glass on the table, tactfully ignoring Miss Pettigrew’s full one.

“Have another,” offered Miss LaFosse. “Have two more.”

Michael gave her a calculating look.

“Getting me drunk, my good woman, will not alter my sentiments towards you. I always sober up eventu-ally.”

“I didn’t think it would,” sighed Miss LaFosse, “but one can always try.”

“Well. Quit trying. It’s no good,” said Michael calmly. “Now I feel a man again we’ll get back to business. What’s the answer, yes or no?”

Miss LaFosse went a little white. She stood looking back at him. He continued to gaze at her composedly and her eyes dropped nervously. He dug his hand in his pocket, found a cigarette-case, lit a cigarette and stood waiting, blowing long spirals of smoke into the air.

“Tears in the eyes,” said Michael, “curls delightfully disarranged, frock just a little too low, mouth pathetically quivering, expression childishly appealing, will have no effect.”

Miss Pettigrew felt her heart tighten. Miss LaFosse caught hold of the back of a chair.

“This,” said Michael gently, “is for the last time of asking.”

Miss LaFosse flung a hopeless glance of appeal at Miss Pettigrew. Miss Pettigrew drew a deep, quivering breath.

“Don’t you think,” said Miss Pettigrew, not placat-ingly, not pleadingly, not persuasively, but craftily, in an impartial, conversational voice: the voice of a detached onlooker merely taking an academic interest, “don’t you think, on such a momentous question, a little time should be allowed? All ultimatums have a time limit. The female mind, unlike the male, is not given to quick decisions. A quick decision is often rescinded. They possess none of that male pride which makes them stick to their word. Time must be allowed them to settle on a point.”

Michael drew in a lungful of smoke and expelled it with a sharp breath.

“Ha! Perhaps you are right. As you say, due warning is always supposed to be given of an ultimatum. I have perhaps led her falsely to expect I would always dance to her tune. In fairness, notice must be given of a change. A week. A week will always give me time to display all my best points and perhaps sway her in the right direction.”

Miss Pettigrew let out a deep, soundless breath. Miss LaFosse lost her expression of strain and at once looked more cheerful.

Michael swung round abruptly and fixed a stern eye on Miss Pettigrew.

“You appear to be a sensible woman. Look at me.”

Miss Pettigrew looked, with no difficulty.

“Do I look sober?” demanded Michael. “Do I look steady? Do I look honest?”

“Oh dear!” said Miss Pettigrew in a fluster. “Must I answer?”

“You must.”

“Oh dear…well. Not sober,” said Miss Pettigrew earnestly. “Not steady, but…but honest.”

“What?” said Michael, taken aback. He grinned. “Woman, there’s something to you.”

He came and sat beside Miss Pettigrew on the chesterfield. Miss Pettigrew thrilled.

“Would it harm her to marry me?” demanded Michael.

“It would be the very best thing for her,” said Miss Pettigrew with decision.

Michael beamed cheerfully.

“Discerning female,” he exulted. “You and I are friends. Didn’t I say you had sense?”

“You mentioned it,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“Have you any influence over that ridiculous mistake she calls a mind?”

“I don’t think so,” said Miss Pettigrew unhappily.

“I thought not. She hasn’t got the sense to know when an influence is good.”

“Oh, but she’s so nice,” begged Miss Pettigrew.

“She’s a damned, irritating wench.”