could not see the dial in the gloom. She walked down the steps and consulted her watch under a lamp-post. It was twenty to five. She turned to resume her station in the bombed porch. She had mounted two steps when, from nowhere, a policeman appeared.
‘Anything you wanted, Madam?’
‘Oh, I’m waiting for a friend.’
He went up the steps and pushing open the creaking door flashed his torch all over the interior, as if expecting her friend to be there. He gave her a curious look and walked away.
Mrs Pettigrew thought, ‘It’s too bad, it really is, me being put in a predicament like this, standing in the cold, questioned by policemen; and I’m nearly seventy-four.’ Something rustled on the ground behind the door. She looked; she could see nothing. But then she felt something, like the stroke of a hand over her instep. She shuffled backwards, and catching the last glimpse of a rat slithering through the railings down the area, screamed.
The policeman crossed over the street towards her, having apparently been watching her from some doorway on the other side.
‘Anything wrong?’ he said.
‘A rat,’ she said, ‘ran across my feet.’
‘I shouldn’t stand here, Madam, please.’
‘I’m waiting for my friend. Go away.
‘What’s your name, Madam?’
She thought he said, ‘What’s your game?’ and it occurred to her, too, that she probably looked years younger than she thought. ‘You can have three guesses,’ she replied pertly.
‘I must ask you to move along, Madam. Where do you live?’
‘Suppose you mind your own business?’
‘Got anyone to look after you?’ he said; and she realized he had not much under-estimated her years, but probably suspected she was dotty.
‘I’m waiting for my friend,’ she said.
The policeman stood uncertainly before her, considering her face, and possibly what to do about her. There was a slight stir behind the door. Mrs Pettigrew jumped nervously. ‘Oh, is that a rat?’
Just then a car door slammed behind the policeman’s bulk.
‘That’s my friend,’ she said, trying to slip past him. ‘Let me pass, please.’
The policeman turned to scrutinize the car. Godfrey was already driving off.
‘Godfrey! Godfrey!’ she called. But he was away.
‘Your friend didn’t stop long,’ he observed.
‘I’ve missed him through you talking to me.
She started off down the steps.
‘Think you’ll get home all right?’ The policeman seemed relieved to see her moving off.
She did not reply but got a taxi at King’s Road, thinking how hard used she was.
Godfrey, on her arrival, was expostulating with Charmian. ‘I say you
Charmian turned to Mrs Pettigrew. ‘You have been out all afternoon, haven’t you, Mrs Pettigrew?’
‘Mabel,’ said Mrs Pettigrew.
‘Haven’t you, Mabel? I made my tea myself and brought it in. Godfrey won’t believe me, he’s absurd.’
‘I brought in your tea,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘before I went out for an airing. I must say I feel the need of it these days since Mrs Anthony started leaving early.’
‘You see what I mean?’ said Godfrey to Charmian.
Charmian was silent.
‘A whole long story,’ said Godfrey, ‘about getting up and making your own tea. I knew it was impossible.’
Charmian said, ‘I am getting feeble in mind as well as body, Godfrey. I shall go to the nursing home in Surrey. I am quite decided.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘that would be the best.’
‘There’s no need, my dear, for you to go into a home,’ said Godfrey. ‘No one is suggesting it. All I was saying —’I’m going to bed, Godfrey.’
‘Oh, dear, a supper tray,’ said Mrs Pettigrew.
‘I don’t want supper, thank you,’ said Charmian. ‘I enjoyed my tea.’
Mrs Pettigrew moved towards Charmian as if to take her arm.
‘I can manage quite well, thank you.
‘Come now, don’t get into a tantrum. You must get your beauty sleep for the photographer tomorrow,’ said Mrs Pettigrew.
