She left the room.
Charmian was frightened, and at the same time a long-latent faculty stirred in her mind to assess the cheap melodrama of Mrs Pettigrew’s words. But Charmian’s fear predominated in the end, and, as she lay fearfully in her bed, she knew she would not put it past Mrs Pettigrew to poison her once she took control of the food. A poisoning was not easy to accomplish, but still Mrs Pettigrew might know of undetectable methods. Charmian thought on and on, and frightened herself more and more. Another woman, she thought, would be able to go to her husband and say ‘Our housekeeper is threatening to poison me’ — or to insist on an investigation by her friends, her son, the doctor. But Godfrey was craven, Eric was hostile, the doctor would attempt to soothe her down, assuming she had started to entertain those wild suspicions of the aged.
Then it is settled, Charmian thought. This is the point where my long, long duty to Godfrey comes to an end. I shall go to the nursing home.
The decision gave her a sense of latitude and relief. In the nursing home she could be a real person again, as she had been yesterday with Henry Mortimer, instead of a frightened invalid. She needed respect and attention. Perhaps she would have visitors. There, she could invite those whom she was prevented from seeing here at home through Godfrey’s rudeness. The nursing home was not far from Stedrost. Perhaps Guy Leet would be driven over to see her. Guy Leet was amusing.
She heard the front door slam and then the slam of the car door. Mrs Pettigrew’s footsteps followed immediately, clicking towards the front door. Charmian heard her open the door and call, ‘Godfrey, I’m coming with you. Wait.’ But the car had already started and Godfrey was gone. Mrs Pettigrew slammed the door shut once more and went to her room. A few minutes later she had descended the stairs and left the house.
Mrs Pettigrew had informed Godfrey of her intention to accompany him to his solicitor. When she found he had once more given her the slip she felt pretty sure he had no intention of keeping his appointment with the lawyer. Within a few moments she had put on her hat and coat and marched up the road to find a taxi.
First of all she went to the bombed building off the King’s Road. There, sure enough, was Godfrey’s car. There was, however, no sign of Godfrey. She ordered the taxi to drive round the block in a hope that she would catch Godfrey before he reached his destination, wherever that might be.
Godfrey, meanwhile, was on his way to Olive’s flat, about seven minutes’ walk for him at his fastest pace. He turned into Tite Street, stooping his head still more than his natural stoop, against a sudden shower of rain. He hoped Olive would have tea ready. He hoped Olive would not have any other visitors today, obliging him to inquire, in that foolish way, for the address of her grandfather. Olive would be in a listening mood, she was a good consoling listener. She would probably have heard from Eric. Godfrey wondered what she had heard from Eric. Olive had promised to write and tell Eric, in strictest confidence, about his difficulties with Mrs Pettigrew. She had promised to appeal to Eric. Eric would no doubt be only too glad to be on good terms with his parents again. Eric had been a disappointment, but now was his chance to prove himself. Eric would put everything right, and no doubt Olive had heard from Eric.
He reached the area gate and pushed it open. There was an unusual amount of litter down in the area. The dust-bin was crammed full; old shoes, handbags, and belts were sticking out beneath the lid. On the area pavement were scattered newspapers, tins, rusty kitchen utensils, empty bottles of numerous shapes, and a battered lampshade. Godfrey thought: Olive must be having a spring-clean, turning out all her things. Very wasteful and untidy. Always complaining of being hard up; no wonder.
No one answered his ring. He walked over to the barred window of Olive’s front room and it was then he noticed the curtains had gone. He peered in. The room was quite bare. Must he not have come to the wrong house? He walked up the steps and looked carefully at the number. He walked down the steps again and peered once more into the empty room. Olive had definitely departed. And on realizing this his first thought was to leave the vicinity of the house as quickly as possible. There was something mysterious about this. Godfrey could not stand anything mysterious. Olive might be involved in some scandal. She had said nothing, when he had seen her last week, about moving from her flat. As he walked away down Tite Street he feared more and more some swift, sudden scandal, and his one desire was to forget all knowledge of Olive.
He cut along the King’s Road, bought an afternoon paper, and turned up the side street where his car was waiting. Before he reached it a taxi drew up beside him. Mrs Pettigrew got out.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she said.
He stood with the newspaper hanging from his hand while she paid the taxi, bewildered by guilt. This guilt was the main sensation Mrs Pettigrew touched off in him. No thought, word or deed of his life had roused in him any feeling resembling the guilt he experienced as he stood waiting for Mrs Pettigrew to pay the taxi and turn to ask him, ‘Where have you been?’
‘Buying the paper,’ said Godfrey.
‘Did you have to park your car here in order to walk down the road to buy the paper?’
‘Wanted a walk,’ said Godfrey. ‘Bit stiff.’
‘You’ll be late for your appointment. Hurry up. I told you to wait for me. Why did you go off without me?’
‘I forgot,’ said Godfrey as he climbed into the car, ‘that you wanted to come. I was in a hurry to get to the lawyer’s.’ She went round to the other side of the car and got in.
‘You might have opened the door for me,’ she said.
Godfrey did not at first understand what she meant, for he had long since started to use his advanced years as an excuse to omit the mannerly conformities of his younger days, and he was now automatically rude in his gestures as if by long-earned right. He sensed some new frightful upheaval of his habits behind her words, as he drove off fitfully towards Sloane Square.
She lifted the paper and glanced at the front page.
‘Ronald,’ she said. ‘Here’s Ronald Sidebottome in the paper. His photo; he’s got married. No, don’t look. Watch where you’re going, we’ll have an accident. Mind out — there’s the red light.’
They were jerked forward roughly as Godfrey braked for the red light.
‘Oh, do be careful,’ she said, ‘and a little more considerate.’ He looked down at her lap where the paper was lying. Ronald’s flabby face beamed up at him. He stood with Olive simpering on his arm, under the headline, ‘Widower, 79, weds girl, 24’.
