‘Dame Lettie is not here,’ he said, being flustered. ‘Who is that speaking?’
‘The message is for you, Mr Colston.’
‘Who is speaking?’
The man had hung up.
Though Godfrey was still tall, he had seemed to shrink during the winter to an extent that an actual tape- measure would perhaps not confirm. His bones were larger than ever; that is to say, they remained the same size as they had been throughout his adult life, but the ligaments between them had gradually shrunk, as they do with advancing age, so that the bones appeared huge-grown. This process had, in Godfrey, increased rapidly in the months between the autumn of Mrs Pettigrew’s joining his household and the March morning when he received the telephone call.
He put down the receiver and walked with short steps into the library. Mrs Pettigrew followed him. She herself was looking healthier and not much older.
‘Who was that on the phone, Godfrey?’ she said.
‘A man… I can’t understand. It should have been for Lettie but he definitely said it was for me. I thought the message —’
‘What did he say?’
‘That thing he says to Lettie. But he said, “Mr Colston, it’s for you, Mr Colston.” I don’t understand…’
‘Look here,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘let’s pull ourselves together, shall we?’
‘Have you got the key of the sideboard on you?’
‘I have,’ said Mabel Pettigrew. ‘Want a drink?’
‘I feel I need a little —’
‘I’ll bring one in to you. Sit down.’
‘A stiff one.’
‘Sit down. There’s a boy.’
She came back, spritely in her black dress and the new white-streaked lock of hair among the very black, sweeping from her brow. Her hair had been cut shorter. She had painted her nails pink and wore two large rings which gave an appearance of opulent ancient majesty to the long wrinkled hand which held Godfrey’s glass of brandy and soda.
‘Thanks,’ said Godfrey, taking the glass. ‘Many thanks.’ He sat back and drank his brandy, looking at her from time to time as if to see what she was going to do and say.
She sat opposite him. She said nothing till he had finished. Then she said, ‘Now, look.’
She said, ‘Now, look. This is all imagination.’
He muttered something about being in charge of his faculties.
‘In that case,’ she said — ‘in
He muttered something about next week.
‘You have an appointment with him,’ she said, ‘this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon? Who — how …?’
‘I’ve made an appointment for you to see him at three this afternoon.’
‘Not this afternoon,’ said Godfrey. ‘Don’t feel up to it. Draughty office. Next week.’
‘You can take a taxi if you don’t feel up to driving. It’s no distance.’
‘Next week,’ he shouted, for the brandy had restored him. However, the effects wore off. At lunch Charmian said,
‘Is there anything the matter, Godfrey?’
The telephone rang. Godfrey looked up, startled. He said to Mrs Pettigrew, ‘Don’t answer.’
Mrs Pettigrew merely said, ‘I wonder if Mrs Anthony has heard it? I bet she hasn’t.’
Mrs Anthony’s hearing was beginning to fail, and she had obviously not heard the telephone.
Mrs Pettigrew strode out into the hall and lifted the receiver. She came back presently and addressed Charmian.
‘For you,’ she said. ‘The photographer wants to come tomorrow at four.’
‘Very well,’ said Charmian.
‘I shan’t be here, you know, tomorrow afternoon.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Charmian. ‘He does not wish to photograph
While Mrs Pettigrew went to give the message, Godfrey said, ‘Another reporter?’
‘No, a photographer.’
‘I don’t like the idea of all these strangers coming to the house. I had a nasty experience this morning. Put him off.’ He rose from his seat and shouted through the door, ‘I say, Mrs Pettigrew, we don’t want him coming here. Put
