"The soup's boiling over," she called back over her shoulder.
"Soup? I thought we were eating out. Angelo's perhaps."
"Angelo's would be lovely," agreed Petra, reappearing from the kitchen carrying a large mug of soup. "This is for the old woman downstairs."
"Downstairs?" Tom looked bewildered.
"I'll explain everything over dinner," promised Petra. "Just wait a minute while I deliver this."
She went to Mrs. Arden's front door and knocked loudly. After several minutes she heard hesitant footsteps climbing the basement stairs and the door opened a crack.
"Mrs. Arden, it's me, Petra Hinton. I've brought you some soup."
"Who?" The old woman's voice was sharp.
"From upstairs," said Petra patiently. "I thought you might like some hot soup."
"Don't like soup." The door began to close.
"Can't I bring it downstairs for you?" suggested Petra persuasively, putting out a hand to stop the door from closing completely.
"If you want to. I shan't eat it." Mrs. Arden had already turned away and was making her slow progress down the stairs.
Taking these ungracious remarks for assent, Petra carried the soup downstairs after her, with Tom, intrigued, close behind. The sour air assailed their nostrils and unprepared for the sordid living-room, Tom gasped. Petra set the mug on the table, within easy reach of Mrs. Arden's chair. A dirty cup and a plate with some bread and butter on it showed that she had at least eaten some of the bread Petra had brought her that morning.
"I've put it where you can reach," she said with a smile. "I'll come for the mug tomorrow."
Mrs. Arden remained unresponsive and Petra left, pushing Tom ahead of her.
"Heavens!" muttered Tom when they had reached the hall once more and closed the door. "I need a drink. What an appalling place."
Over a delicious dinner at a quiet corner-table at Angelo's, Petra told Tom about Mrs. Arden.
"The trouble is," she explained as she tackled a tournedo Rossini with enthusiasm, "she seems to have no one to look after her. I mean, there's a son called Peregrine somewhere, but he doesn't seem to visit her—at least she says he doesn't and I can't imagine any son letting his mother live in such conditions if he knew about them, can you?"
"Perhaps he doesn't know," suggested Tom. "She seemed very odd to me. Perhaps she hasn't even got a son."
"I thought I might try and contact him," said Petra. "He ought to know."
"How do you intend doing that?" asked Tom.
"I don't know. Telephone book, perhaps. There can't be that many Peregrine Arden's, can there?"
"That's all right if he's local," pointed out Tom, "but I doubt if he is, or he'd know the situation."
"The main post office has all the phone books," said Petra.
"It'd take you ages," objected Tom.
"Might be worth it though."
"Far better to contact the social services and leave it to them. They might be able to find him, if he exists, and anyway they'd take over the day to day care of the old duck. They might even put her in a home."
Petra looked dubious. "I doubt if she'd like that," she said.
"Well, go down to the welfare place on Monday and find out what they suggest."
"I could, I suppose," conceded Petra, "but I think I'll give the post office a try as well."
They finished their dinner in quiet harmony and when the music began again, Tom led her out on to the tiny dance floor and held her close against him as they danced. She relaxed into his arms feeling secure and content. She would have felt entirely happy but for that one worry that kept invading her thoughts.
It was after midnight when Tom drove Petra back to her flat. She glanced at the closed door of the basement flat.
"The trouble is," she remarked, "whenever I want to see if she's all right, she has to climb those stairs to let me in."
"What?" Tom, with his mind on things far from the pitiful old woman downstairs, had been about to draw Petra into his arms once more, hoping she would ask him in.
He looked at her, uncomprehending for a moment, and she said, "Mrs. Arden. She has to climb those stairs to let me in."
"Isn't there a door to the outside down there?" he asked.
Petra shook her head. "I don't think so. I didn't see one when I was down there this morning."
"Well, there's nothing you can do about that," said Tom. "It's probably better if you don't go down at all. It's not your business after all. I don't see why you have to interfere."
Petra stared at him, and suddenly thought how hard he looked, his eyes suddenly as unyielding as granite. "People left old and alone like that are everybody's business," she said, "or should be. I'm going to make somebody do something about Mrs. Arden, and if you don't like it I'm sorry, but it won't alter my mind."
Tom smiled. "OK. OK. I'm sorry. You're quite right, love." He pulled Petra into his arms and kissed her. She stood unresisting for a moment, then broke away, still annoyed by his attitude, and unlocked her door.
"Can't I come in for a coffee?" pleaded Tom when she turned back to bar his way.
"Not tonight, Tom," she answered more gently. "I'm very tired and I've still got a lot of work to get through by Monday. Thank you for a lovely evening."
He stepped back, tight-lipped. "I'll see you on Monday then. Don't work too hard," and turning on his heel he walked away.
Petra closed her own door and sighed. She was sorry if Tom was cross with her, she was fond of him and very grateful for all the help and support he'd given her while she had been finding her feet at the college, but she hadn't liked the harsh look she had seen in his eyes when they had spoken of Mrs. Arden and she disliked being told what she should or should not do. Tom hadn't been dictatorial, but even so she took exception to his comments that she shouldn't interfere.
Tom didn't ring the next day and on Monday morning, the last Monday of term, when she met him in the staff-room during the mid-morning coffee break, he was still distinctly cool.
Petra, however, had had some news which thrilled her and ignoring Tom's cool "Good morning, Petra," and half-turned shoulder, she clutched his arm and thrust a letter in front of him. Thawed a little by her obvious excitement, he read it. From an address in London, it graciously accepted Miss Hinton's invitation to come as one of the principal speakers at the weekend conference scheduled for the beginning of next term.
Tom glanced at the signature, but it meant nothing to him. "Who's Nicholas Romilly?" he asked.
Petra's eyes shone. "Only the most up and coming archaeologist of our time," she cried.
"I've never heard of him," said Tom.
Petra laughed. "Well, you're a philistine, or the historical equivalent. He's written several books and has recently come back from Thessos, a Greek island where he's been leading a dig on a newly discovered site. I wrote to him care of his publisher—but I didn't think for a moment he'd come to a college as small as ours!"
Tom grinned at her. "Well," he said, "it sounds as if you've landed a big fish. Does he give good lectures?"
"I don't know," said Petra. "I imagine so, but I've never seen him. Miss Danvers says he's marvellous. She's as thrilled as I am that he's coming. It should be the highlight of the conference."
The conference, as it was always referred to, was a weekend of open lectures covering as wide a variety of speakers as the college could muster, offering an introduction to subjects which might otherwise have remained untouched, a chance to stimulate interest and further exploration.
Miss Danvers, the senior history lecturer, had agreed to find one of the speakers and after some discussion, Petra had prevailed upon her to let her, Petra, write and invite Nicholas Romilly. His acceptance thrilled them both, particularly as he also said in his letter that he would be delighted to attend the reception held by the college Principal on the Saturday evening.
Tom was amused by her delight, and the constraint between them seemed to slip away. They drank their coffee tog
ether and casually he asked, "Are you going to the welfare people?"
Petra looked up sharply, but seeing nothing but interest in his face answered, "Yes, I thought I'd go at lunch time. I haven't an afternoon lecture today, just some tutorials after tea."
"Would you like me to come with you?"
Petra was surprised. "Haven't you got lectures?"
"I expect David would cover for me."
"No, don't alter things. I'll be all right. I'm quite happy to go on my own."
She did manage to get things moving through her visit to the welfare office, and by the end of the week Mrs. Arden was living in a little more comfort than before. The circumstances were still far from ideal, the old woman insisted on keeping the curtains drawn so that she inhabited an artificially lit world where time played no part and had no meaning. Once again she disturbed Petra in the middle of the night with a request for bread, but the food problem had eased. Meals-on-wheels came each day and a health visitor would call regularly.
Petra herself visited Mrs. Arden each day when she got in, making her a pot of tea. Sometimes the old woman was pleased to see her, others she was remote, seeming not to recognise her. However, Petra did prevail upon Mrs. Arden to let her have a spare key so that she could drop in without dragging the old lady upstairs to open the door.
The social services had also agreed to try and discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Arden's son, Peregrine. For some reason, Petra felt this was her responsibility and visited the main post office to look in the phone books. There was no one listed under the name of Peregrine Arden, and the entries made under P. Arden were too numerous for her to contact every one. It was hopeless, and the last few days of term were too hectic to allow time for any further detective work.
'I'll discuss it with Mum and Dad when I go home for Christmas,' thought Petra. 'They might be able to suggest something. But I do wish we could find the elusive Peregrine Arden.'
Chapter Two
Petra returned to Grayston-on-Sea early in the New Year, feeling rested and refreshed despite several late nights over the Christmas season. Her mother, delighted to have her home for a while, had spoiled her dreadfully, insisting that Petra sleep, uninterrupted, until she woke each day, a luxury she hadn't enjoyed for many months. She was able to relax in the comfortable familiarity of her childhood home and as the tension slipped away, her tiredness was drawn with it, leaving her renewed and looking forward to another exacting term at the college.
It was to prepare for this that she had come back early, for still being in her first year at the college she had no previous lecture notes to fall back on. Her work must be meticulously prepared so that she would never face the students unsure of dates or details. The broad scheme of the term was structured for her, but she had to flesh it out herself and be ready to lead her students on to research and interpretations of their own.
Besides the lecturing side of her work she also had teaching practice students to supervise for the first time, a prospect which she found a little alarming. It was a daunting responsibility to teach other people to teach.
On top of all this was the fast approaching conference weekend. Miss Danvers had told Petra that as she, Petra, had invited Nicholas Romilly to come and speak, she should be the one to introduce him before his lecture and, should he so wish it, accompany him to the reception in the evening.
Petra had been delighted at first, but as the weekend approached she found herself becoming more and more nervous. Suppose she made some elementary mistake, or said something stupid or ill-informed.
"Why should you?" her father had demanded when she had confided her fear to him. "Keep your introduction simple and leave the hard work to him. Provided you've done your homework, you'll be all right."
"Well, I have read several of his books," said Petra, "but his new one about his latest excavation hasn't come out yet. I don't think it's even finished. That's what'll make this lecture so special. No one will have heard it before."
She arrived back at her flat in a taxi, for on her arrival at the station it was pouring with rain and she didn't relish the prospect of coming in to her unheated flat drenched to the skin. Even her dash from taxi to door left her damp and it was with relief that she picked up her mail, let herself into the flat and lit the gas fire.
Quickly shedding her wet coat, she dropped down on to the hearthrug and held her cold hands to the warmth of the fire.
When she was warmer, she leafed through her post. There were not many letters but one, with only her name scrawled across it, delivered by hand, intrigued her.
Inside was a note from the health visitor with whom she had discussed Mrs. Arden's situation. It was brief and to the point and made Petra smile with grim satisfaction.
Dear Miss Hinton,
We have located Mrs. Arden's son and he has agreed to a meeting to discuss his mother's case.
Yours sincerely, Marion Carey.
"So I should think," said Petra aloud. "It's time you took care of your responsibilities, Peregrine Arden." Then she laughed, pleased with the outcome of her machinations, and decided that when she had unpacked, she would pop down and see Mrs. Arden, make her a cup of tea and discover if the son had been to see her yet.
Half-an-hour later she let herself into the basement flat. As she closed the door behind her she called out cheerfully, "It's only me, Mrs. Arden. I've come to make you a cup of tea."
Mrs. Arden didn't reply to her call, but then she seldom did and on entering the living-room, Petra wasn't surprised to see the old lady in her usual chair glaring at her. What she was not prepared for was the fact that Mrs. Arden was not alone.
Standing by the window, his hand on the curtain as if in the act of drawing it back, was a tall man, who at the sound of Petra's arrival turned his head and stared at her over his shoulder.
Petra paused in the doorway and then addressing herself to Mrs. Arden she said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Arden, I didn't realise you had a visitor." She spoke sweetly enough, but her eyes glittered dangerously as she looked back at the man by the window. It must be Peregrine Arden.
"Oh, it's you at last," said Mrs. Arden petulantly, as if Petra had come late for an appointment. "Peregrine is here."
"So I see," said Petra coolly, and with deliberate disdain looked him over from head to foot as if viewing a strange and fare creature. He was tall, well over six foot, and his shoulders were broad in proportion. His hair, thick and almost black it was so dark, was cut short and swept back from his forehead accentuating the squareness of his face and the jutting determination of his jaw. Dark eyes, again almost black, stared out from beneath straight black brows and returned Petra's gaze levelly for a moment before he spoke, his tone clipped and haughty.
"Well. Have you seen enough?"
Petra felt all the anger she had known against him before surge back at the sight of him, standing disdainful and arrogant, superbly dressed in a well-tailored dark suit, immaculate white shirt and silk tie amidst the sordid squalor he countenanced as fit conditions for his mother. The contempt in Petra's voice as she replied matched that in her eyes.
"Quite enough, thank you. I was merely fascinated to see what sort of reptile you could be to allow your mother to exist in conditions such as these—" she gestured to the filthy room with a sweep of her arm—"when you are obviously a man of some means."
"I beg your pardon," said Peregrine with obvious restraint, "but you know nothing of the situation."
"Rubbish!" said Petra hotly. "That suit you're wearing alone would pay for a home help for a year to keep this place clean!"
Peregrine raised no more than an eyebrow at Petra's rudeness but said, "Possibly, but I hardly think that is your concern."
"No, it isn't," agreed Petra angrily, "it's yours, or should be, but since you seem to have absolved yourself from all responsibility of your mother's welfare it has become mine, and that of anyone else with a modicum of humanity in him."
Anger brought colour to Petra's cheeks and she found sh
e was breathing heavily as if she had just run a race.
"Your concern—does you credit," agreed Peregrine and though he spoke softly, Petra could see the fury burning in his eyes and recognised the tight control he was exercising on his temper. "But it does not give you the right to pass judgment on things—or people—about which you are ill-informed. There are circumstances…"
"The only right I'm interested in," interrupted Petra hotly, "is the right of your mother to grow old with dignity, and the right she has to expect care from her son in her old age."
She looked across at the forlorn old woman still seated in her chair apparently unaware of the furious argument surrounding her and then added, "If I ever have a son I'll pray he doesn't lose all compassion as he grows up and become as arrogant, selfish and self-centred as you obviously are, Peregrine Arden."
She turned on her heel and stumped back up the stairs, but not before she heard Peregrine's deep voice say, "And let us also hope he develops better manners than his interfering and ill-spoken mother."
Still fuming, Petra slammed her front door behind her and flung herself into her armchair. She relived the encounter and in her rage she found herself speaking aloud, venting her anger on him yet again with yet more instances of his negligence, the cold, the lack of proper food, the difficulty his mother had in moving about, let alone washing and dressing herself decently.
Gradually Petra grew calmer, but was still unsettled enough to find herself in need of company; the thought of an evening alone made her feel restless and on impulse she reached for the phone and dialled Tom's number.
"I'll be round in a quarter of an hour," said Tom cheerfully when she asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink somewhere, and good as his word in less than fifteen minutes he stood smiling on her doorstep.
Seeing him standing there, so reassuring and kind, Petra felt a sudden rush of affection for him and gave him a hug. Not content with the hug, Tom lifted her chin and his lips found hers. For a moment she returned his kiss, then she broke away and said lightly, "Happy New Year, Tom," and stepped out into the hall.
A Chance of Happiness Page 2
