A Bid for Love & A Chance of Happiness

by J. B. Sherrard

  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 pleasure.

  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.

&nbs
p; "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 together and casuall
y 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.'