Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (16 page)

“But very lovely,” pleaded Miss Pettigrew.

“Yes, confound her, but not the sense of a mouse.”

“But does she need it?” asked Miss Pettigrew earnestly.

“A bit of grey matter would do her no harm.”

“But I thought men didn’t like brains in women.”

“I do. That’s why I’m different, so God knows why I picked on her.”

“She has sense,” said Miss Pettigrew spiritedly.

“Then why doesn’t she use it?”

“I don’t know,” sighed Miss Pettigrew.

“Because she hasn’t got any.”

“I’m in the room, you know,” said Miss LaFosse in her lovely, chuckling voice.

“Be quiet,” said Michael. “This talk is serious. We don’t want folly intervening.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss LaFosse meekly.

“Granted.”

Michael turned back to Miss Pettigrew.

“You and I understand things.”

“I hope so,” said Miss Pettigrew weakly.

“I’ve had a lot of women in my life.”

“Oh!” gasped Miss Pettigrew.

“I’ve enjoyed them.”

“Oh!” a little weaker.

“They’ve enjoyed me.”

“I can imagine it,” fainter still.

“But I’ve never wanted to marry them.”

“No.”

“But Delysia. She’s different.”

“Obviously.”

“Marriage is a serious business.”

“Assuredly.”

“Now Delysia’s a little devil and there’s times I could flay her alive, and obviously she needs a little physical correction, but I’m the only right man to do it. But I feel, which I never did with the others, that if Delysia really said yes and married a man, she’d play straight with him. I never felt it with the others.”

“It’s the morality of my middle-class upbringing,” put in Miss LaFosse again, very eager to join this interesting conversation about herself. “When it comes to marriage, a girl can somehow never get away from her earlier influences.”

“You’re not in on this,” said Michael crushingly.

“Oh!” said Miss LaFosse meekly again. “I’m sorry.”

“Then act as though you were.”

He turned back to the confused, shocked, thrilled Miss Pettigrew.

“You’re a close friend of Delysia’s?”

“Yes,” lied Miss Pettigrew wickedly.

“Well, tell her not to be a damned fool and that I’m the man for her and not that black-haired, oily, knife-throwing dago. Don’t think I’m blind.”

“He’s not a dago,” said Miss LaFosse furiously.

“If the cap doesn’t fit,” said Michael blandly, “how do you know who I’m talking about?”

“You…you…” cried Miss LaFosse hotly and inadequately.

“His great-great-grandfather was an Italian and blood will out. You can’t fool me.”

Michael jumped to his feet and glared ferociously round.

“Has that blankety-blank Caldarelli been here today? I can smell him a mile away.”

“Only when I was here,” said Miss Pettigrew hastily, connecting Caldarelli and Nick at once.

“Ha! Then you’ve seen him?”

“Yes.”

“A bounder.”

“I agree.”

“Not God’s gift to women.”

“Decidedly not,” traitorously agreed Miss Pettigrew, sailing her flutters at the remembrance of Nick’s dark, passionate glances.

“Not fit to be in the presence of a lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” broke in Miss LaFosse hotly.

“No,” agreed Michael, “you’re not. Save me from ladies. I used the wrong word. I apologize.”

“I accept it,” said Miss LaFosse with dignity.

“Not fit to be in the presence of a white woman,” amended Michael insultingly.

“Safer away,” agreed Miss Pettigrew.

“What does he remind you of?”

“Ice-cream,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“What?” said Michael. His face lit with joy.

“Woman,” he cried in delight, “your acumen is marvellous. I could only think of him singing mushy songs to mushy señoritas in mushy films.”

“But how lovely he would do it!” thought Miss Pettigrew wistfully.

“Ice-cream,” crowed Michael. “Marvellous. Caldar-elli’s ice-cream. A perfect association.”

He swung round towards Miss LaFosse.

“Ha!” said Michael triumphantly. “Caldarelli’s ice-cream. She prefers the son of an ice-cream vendor to me.”

“How dare you?” cried Miss LaFosse indignantly. “You know Nick’s father never sold ice-cream in his life. And your father sold fish.”

“Fish!”

Michael jumped to his feet. He exploded into oratory. He strode up and down the room. Miss Pettigrew cast nervous eyes on chairs and ornaments.

“You compare fish…with ice-cream,” cried Michael. “Fish has phosphorus. Fish feeds the brain. Fish is nutritious. Fish is body-building. Fish has vitamins. Fish has cod-liver oil. Fish makes bonny babies bigger and better. Men give their lives for fish. Women weep. The harbour bar moans. You compare fish…with ice-cream. And look me in the face.”

“Oh dear!” choked Miss LaFosse. “Michael. Do behave.”

He stopped and grinned.

“Be calm. I can’t think of anything else. I don’t think castor oil comes from fish or the allusions might become more lurid.”

Miss Pettigrew blushed and looked away hastily. Miss LaFosse’s gaze fell on the clock.

Michael took the glance as a hint.

“Fixed for tonight, I suppose?”

“I’m singing at the Scarlet Peacock.”

“I’ll come.”

“I didn’t ask you.”

“I’ll meet you there. I have a date with another female—pure bravado—but I’ll go and cancel it. Not very scrupulous conduct and not usual behaviour, but critical emergencies need drastic measures. If I’ve only a week to make an impression I’d better start at once.”

He gathered hat, gloves, scarf in a storm of activity. He came across and kissed Miss LaFosse. Miss Pettigrew watched with vicarious pleasure. His face went serious.

“No fooling,” he said quietly.

Miss LaFosse caught her breath.

“I know.”

He came over and gave Miss Pettigrew a resounding kiss. Miss Pettigrew didn’t see him go out. She sat back dazed and breathless with bliss. The door banged behind him.

8.28
PM
—12.16
AM

T
he room was quiet for a minute. Miss LaFosse stood soberly by the fire. Then she gave herself a little shake. Miss Pettigrew came out of deep waters.

“Well,” said Miss LaFosse, whose volatile nature never remained depressed for long, “I don’t know about you, but any kind of excitement always stimulates my appetite. What about a spot of dinner after all? It’s past my usual hour, but we’ve still got heaps of time. I’ll order something to be sent up. We needn’t have every course.”

She reached for the telephone. She would listen to no refusal from Miss Pettigrew, who protested genteelly she could not touch a bite. Miss Pettigrew’s conscience was worrying at the cost. She had accepted so much already from her new friend.

“Nonsense,” declared Miss LaFosse. “You’ll soon find your appetite when the food’s in front of you.”

She was quite right. When dinner arrived Miss Pettigrew found her appetite had miraculously returned. No one, brought up on the deadly monotony of insipid stews, tasteless mince, tough roast beef, which had been Miss Pettigrew’s lifelong diet, could remain indifferent to the kind of food in which Miss LaFosse indulged.

But though the dinner was delicious enough to excuse anyone forgetting anything but eating, Miss Pettigrew was not to be diverted from her main purpose. Somehow or other Miss LaFosse must be persuaded to give up Nick and marry Michael. Through soup, fish, roast and sweet the battle went on, Miss Pettigrew on the offensive, Miss LaFosse on the retreat. Miss LaFosse would resort to stratagem. When she found herself too hard-pressed by Miss Pettigrew’s stern logic she would deftly switch the conversation. With great cunning she would begin telling Miss Pettigrew some highly coloured anecdote of her varied career, and Miss Pettigrew would grow so enthralled at hearing this inside dope on ‘How the other half lives’ she would be momentarily sidetracked from her main attack. But not for long. The minute the story was over Miss Pettigrew’s guns were at once trained on their original objective again.

Time fled unnoticed and just when Miss Pettigrew was thinking triumphantly that at last Miss LaFosse’s resistance was wearing thin, Miss LaFosse noticed the time and jumped to her feet with a cry.

“Oh dear! Look at the time. I’ll have to fly. I’m all to change. It’s after eleven and I promised to be there at twelve.”

She made for the bedroom in an access of energy, but Miss Pettigrew was not going to let her escape while they were still alone together to carry on the argument.

“May I watch?” asked Miss Pettigrew with stern determination.

Miss LaFosse gave up trying to escape.

“Sure,” she agreed resignedly. “I’m a public figure.”

Miss Pettigrew ensconced herself happily in a chair beside Miss LaFosse’s dressing-table. Miss LaFosse’s rush died down. The rites of dressing demanded a slow tempo and she was not one to be unduly worried about punctuality.

She took off her frock. She went into the bathroom and came out again. She chose an evening frock. She smiled cheerfully at Miss Pettigrew. She had quite recovered her former good spirits. She sat down in front of her mirror.

“I do often think,” she said cheerfully, “that the nicest part is the getting ready.”

Miss Pettigrew for once was not to be put off by enticing digressions.

“Can nothing I say persuade you?” implored Miss Pettigrew.

“Oh, Guinevere,” said Miss LaFosse, “you make me feel like an ungrateful pig.”

“I don’t care,” said Miss Pettigrew sternly and courageously, “I must speak my mind. You know in your heart of hearts Nick will not remain faithful to you. Some day you are bound to get older. He will not look at you then. When he is fifty, he will still ogle the young girls.”

Miss LaFosse sighed.

“Oh dear! You do make it so depressing.”

“Why not take the plunge,” begged Miss Pettigrew, “and risk marrying Michael? You know,” added Miss Pettigrew craftily, madly flinging to the winds last traces of honour and virtue, “if it didn’t work you could always go back to Nick. It’s not as though you wanted to marry Nick.”

“Oh, Guinevere!” said Miss LaFosse with a grin.

“I know.” Miss Pettigrew flushed guiltily.

“You artful sinner,” accused Miss LaFosse. “You know perfectly well I wouldn’t dare. He’d beat hell out of me.”

“My dear!” expostulated Miss Pettigrew. “Aren’t you…aren’t you a little extravagant?”

“I wouldn’t like to bet on it,” said Miss LaFosse.

“But there’s so much in its favour,” pleaded Miss Pettigrew. “Try and put Nick entirely out of your mind. Then would you marry Michael?”

“Ah!” said Miss LaFosse darkly. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“But why?” asked Miss Pettigrew. “He’s good-looking. He’s got plenty of money—at least he seems to have. He loves you. What’s wrong?”

“He’s not respectable,” said Miss LaFosse earnestly. “Nothing could make Michael respectable. A woman’s got to sow her wild oats, but when it comes to
marrying
! It’s a serious business. She’s got to be careful. There’s…there’s the future generation to think of.”

“Oh!” gasped Miss Pettigrew, utterly flabbergasted, wind knocked out of her sails.

“There you are,” said Miss LaFosse.

Miss Pettigrew refused to be downed. She rose. She clasped her hands. Her face became earnest, imploring.

“I am impertinent,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I am forward. I am rude. You will turn me out. But I must speak. I like you too much. I can’t see you unhappy in the future. This life you lead. Where will it end? Please, please marry Michael.”

“Dear, dear,” smiled Miss LaFosse. “You mean to put me on the path of virtue.”

“If I only could.”

“Is it so much the best?”

“Indeed, indeed it is,” began Miss Pettigrew. Then stopped. She was not fifty yet, but some day she would be, with no home, no friends, no husband, no children. She had lived a life of spartan chastity and honour. She would still have no home or memories. Miss LaFosse would reach fifty some day. Suppose she reached it equally without home and friends. What then? How full would her memories be?

“No,” said Miss Pettigrew. “I don’t know whether it is the best.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Miss LaFosse gently.

Miss Pettigrew raised her head. She spoke breathlessly in a rush.

“I have never,” said Miss Pettigrew, “been loved in my life. I want to know. I’ve always wanted to know. There are hundreds like me want to know. Is It Worth It?”

“Yes,” said Miss LaFosse, “to me.”

Miss Pettigrew sat down.

“I am older than you,” said Miss Pettigrew; “I am a stupid woman. I haven’t your brains, nor your beauty, nor your cleverness. I don’t advise marriage from virtue or custom, but from experience. I have no friends, no money, no family. I only wish to save you from that.”

“Oh, my dear,” said Miss LaFosse again.

“As long as he is kind, that is all that matters. I have known,” said Miss Pettigrew, “in my life a lot of good people, but few were ever kind.”

“Oh, Guinevere,” said Miss LaFosse.

“Now the first one, he was kind too,” said Miss Pettigrew earnestly, “but, well, my dear. I wouldn’t advise marrying him. I don’t like to jump to conclusions but I think there was a little Jew in him. He wasn’t quite English. And, well, I do think when it comes to marriage it’s safer to stick to your own nationality.”

“Certainly,” agreed Miss LaFosse demurely. “And Nick—well, Nick will not make you happy in the long run. I think you know that yourself. But Michael, well, Michael!” said Miss Pettigrew, her face shining, “I won’t say much more, because I’ve been very forward as it is, but I’ve never met a young man I liked better. And he’s all English.”

“In fact,” said Miss LaFosse, “what you mean is Michael’s made a conquest.”

“Yes,” said Miss Pettigrew.

“You darling!” said Miss LaFosse. She could restrain herself no longer. She leaned forward and hugged Miss Pettigrew and gave her a kiss.

“I’ll think about it, I promise.”

Miss Pettigrew felt quite weak after so much expenditure of force.

“Oh dear! I do hope you don’t mind me being so frank. I just had to speak.”