A Chance of Happiness
By
Diney Delancey
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
A CHANCE OF HAPPINESS By Diney Delancey
Never before had Petra felt such anger as that which she now directed towards the unseen Peregrine Arden. His mother was old, ill and uncared for and, in Petra's eyes, his lack of responsibility was almost criminal. She just hoped she got the chance to tell this arrogant young man what she thought of him. But when that opportunity arose, she found herself flung into deep emotional waters and in great danger of becoming out of her depth!
A Chance of Happiness
© Diney Delancey, 1985
Chapter One
Petra Hinton struggled along the windswept promenade, her briefcase in one hand, a carrier of shopping heavy in the other. The sea, angry and grey, exploded into white surf as it pounded the retaining wall only yards away from where she was walking. The sky was the colour of slate and scudding rain clouds came hurrying in from the sea.
Pausing only to change the shopping and the briefcase, each to the other hand, Petra lowered her head against the wind and the first flurries of rain and hastened on to her home in one of the narrow streets which ran at right angles to the promenade.
She had just bought a ground-floor flat in one of the grey flat-fronted houses that lined the road. It was small but it was comfortable and Petra, owning her own home for the very first time, was delighted with it.
As soon as she had turned off the promenade she was sheltered from the worst of the wind, but even so she was glad to reach the house. With relief she let herself in, closing the outer door behind her. Once inside, she set down her parcels in the hall and looked on the table to see if she had any post. There was nothing for her, but a letter for each of the other residents. Mr. Campbell lived on the first floor, and by rights his letter shouldn't have been there. He had a separate entrance up a flight of steps at the side of the house and his mail was usually delivered direct. Mrs. Arden lived in the basement, her front door opening off the hall next to Petra's own. She had not yet met Mrs. Arden, but understood she was an elderly lady who went out seldom, so Petra slipped the letter through the basement letter-box to save the old lady from having to come up for it.
As she opened her own front door the telephone began to ring. Petra dumped her bags on the table and sinking into an armchair lifted the receiver. It was Tom.
"Petra? I missed you in the staff-room this afternoon, didn't you have tea?"
"Hello, Tom. No, I had some shopping to do, so I slipped away as soon as my lecture was finished. Did you want me for something special?"
Tom laughed. "Of course! I always want you for something special! Actually, I wanted to suggest we went to see the new James Bond—are you doing anything this evening?"
Petra looked across at her bulging briefcase and sighed. "I'm sorry, Tom, I really can't tonight. I've so much work to do, and with the end of term coming up I must break the back of it this weekend."
Tom groaned. "Not the whole weekend, Petra," he complained. "At least take tomorrow evening off, we don't have to go to the cinema if you don't want to, we could have a quiet drink, or a meal somewhere."
Petra weakened. It did sound tempting. "Phone me again tomorrow," she said, "and see how I'm getting on. You're probably right, I'll need a break."
"Good," said Tom with satisfaction in his voice, "I will, and we can decide what we want to do then. Don't work too hard."
Petra laughed ruefully. "I'll try not to. See you tomorrow, I expect. Thanks for ringing, Tom."
"I'll phone tomorrow." Tom's voice softened. '"Bye, love."
Petra replaced the receiver and sighed. If she was really honest with herself it wasn't only pressure of work to finish by Monday; it was also because she had moved into her own home so recently it still gave her immense pleasure simply to be in it.
She looked round at the little living-room, its windows looking out over the garden. There was a glass door leading on to a wrought iron balcony, for although Petra had the ground-floor flat, the ground fell away steeply from the back of the house so that it was the basement flat that was at garden level.
Darkness was crowding the windows now and Petra got up and drew her new curtains to shut out the early December night. Then she lit the gas fire, made herself a cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich and settled down at the table to tackle the work she had brought home.
As she sat reading and correcting her students' papers she looked younger than her twenty-eight years. For work she wore her long fair hair tied back loosely with a scarf at the nape of her neck. It kept it tidy without being severe; but as soon as she came in, she always released her hair, preferring it free. Unrestrained, it fell round her face in a golden cascade as she bent over her papers.
Her dark blue eyes, now concentrating on an essay from one of her students, were wide-set under delicate brows a shade darker than her hair, and her skin smooth and soft across her cheeks and forehead still carried the bloom of youth. Her mouth, now pursed in wry amusement at some of the conclusions offered by the student whose work she read, was full and inviting, ever quick to curve into a smile which lit her whole face. Only a firm chin gave a hint of another facet of her character, her determination and independence, and Petra was endowed with her full quota of both.
She worked steadily all evening, gradually reducing the pile of unread papers at her side. The history department of the Grayston-on-Sea Teacher Training College was not large, there were only two full-time lecturers, and as one of these, although her particular interests were archaeology and very early history, Petra was also required to take her students through to more modern periods. The end of her first term in the job found her conscientious and hardworking as ever, but extremely tired; a cumulative tiredness which had built up as the term progressed. Even as she worked she found herself nodding, and jerked awake realising she had not taken in a word of the essay she was reading. Wearily she pushed the pile away.
"It's no good," she remarked aloud, "I must go to bed. I'll have to finish these in the morning." She left the work on the table and warm and comfortable after a hot bath, crept thankfully into bed to sleep the sleep of exhaustion.
Her slumbers were shattered by a pounding on her front door. For a moment the banging invaded her dreams and then she dragged herself from sleep as she realised she wasn't dreaming, but that someone was indeed hammering on her door.
In the darkness she groped for her clock and discovered from its luminous dial that it was twenty to four. Twenty to four! Who on earth could be knocking on her door at that time in the morning?
Still a little fuddled with sleep, she switched on the light, and stumbled from her bed. Reaching for her dressing-gown, she made her way to the door. Her father had insisted she put a chain on the front door when she first bought the flat and she was glad now she had followed his advice. Obviously there must be an emergency of some kind for someone to arrive at her door in the small hours of the morning, but even so Petra would have hesitated to answer the door without some precaution. She opened the door the extent the chain allowed.
"Who's there?" she demanded through the crack. "What on earth do you want at this time of night?"
There was a faint light in the hall though the hall light itself was not on and in the half-light Petra tried to recognise her visitor. A quavering voice replied to her question.
"Could you get me a loaf of bread when you go out?"
For a moment Petra was speechless, then she closed the door a little and released the chain. Opening the door wider, she allowed the light from her own flat to fall on the visitor's face. An old woman stood on the threshold, dressed in a long nightgown, an overcoat and brown carpet slippers. Her hair, wispy and grey, stood round her head in an untidy halo, and her eyes, red-rimmed, peered out from a hollow-cheeked and wrinkled face.
"I beg your pardon?" Petra said incredulously.
"Could you get me a loaf of bread when you go out? Sliced." She extended a scrawny hand. The fingers, left exposed by the grubby blue mittens were red and claw-like; and in them was clutched a pound note.
Still a little bemused, Petra took the money. "Do you know what the time is?" she asked a little less aggressively.
"Don't worry, dear," replied the old lady, "any time will do." And so saying she turned away and moving unsteadily, went through the front door of the basement flat, closing it behind her.
Petra stared after her for a moment and then looked down at the crumpled pound note. Cold darkness crowded round the yellow wedge of light coming from her flat, and she shivered. She shut the door and crept back to the welcoming warmth of her bed.
In the morning Petra might have disbelieved the whole peculiar episode, imagined she had dreamt it all, if it hadn't been for the pound note lying on her bedside table. Intrigued now by this slight knowledge of her neighbour, she didn't sit down to her work immediately after breakfast as she had planned, but putting on her coat, slipped out. The rain and wind of the previous night had died away leaving a crisp cold day, with the winter sun pale and yellow giving an illusory warmth.
Enjoying the sharpness of the air and the brave sunlight, Petra hurried down to the corner shop and bought a sliced loaf. She paid for it with the pound note and then carrying the bread and the change returned to the house and tapped on the front door of the basement flat.
Mrs. Arden took a long time to answer her knock and Petra was about to try again when she heard slow footsteps approaching. At last the door eased open and the old lady peered round it.
"Yes? What is it?" she asked. Her voice quavered. "What do you want?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Arden," said Petra cheerfully. "I've brought your bread."
"Bread? What bread's that?" The old lady peered at Petra even more suspiciously.
Petra held out the loaf. "You asked me to buy you a sliced loaf," she said patiently, "and here it is. And your change."
Mrs. Arden put out a hand to steady herself against the wall and Petra realised with a jolt that the old lady was standing on the top step of a flight of stairs leading down to her flat and that if she should lose her balance she would tumble all the way to the bottom.
"Shall I bring it down for you?" she asked, and taking Mrs. Arden's acceptance for granted added, "You lead the way."
The old lady nodded and using her stick and the banisters began her slow descent.
As Petra followed her down the stairs she was struck by the stuffiness of the air in the flat. The sour staleness enveloped her, making her want to retch and turn back to the door for some fresh clean air, but Mrs. Arden continued her slow progress and curiosity overcame Petra's revulsion.
The stairs ended in a living-room, cluttered with furniture and dusty ornaments. Petra paused on the threshold, horrified at the squalor which greeted her. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the room was lit by a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. A table stood against one wall, covered with a dull red chenille cloth and on it was piled dirty crockery, plates of half-eaten food, the end of a loaf thick with green mould and a bottle of curdled milk. The chairs had clothes and rugs draped over them and enfolding it all like a smothering blanket was the smell, the sordid smell of poverty and neglect.
Mrs. Arden moved slowly to a high-backed armchair beside the table and sank into it. With difficulty she spread a tartan rug about her legs and then looked up at Petra.
"Did you bring the bread?" she demanded suddenly. "Where's my change?"
"Here it is," said Petra, forcing herself to enter the room. "I'll put it on the table, shall I?" She cleared a space and put the loaf within the old lady's reach, and the change beside it.
"You could do with some fresh air in here," she said brightly. "It's a beautiful day today," and moving across to the window she made to throw back the curtains.
"Don't do that!" cried Mrs. Arden imperatively. "You'll let the cold in."
Petra was about to say that it wasn't that cold outside today, when she saw that close to Mrs. Arden's feet was a small electric fire with one bar burning. It appeared to be the only heating in the room.
In time Petra realised that the malodorous atmosphere was not in fact cold, and that the warmth had been gradually built up with careful use of the tiny electric fire. Her hand fell from the curtain and she said feebly, "But wouldn't you like some daylight? It's sunny outside, it'd be more cheerful."
Mrs. Arden shook her head and closed her eyes. For a moment Petra thought the old woman had fallen asleep and began to creep towards the stairs, but she was halted in her tracks when an imperious voice demanded, "Did you bring the bread?"
"Yes, it's beside you," Petra replied patiently and then on sudden impulse as she looked again at the revolting clutter on the table she said, "Would you like me to wash those plates for you? It wouldn't take me long."
"If you like." Mrs. Arden seemed indifferent.
Quickly, so as not to allow her disgust to get the better of her, Petra gathered together the dirty china and carried it through to the kitchen. A similar mess greeted her there, and with a sigh she gave her attention to the sink. A small gas heater could provide hot water and amidst the mess she found an almost empty bottle of washing-up liquid.
It took three quarters of an hour to reduce the shambles in the kitchen to some sort of order, but at last Petra dried her hands and looked with satisfaction at the piles of clean crockery and cutlery on the kitchen table. Before she returned to the living-room, her curiosity overcame her and she peeped into the bedroom. It was immaculate. The bed, a dark heavy mahogany, was neatly made with a white lace coverlet, the curtains drawn back to let in the sun. Photographs stood in a frame by the bed and despite the cold of the room, the faintest fragrance of lavender lingered there.
Petra closed the bedroom door softly behind her. It was clear Mrs. Arden no longer used that room.
The old woman looked up as Petra returned. "Where have you been?" she demanded.
"I've just cleared the kitchen for you," replied Petra soothingly.
"All the clean things are on the table." She paused, but Mrs. Arden said nothing, and so tentatively Petra went on, "Haven't you anyone to help look after you? You shouldn't have to manage alone like this. Haven't you any family?"
"There's no one. No one left." Mrs. Arden sounded tired. "No one but Peregrine, and he doesn't come to see me any more. He's too busy, Peregrine is."
"Who's Peregrine?" asked Petra.
"Peregrine?" Mrs. Arden looked up in surprise. "How did you know about him? Peregrine is my son."
"Your son?" Petra was incredulous. "Your son, and he lets you live in conditions like these?"
"He's always busy, Peregrine," remarked Mrs. Arden without apparent animosity. "He hasn't time to visit me."
Petra promised to do some more shopping, and then escaped upstairs to the fresh air and sweet-smelling sanctuary of her own flat.
She threw open the glass door and stepped out on to her balcony, gulping in the sweet pure air to clear her lungs of the lingering sourness of Mrs. Arden's flat. 'I'd like to get my hands on Peregrine Arden,' she thought viciously when she went back indoors and set about cleaning up her own kitchen. 'What kind of a man can he be to let his mother live in such a state!'
Petra spent the rest of the day working. She was determined to have as little of her work spill over into the Christmas vacation as possible, but when Tom rang she accepted his invitation to go out to dinner with ple
asure.
Tom Davies was one of the natural science lecturers on the staff at the college, and as two of the youngest members of staff, he and Petra had gravitated together quite naturally. He had only been at the college a year when she arrived, but the sight of her, young, slim and very attractive, made him feel that the college had definitely taken a turn for the better.
On her side, Petra was glad to find the staff-room was not the retreat of doddering old fuddy-duddies as she feared it might be, but contained a staff of all ages, vigorous and enthusiastic, ready to help or advise. Of course some of the older staff looked a little askance at Petra's comparative youth and inexperience, but she soon earned their liking and respect with her competent hard work and happy disposition. She got on as easily with most of her colleagues as she did with most of her students, but Tom, with his curly blond hair and lazy grey eyes, was special and she enjoyed his company both in and out of college.
As she lay soaking in her bath, Petra wondered where they would eat. There were several quite good restaurants in the town, ready to cater for the influx of summer holiday makers, but she secretly hoped Tom would suggest Angelo's, a little Italian restaurant tucked away in an alley not far from the town centre, an intimate place where they could eat and dance. Suddenly she thought of Mrs. Arden and wondered what she was having for supper.
'Perhaps I should go down and see if she's all right,' thought Petra, and climbed reluctantly out of her bath. But she was already late and by the time she had dressed and made up she had only a moment to heat up some soup before Tom knocked at the door.
She let him in and accepted his kiss. He held her away from him, his eyes lighting with appreciation as he saw how her slender figure was enchanced by the simple dress of soft jersey that she wore.
"You look lovely," he said and then added, "Hey, where are you going?" as Petra pulled away from him and ran into the kitchen.
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