Marriages are Made in Bond Street

by Penrose Halson

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘Oh, the impossible: a public school man, well-off, a widower or bachelor, not a divorcee unless he was the plaintiff, no children cluttering up the place (even a docile child would wreck that mausoleum of hers), a man of title preferably, though a bishop would do – her grandfather was a bishop somewhere in Africa. He must be a social asset, a connoisseur of objets d’art and speak perfect French. Her most recent husband’s ancestors were French nobility – though I’d be willing to bet that the de was not added to Pomfret before 1920. And if Pomfret is French, it must come from pommes frites, so she’s really Mrs Chips! She says she’s forty-two and wants the next Mr de Pomfret (because that’s what he’ll be, mark my words) to be from fifty to sixty, a mature man. But she’s fifty if she’s a day, though not badly preserved and wonderfully made-up. Her neck is shot, though, it’s wrinkled like crêpe paper, and certainly half a century old! Oh, and just in case we were thinking of proposing any, no cads or bounders!’

  Mary’s mind flew to an amiable but rather feeble man who did something administrative for the Egyptian government. He was highly presentable but clueless; she had puzzled over how Egypt benefited from him. But she suddenly remembered that a colleague of his had written to tell them that he had been killed by some hotheads who had thrown a bomb into the English Club in Cairo, and fired guns through the windows.

  ‘He might just as well have married Etheldreda!’ remarked Heather. ‘He sounds just her type!’

  In the Black Book and their card indexes Mary and Heather found three living candidates: a fifty-five-year-old bachelor colonial officer just returned from Nigeria, a divorced London art dealer of fifty-nine and a widowed retired brigadier. All were pleasant, comfortably off, public school, Francophile, appreciative of the arts (except perhaps the Brigadier) and free from young children. And lonely.

  Heather had noted that the colonial officer might be ‘a bit queer’, but judged that sex was not a high priority for Mrs de P. Like the art dealer, he was an agreeable rather than a forceful personality, likely to be happy to be bossed around. Not so the Brigadier, accustomed to controlling small armies of soldiers and dealing with the top brass of the War Office. But Mary wondered if he might not quite like a change, and enjoy being commanded rather than commanding.

  First Heather sent the art dealer to Mrs de Pomfret. He reported briefly:

  She has a firm view of the beauty and worth of her objects and of her own person. The former are, in my professional opinion, largely worthless. On the latter I shall not be so ungallant as to relate my conclusions. Suffice it to tell you that while Mrs de Pomfret is an impressive lady, I can no more imagine marrying her than I can finding a Rembrandt in the attic (though I should live to regret the former but should rejoice and again rejoice in the latter).

  After his encounter with Mrs de Pomfret, the colonial officer walked directly to 124 New Bond Street to pour his tale into Heather’s eager yet dispassionate ear: ‘She reminded me of a Nigerian chieftain. I used to have to deal with large black male Mrs de Pomfrets, kitted out in beads and feathers and bones and war paint, resisting my authority all the way. She made it abundantly clear that she would preside as chieftain in our not-so-native hut and I would be a useful slave – provided of course that I minded my Ps and Qs, and did not break any of her relics. I am a mild man, Miss Jenner, but not sufficiently meek to be Etheldreda’s lackey.’

  Mary and Heather waited rather pessimistically for the Brigadier’s reaction.

  ‘Splendid female, Etheldreda!’ he boomed, as if giving the order to charge into battle, his voice so loud that Heather feared the occupants of the waiting room would hear. ‘Seen her a few times, just had a couple of gins and a good talk with her, and come straight round to tell you. She hesitated a bit at first, she’s accustomed to ordering her husbands around and she’s had a lot of practice with the fellers, but she soon hoisted in the fact that I shall be in command. Got some spirit, though, and I like that in a woman, reminds me of my Aunt Hortensia, you could never put anything past her! Lot of damn objects around the place, some of ’em will have to go, I told her so. That damn Bruno will be first, it’s hopping with fleas from the damn cat!’

  The Brigadier paused, reaching up his hand to scratch the back of his neck. ‘Cat’ll have to go too, can’t abide feline creatures, told Etheldreda sharpish it’s either Bruno and Felix or me. She looked a tad mutinous for a second or two, then she surrendered, said she’d part with ’em. Sensible little woman. I’m taking her up the aisle next month. So that’s it. Most grateful to you two ladies. Here, brought you some gin.’ The Brigadier plonked a bottle down on the desk, clicked his heels, saluted and marched down the stairs.

  Astonished and relieved, Heather and Mary were reduced to whimpering with helpless laughter. Heather sloshed gin into two big glasses, while Mary leaned back in her chair, flung her arms wide and cried out: ‘Another triumph! Quick, Heather, write and tell the Lady Chairman – no, don’t write, she’ll send us more Etheldredas. Have some more gin, but DON’T WRITE!’

  13

  Other Agendas, Pastures New

  The more word of the Marriage Bureau spread, the more the office became not only a honeypot for spouse-seekers (including men pressing their suit on Heather and Mary), but also a Mecca for salespeople: bridal car chauffeurs, makers of wedding dresses and trousseaux, proprietors of honeymoon hotels, hairdressers, fortune tellers, caterers, photographers, manufacturers of babies’ perambulators – anyone who saw in about-to-be brides and bridegrooms a ready market for their products and services.

  ‘They descended on the office like vultures,’ Heather recalled, ‘without an appointment, very insistent. It was not always easy to get rid of them, even for me, and I had had a lot of practice in Indian bazaars. Some were pathetic, people who’d lost their job or their business in the Blitz and were desperate to turn an honest penny. Or servicemen who’d been badly wounded and so demobbed early, but couldn’t get a proper job again in civvy street.

  ‘I remember a doleful little chap, only about five foot one – the top of his head was level with my bosom. And it reached that far only because his hair stood up in an elaborate bird’s nest of knitted or crocheted fuzz. I was quite mesmerized, staring down rather expecting to see a baby cuckoo or a squeaking little sparrow nestling in the middle of that extraordinary confection. It wasn’t his own hair, he explained earnestly, as if I hadn’t guessed, though it was made of real human hair, ingeniously woven into his own sparse thatch, and he was convinced that it made him look not only more hirsute but also taller. It didn’t do the trick, rather the reverse, for it drew attention to the fact that he was almost completely bald and almost a dwarf. He pleaded with me to recommend his system to bald clients, who would surely be so transformed that they would attract a fleet of lovely ladies. I had to hedge, and accept his card, before he would leave.’

  Male clients were acutely self-conscious about baldness: ‘I have many interests,’ wrote a very presentable young man:

  I play golf, dance (rather badly!), shoot, am very fond of an outdoor life, and have many other hobbies. I also possess a car, and am fond of foreign travel, when that is possible. All the above items sound quite good, but unfortunately I became bald at an early age, and I feel that I appear older than I am, and therefore no longer of interest to many girls.

  A well-known scientist wrote: ‘I enclose a picture which makes me look perfectly repulsive, but in real life I look far worse, for I have no hair left.’ The photograph showed a perfectly pleasant face enlivened by an attractive smile, topped by a gleaming, hairless pate.

  Unfortunately, female clients seldom wanted to meet a baldie. ‘No fat men, bald men, redheads, Welshmen or parsons,’ stipulated a young woman of thirty-two. An impoverished forty-eight-year-old widow, however, was happy to be introduced to any man, fat or thin, short or tall, hair or no hair, provided he was ‘a wealthy gentleman who will help me realise my ambitions. I do not want to be a domestic d
rudge.’ Heather thought she might like a very well-heeled and optimistic businessman, and be unconcerned by his admission that ‘My hair is thin at the back but will probably grow again.’

  Heather and Mary kept a sharp eye out for fortune-hunters of either sex. A key giveaway in a woman was a carefree unconcern about the age of a potential husband: if she was happy to accept someone twenty, thirty or even forty years her senior, warning bells rang in the interviewer’s ears. The client would be only too happy if her darling dropped dead soon after marriage, since her main interest was in the money he would leave her.

  Both match-makers became adept at asking innocent-sounding but searching questions to winkle out the truth from any client who made them feel uneasy, and developed a sixth sense for the outright lie: a man claiming to have an income of £5,000 who in reality had only £500, wanting to meet a woman with a matching £5,000. He would be vague about where he lived, muttering about being bombed out – ah, tragic! – and therefore living in his club, or with some relative, while in fact he lodged in a shoddy bedsitter. Very occasionally he would treat his intended victim to oysters and champagne at an expensive restaurant. As soon as he succeeded in ensnaring the hapless girl into matrimony, lunch out would be Spam or whale meat at a British Restaurant.

  Some fortune-hunters were engagingly open: a beguilingly personable, intelligent and cultured Italian baron sent to the Bureau a cream-coloured envelope containing photographs of his undeniably good-looking self and his exquisite pillared palazzo, together with glowing references. The accompanying letter, on thick, deeply embossed writing paper, described his wondrous garden: acres of terraced hillside planted with peach and lemon trees, perfumed by jonquils and jasmine running riot among secluded benches and antique marble statues, where the Barone and his Baronessa would stroll under pergolas dripping with blossoms, listening to the singing of birds, the humming and chirping of busy insects, and the melodious plashing of rills and fountains. With disingenuous honesty he wrote:

  I was brought up in England as my mother was English, so after the war I should like to have an English wife, a young woman who adores beauty, who is calm and brave, not like an Italian girl who is too temperamental and passionate. My bride will have money in order to maintain my most beautiful palazzo and garden, and my family house in town. I should, of course, make her more ecstatically happy than any Englishman can.

  ‘I have no doubt that he will lavish so much Continental charm on her that she will be captivated, positively euphoric,’ sniffed Heather. ‘All will be tickety-boo as long as she is too dazzled to perceive her flattering husband’s priorities: himself and his palazzo joint numero uno, garden numero due, townhouse numero tre, wife round about numero dieci, after his mama, his mistress (you really can’t believe that nonsense about temperament and passion), his car, his dogs and a clutch of cousins. I shall write to him explaining that as our lady clients look for security in marriage, a husband must have a decent income, so we cannot assist.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ agreed Mary wistfully. ‘But it does sound so fantastically romantic, like a fragment of heaven that’s come adrift from the celestial heights and hurtled down to this dark and savage world. I should adore to stand with the sun beating on my back, wearing a cotton frock and sandals, breathing in the scent of flowers, plucking a ripe peach from my very own tree, eating it, then dangling my sticky fingers in a cool fountain.’

  Shaking her head at Mary’s flight of fancy, Heather turned to welcome a fabulously pretty twenty-five-year-old, Mrs Rhoda Clarkson, who had divorced her fifty-year-old husband after only a few months of marriage.

  ‘He’d always been generous to me before we were married,’ she hissed, her voice distorted by bitterness. ‘He gave me perfume and lovely dinners and a beautiful French silk negligée set, we went to swanky hotels and nightclubs, he paid me lavish compliments and sent huge bouquets. He had resolved to marry me, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. And I was an orphan, no family, and no job either because I’d been a high-class milliner, but ladies had no use for big hats when there were no garden parties or Ascot. I was nervous because he was so much older, and he’d been married twice, and divorced both times. But I needed money and somewhere to live; I only had a few savings. I quite liked him and he swore he adored me. And he was rich, that was the main thing. So I agreed.

  ‘But after we were married he changed: he wasn’t loving any more, he was like an animal. He wouldn’t give me any money except after I’d slept with him. Then he’d sometimes give me £2, but sometimes only 2s 6d, or even less. It varied according to how much he’d enjoyed himself. He used to give me marks out of ten. It was horrible, horrible.

  ‘One day I couldn’t bear it any more. I packed my suitcase and walked out. He stood in the hall sneering, and I shouted at him, “Next time, marry a prostitute!” In fact, that’s probably what he did. He let me divorce him, because he wanted his friends to think him a gay dog having an affair, rather than being walked out on by an attractive young wife. So he paid a glamorous tart to go to a hotel with him, and a photographer to take a snap of them in bed together. I got the divorce on grounds of his adultery. Can you find me a nice man, please? But with some money too.’

  Heather listened to Mrs Clarkson’s dismal tale and picked out a few men for her to meet. Privately, she pondered on how dangerous marrying for money could prove to be. She herself was being pursued by several men, one of them, like Mr Clarkson, older, very rich, divorced, so persistent in his courtship that, far from responding, Heather was growing cooler and cooler.

  Most of Heather’s suitors were around forty, congenial, highly unlikely, she reflected, to behave like Mr Clarkson, or like the ex-husbands or fiancés of various other distressed female clients. But having married very young, and divorced, Heather was wary of serious romantic involvement. In 1940 she had become engaged to a thirty-seven-year-old Welshman, Emlyn Griffiths, well-known in the West End as a top theatrical manager. He was good-looking, six foot three, loquacious, polished and popular, and he and Heather made a striking couple. But whether because she got cold feet, or that he was called up and became a captain in the army, or another reason, the engagement was called off.

  By chance, at the party of a close friend, Heather answered a knock at the door to find a nice-looking man asking for the party at number four. Realizing that he was looking for number four in the street, not flat four in the building, she redirected him, but not before a light-hearted conversation during which he recognized her from a newspaper photograph. Mr Cox was delighted to make her acquaintance.

  Heather thought no more of him, until a few days later a note delivered to the Bureau invited her to a cocktail party given by Mr Douglas Cox. Ignoring the bottle of champagne her upstairs admirer Hugo dangled optimistically outside her window, Heather dressed in a little black frock and a precious pair of pre-war silk stockings, and took a taxi to Knightsbridge.

  The cocktail party changed Heather’s life. She met Douglas Cox’s brother Michael, a landowner living in Scotland. Michael could not take his eyes off Heather and, in the following months, courted her single-mindedly.

  Mary too was being wooed, but she was more interested in a new project than in any potential husband. When she contacted the press just before the opening of the Marriage Bureau in 1939, she had met Mary Benedetta, a journalist who wrote an entertaining article about the startling new venture.

  Mary B. was a kindred spirit. Like Mary O., she had decided that she wanted to do something more with her life than leave school and marry. She worked as a secretary, first for a disorganized American woman, then for a scary Austrian count, a large industrial firm and a yacht dealer. She became governess to an obnoxious girl whose American mother had had her psychoanalysed. She put a bold idea for publicity to an intrigued publisher, who hired her. She moved into journalism and films, writing about people with strange jobs, such as a man who constructed skeletons, and interviewing Marlene Dietrich, Marie Tempest, Boris Karlof
f, Alfred Hitchcock and Noël Coward. After writing books about London’s street markets and her own experiences, she slid into script writing for the popular wireless programme In Town Tonight and, in 1936, for one of the BBC’s first television programmes, Picture Page.

  Mary B. and Mary O. rocked with laughter as they described their eccentric early jobs to each other. And Heather and Mary’s audacious Marriage Bureau enterprise was right up Mary B.’s street, especially as she recalled another of her jobs, as a teacher of dancing. ‘The best pupils,’ she wrote,

  were young men home on leave from the colonies. They were pathetically anxious to get up to date. Nothing was too much trouble for them if we could save them from looking ridiculous. They worked conscientiously at everything we taught them, and though they were often very clumsy to begin with they usually learnt in the end.

  Another pathetic thing about them was that, having had all these dancing lessons, they knew nobody to take out. London was just a cold-hearted stranger to them, and I think the leave they had looked forward to for years often fell rather flat. They sometimes asked us to go out dancing with them, but it was never allowed, and they had to go off hoping they would meet the girl of their dreams.