bed, became short and agitated.
‘Sit down, Mabel. You are out of breath,’ said Charmian.
Mrs Pettigrew sat down. Charmian watched her, trying to sort out in her mind this new complaint about Mrs Anthony, and what it could signify, apart from its plain meaning. Her thoughts drifted once more, for reassurance, to the nursing home in Surrey, in the same way that, as she knew, Jean Taylor’s thoughts would, in the past, rest on her savings in the bank when from time to time her life with the Colstons had become too oppressive.
Mrs Pettigrew’s breathing was worse. She had been suddenly caught in a gust of resentment which had been stirring within her since Charmian’s partial recovery. She felt a sense of great injustice at the evident power Charmian exerted over Godfrey — so strong that she did not seem conscious of it. It was a spell of her personality so mighty that, for fear of his miserable infidelities in Spain and Belgium with Lisa Brooke coming to Charmian’s knowledge, he had been, so far, docile before all the threats and deprivations of the past winter. Mabel Pettigrew had only needed to indicate that she was in possession of the full correspondence between Lisa Brooke and Godfrey, dated 1902, 1903, and 1904, and his one immediate idea had been:
Charmian must not know. Tell Eric, tell everyone. But keep it from Charmian.
Mrs Pettigrew was aware that in this he was not displaying any special consideration for Charmian’s feelings. That might have been endurable. The real reason was beyond her grasp, yet undeniably present. It was real enough to render Godfrey limp in her hands. What he seemed to fear was some superiority in Charmian and the loss of his pride before her. And, though Mabel Pettigrew indeed was doing better out of Godfrey than she had hoped, she sat in Charmian’s bedroom and overwhelmingly resented the inexplicableness of Charmian’s power.
‘You seem to have a mild touch of asthma,’ Charmian remarked. ‘Better keep as still and quiet as possible and presently I will get Godfrey to ring the doctor.’
Mrs Pettigrew was thinking of that business scandal at Colston Breweries which had been hushed up at the time, the documents of which she now had in her keeping. Now, if Godfrey had been really frightened about her possible disclosure of these documents she would have understood him. But all he worried about was those letters between himself and Lisa Brooke. Charmian must not know. His pride before Charmian, Charmian, an old wreck like Charmian.
Charmian stretched her hand towards the bell-push by her bed. ‘Godfrey will ring for the doctor,’ she said.
‘No, no, I’m better now,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, gradually controlling her breath, for she had the self-discipline of a nun where business was concerned. ‘It was just a little turn. Mrs Anthony is such a worry.’
Charmian leaned back on her pillow and moved her hand wearily over her heart-shaped face. ‘Have you had asthma before, Mabel?’
‘It is not asthma. It’s just a little chest trouble.’ Mrs Pettigrew’s face was less alarmingly red. She breathed slowly and deeply after her ordeal, and lit a cigarette.
‘You have great courage, Mabel,’ Charmian observed, ‘if only you would employ it to the proper ends. I envy your courage. I sometimes feel helpless without my friends around me. Very few of my friends come to see me now. It isn’t their fault. Godfrey did not seem to want them after my stroke. When my friends were around me every day, what courage I had!’
‘You would be better off in the home,’ said Mabel Pettigrew. ‘You know you would. Lots of company, your friends might even come and visit you sometimes.’
‘It’s true I would prefer to be in the nursing home. However,’ said Charmian, ‘Godfrey needs me here.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Mrs Pettigrew.
Charmian wondered, once more, which of Godfrey’s secrets the woman could have got hold of. The Colston Brewery affair? Or merely one or more of his numerous infidelities? Of course, one was always obliged to appear to know nothing where a man like Godfrey was concerned. His pride. It had been the only way to live reasonably with him. For a moment, she was tempted to go to Godfrey and say, ‘There is nothing you can tell me about your past life which would move me in the slightest. I know most of your supposed secrets, and what I do not know would still not surprise me.’
But she did not possess the courage to do this. He might — he would certainly — turn on her. He would never forgive her for having played this game, for over fifty years, of knowing nothing while at the same time knowing everything, as one might be ‘not at home’ while actually in the house. What new tyranny might he not exert to punish her knowledge?
And the simple idea of
And she, too, had her pride to consider. Her mind munched over the humiliations she had received from Godfrey. Never had she won a little praise or recognition but she had paid for it by some bitter, petty, disruptive action of Godfrey’s.
But I could sacrifice my pride, she thought, in order to release him. It is a matter of courage. The most I can do is to stay on here at home with him. She envied Mrs Pettigrew her courage.
Mrs Pettigrew rose and came to stand by her bed.
‘You’re more of a hindrance to Godfrey here than you would be in a nursing home. It’s ridiculous to say he needs you.’
‘I shall not go,’ said Charmian. ‘Now I think I must have my nap. What is the time?’
‘I came,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘to tell you about Mrs Anthony. She can’t do the cooking any more, we shall all have stomach trouble. I will have to take over the meals. And besides, this cold supper she leaves for us at night is not satisfactory. It doesn’t agree with me, going to bed on a cold supper. I will have to take over the cooking.’
‘That is very good of you,’ murmured Charmian, calculating meanwhile what was behind all this, since, with Mrs Pettigrew, something always seemed to be behind her statements.
‘Otherwise,’ said Mrs Pettigrew, ‘one of us might be poisoned.’
‘Well, really!’ said Charmian.
