Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  And Marcia simply didn’t know what to do with him. She had been prepared for, expecting, dreading, hoping for—she was tired, and her emotions were becoming a bit confused by now—something entirely uninhibited the moment the front door closed after them. If he had broken two or three of her ribs in a passionate hug on the doormat she would not have been surprised. Or asked her to sit on his knee. Or become sentimental, and started kissing her hand. Anything, in fact, but this.

  “ ... mind you, there’s no point in rushing it,” he was saying, as though she were a meeting of the Neptune Swimsuit board. “The law’s got to take its time, and the case doesn’t come up until next session. That’s why I’ve got to be so careful. But after September it’ll be different. I shall be a free man again. And it isn’t as if I ’adn’t got something to offer. I ’aven’t been doing so badly lately ...”

  From the hearthrug Marcia looked up at him. This was another of her poses, hands folded in her lap and her head turned three-quarters away from the camera to show the neck line.

  “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this, Mr. Bulping,” she said quietly.

  But that was where Mr. Bulping was so masterful and disarming. He didn’t allow a girl even to have any nice feelings of her own. Extricating himself from the flimsy boudoir chair and putting his pipe down on the polished satinwood table alongside the Dresden Shepherdess, he came over to her.

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “You’re not daft.”

  And when she spread out her hands appealingly he caught hold of her wrists and pulled her up.

  “Let’s ’ave a kiss,” he said.

  And then Marcia knew that all her premonitions had been correct. His arms were right round her. One second longer and it would be the spine as well as the ribs that would be giving way under the pressure of this sex-starved Napoleon from Wolverhampton.

  Chapter Nine

  1

  Mr. Privett was back at Rammell’s again. But the doctor had been quite right. Three full days in bed. And then two more pottering round the house, simply sitting about in chairs and reading the paper. It meant one full week away from Bond Street. And what was so hurtful was that Mr. Bloot totally ignored him. Seemed unaware that anything had even happened to his friend.

  That was why it felt so good, so reassuring, to be seated beside him again. Mr. Bloot was sympathetic but mysterious. Said he’d been busy and he hadn’t heard. There, during the eleven o’clock break, Mr. Privett had to tell him everything. And Mr. Bloot, hot and flushed from the strong Indian tea that he was drinking, ran his handkerchief across his forehead and listened.

  But, even though he was sympathetic, he seemed somehow to be disapproving as well. For when Mr. Privett had finished Mr. Bloot only frowned and shook his head.

  “Yurss, I know,” he said. “But it’s bad just the same. Doesn’t do to get mixed up with the police. Not men in our position. Cahn’t afford it. Bahnd to leak aht in the long run.”

  As soon as he had finished speaking, he shook his head again. He had assumed the air of immense authority of a man who has studied the effects of even quite casual encounters with authority, and has been shocked and chastened by what he has seen. Mr. Privett felt a small cold rivulet of fear running down his spine.

  “But there hasn’t been a summons or anything like that,” he explained hurriedly. “They only took down a few particulars. It isn’t as if anybody had been killed. I probably shan’t never hear from them again. Never.”

  Mr. Bloot thrust out his nether lip.

  “Yur’ll ’ear all right,” he said. “Yur mark my words. Yur’ll ’ear.”

  Then came that ominous head shake once more, and Mr. Privett glanced up nervously at the clock. It now showed 11.15. That meant that it was time for both Mr. Bloot and Mr. Privett to be getting back to their particular floors. Mr. Privett got stiffly to his feet.

  But Mr. Bloot stopped him.

  “Wot yur need,” he said, prodding into Mr. Privett’s side with his forefinger to emphasize the significance of the remark, “is er solicitor. That’s what yur need. Er solicitor. Someone to represent yur. Yur didn’t ought to have come back down into the shop at all. What yur ought to do is to walk straight out of here now, and find a solicitor before it’s too late.” Mr. Bloot paused. He was breathing heavily again. “But yur better make some inquiries first,” he went on. “A divorce lawyer wouldn’t help yur. Or a police court man. What yur need is er naccident specialist. The others’d be worse tha no one.”

  Another small, icy drop ran down Mr. Privett’s spine. It seemed that whichever way he turned he was faced by dangers. So, both to bring the conversation to an end and to keep up his own spirits, he tried to pooh-pooh the whole affair.

  “I don’t want no solicitor,” he said. “It’s making too much of it.”

  But Mr. Bloot would allow none of that.

  “Wot about your counter-claim?” he demanded.

  “My what?”

  Mr. Bloot pursed his lips. He was really at the top of his form by now. Immense. Knowledgeable. Majestic.

  “Yur want a new boat, don’t yur?” he asked. “Oo d’yur think’s going to pay for that? Yur or the motor-coach company? And how much d’yer think yur’d get out of the motor-coach company if yur write to them yurself? Nothing. They probably wouldn’t even answer. But if it’s ur solicitor. He’d take ’em in Court if they didn’t. And there’s damages, too.” Mr. Bloot’s eyes were misty and unfocused for a moment at the thought of the huge, almost unassessable damages that were Mr. Privett’s simply for the asking. “Properly ’andled this ought to be worth ’undreds to yur. Literally ’undreds. But only if your solicitor gets in first.”

  Mr. Privett was silent for a moment.

  “You’re quite right,” he said at last. “I see that now. I’d better do something about it.”

  He was ashamed, bitterly ashamed, to think how he had misjudged Mr. Bloot. At first, he had seemed merely off-hand. Disinterested. Even callous. Some of the time he had not appeared to be listening at all, just sitting there concentrating on his tea. But that had only been Mr. Bloot’s way. Because all the while he had been really worrying about his friend, working out wonderful schemes for him. Mr. Privett saw now that he owed a duty to his family. It was Mr. Bloot who had opened his eyes for him.

  2

  Mr. Privett however, was only half right. In point of fact, Mr. Bloot had not been listening all the time. For the greater part of it, indeed, he had been thinking of someone else. It was his own love-affair that was absorbing him. It now obliterated everything. It had become obsessional.

  It had not been an instantaneous flare-up, a sudden and compulsive affair of passion. Mr. Bloot had known the lady for some time. And, at least in the early stages, there had been nothing particularly romantic or tempestuous about their friendship. Simply a slow middle-aged ripening. A late Septemberish, even Octoberish affair. What had begun as no more than an exchange of retail courtesies across a shop counter had gradually softened into something gentler, with Mr. Bloot lingering helplessly at the counter after the transaction was over. The good-byes had, indeed lately become almost meaninglessly protracted. For whole minutes on end the two of them would just stand there, not even speaking, merely looking at each other.

  There may, of course, have been hidden fires on her side before even the first spark began to show. Certainly the lady had been kind to him. It was something to have been able to drop into the little tobacconist’s at any time during those terrible war years, and come out with ten perfectly good Players, when the rest of London was smoking unheard-of makes that might still have been all right in Cairo or Stamboul but smelt distinctly out of place in Tufnell Park.

  It may, of course, have been Mr. Bloot’s good looks that had done it. His good looks and the natural distinction of his manner. He was easily the most imposing customer to patronize the tiny shop. Because no matter what allowances you were ready to make for its central position—next door to the Underground and ex
actly opposite the bus stop—the shop was undeniably an extremely small one. Even pokey. Only half a shop, in fact. It had been scooped out of a frontage that still accommodated the collection office of a laundry. And the name H. FLORENCE over one side of the entrance had necessarily been lettered in the most slender and attenuated of scripts in order to get the full word in.

  But what made the shop seem smaller still was the size of H. Florence herself. A large woman against any background, she seemed positively effulgent within the confines of this minute cubicle. Instead merely of occupying the shop, she seemed rather to be wearing it.

  Mr. Bloot would have found it impossible to say what it was about Hetty Florence that had first overwhelmed him. Possibly the voice, that was still warm and caressing even when sending casuals and other wartime shop crawlers away from the shop totally unserved. Or the perfume that she used—a thick musky scent that conjured up visions of palm trees and bright moonlight after scorching sun. Or her hair—jet black and worn long, wound round the top of her head in a braid as thick as a ship’s hawser. Or the white roundness of her bosom which showed up so provocatively beneath the open lacework jumpers that she always wore. Or the startling redness of her nails.

  It may, of course, have been simply that the natural charms of Hetty Florence were all accentuated by contrast. Because poor Emmie had been quite the other type—small, thinnish, practically Chinese she was so flat-chested, and with hair that was mole-coloured and rather thin.

  Whatever it was about Hetty Florence, the effect was overwhelming. Mr. Bloot now spent whole evenings thinking about her, dreamed shameless scarlet dreams that startled him, woke up only to start thinking about her afresh. Even the simple fact of separation was now agony. That was why he had come to the helpless, but still daring, decision to see her to-night even though it was only Tuesday, and he had six of Monday’s packet still left.

  As it happened, he could not have chosen a worse night. The store had never been busier. And he seemed to be the nerve-centre, the information-desk, of the whole place. “Outsize ladies’ gowns, Mod’m, second floor”; “Plastic picnic-ware, third floor through Household and Kitchen Utensils, Mod’m”; “Groceries, Mod’m, next shop through the archway”; “Grand pianos, end lift please, Mod’m, third floor turn right” ... his diction remained perfect. But his mind was reeling. And all the time he was thinking: “Am I going to be too late to catch her? If she’s gone, what’ll I do? how can I wait till Wednesday?”

  When five-thirty came, he didn’t stop to say good night to anybody. Simply marched to his locker, changed out of his tails and snatched up his hat and umbrella. By the time he had reached the street, he was walking level with everyone else. And that, for Mr. Bloot, was hurrying. In his own mind, he was practically running.

  If he was to see Hetty at all he had got to be there in Tufnell Park by six sharp. He realized now that he ought to have asked Mr. Preece if he could have left a little early. Say a mere five minutes. Or ten, to be on the safe side. But he hadn’t felt able to screw up the courage. How could he have gone along and said: “Please may I leave at five-twenty this evening? I am a widower, aged fifty-seven, sixteen stone two, and helplessly in love. Somewhere in N. 19 there is a magnet that draws me irresistibly, a flame that compels me to it. I am steel. I am a moth. I must go ...”

  As it was, he looked like being in the Underground all night. There was the rush-hour at Bond Street to begin with. Then, at Tottenham Court Road, London Transport simply turned against him. First one Edgware train, and then another. By the time he had shoved his way into the train marked Barnet—and there was no old-world courtesy about him by now: he was barging and elbowing with the rest—the clock showed ten to six.

  And when he got there it was all just as he had feared. The other half of Hetty’s shop, the laundry collection office, was still open. Inside they were doing something with hampers. But on Hetty’s side, the shutters were already down. It might have been Bank holiday, they looked so closed. Mr. Bloot just stood there staring at them, his chest heaving. And then, even though he knew that it was useless, he started ringing at the bell.

  It was when he had rung it for the second time that he thought he heard some sort of movement inside. A noise too faint to be identified. But he could not be sure. There was too much clatter from the traffic for him to be sure of anything.

  Nevertheless, a strange feeling came over him. Something told him that Hetty was still there. Still there, only not opening the door. And a sudden panic took possession of him. Perhaps something was the matter. Perhaps she had gone back for a moment after locking up and had fainted. Perhaps at this moment she was lying there in pain and had been trying to make him hear, vainly struggling to attract attention ...

  So he did a desperate thing. Forsaking all appearances, he went down on one knee and put his mouth up against the letterbox in the middle of the roller-shutter.

  “Yur there Hetty?” he asked. “Yur all raht? I’s me, Gussie, Ah’ve come to see you. Ah’m sorry Ah’m so late.”

  He must have shouted rather louder than he realized. Because when he got up again, he saw that people were looking at him. Two children on the pavement had stopped incredulous, fascinated at the sight of a large man kneeling at a letter-box and apologizing into it. The reception clerk at the laundry came round to her half of the doorway to see what was going on. But Mr. Bloot took no notice of any of them. What was happening behind the roller-shutter was far too momentous for that. For the noises were quite definite by now. Quick, busy little noises. The sound of boxes being dragged along and then shoved away somewhere. He even recognized the scraping, tinny sound as the curtain that cut off the back part of the shop was pulled along the rail on its brass curtain rings. Then he heard footsteps. Unmistakable, approaching footsteps. And the next moment there was the sound of a bolt being drawn back and the roller-shutter shot upwards. Hetty stood there.

  She was flushed. And breathing rather hard, he noticed. But alive. My word, yes, alive. Alive as no other woman he had ever known was alive. At the mere sight of her he wanted to rush into her arms.

  But, at first sight, Hetty Florence didn’t seem to be any too pleased to see him.

  “Well, I must say, you are a one,” she told him. “Coming here at this time of night, and scaring me like that.”

  Mr. Bloot looked down at his feet for a moment.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly. “I ... I only wanted to see you.”

  It was the fact that he was so humble, so contrite, that softened her. There didn’t seem any point in going on being angry with him.

  “Oh, well, you’d better come inside to say it,” she said.

  As she was speaking, she caught sight of the two children and the laundry reception clerk.

  “And hurry up, do,” she told him. “You’re just making an exhibition of yourself.”

  As Mr. Bloot stepped inside, she banged the shutter down again. He then realized that he was boxed up in the tiny shop with her. Their two bodies were practically touching.

  “Well,” she said.

  “It’s nothing important ...”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not reely. Ah just thought ...”

  He broke off, unable to continue. He felt confused. Foolish. Ashamed. But he need not have worried. If only he had been looking at Hetty instead of down at his feet again, he would have seen that she was holding out her arms to him.

  “Kiss me,” she said quietly.

  And this was Mr. Bloot’s undoing. He had not kissed seriously for over twenty years. There were two decades of passion to be released. He went straight for her lips. And he was surprised to find how soft and moist they were. When he finally released them nearly fifteen seconds later he uttered a deep, long, drawn-out “Aaah!”

  The extraordinary thing, too, was that apparently Hetty felt just the same way about the kiss. Because instead of putting up her hands to protect herself she actually drew him forward towards her.

  “Do
that again,” she said.

  But this time, the strain, the tension, was too much for him. The kiss was all right. Even better than the first one. It was more full blooded. He felt her gasp beneath it. But his elbow had become caught on the little bracket that supported one of the shelves. There was a sharp ripping sound. Dummy packets of Craven ‘A’ and Gold Flake came raining down all over them. And worse. On the shelf as well there had been a stand holding fancy cigarette holders. Mr. Bloot tried hard to recover himself. As he did so, he heard beneath his feet the crunch of broken vulcanite, the grating of shattered imitation amber.

  But he was past caring. His head was now on Hetty’s bosom and he could even feel her heart-beats.

  It was Hetty who spoke first.

  “What d’you have to come and do this here for?” she asked. “What’s wrong with my flat?”

  Chapter Ten

  1

  There are some days that are sour and malignant from the early morning cup of tea onwards. Not necessarily wet days. Or very cold ones. Or days on which a major disaster, a calamity, occurs. Merely separate and isolatable chunks of existence in which the whole process of life suddenly presents itself as subtly hostile and sinister. Days when the Furies have moved in overnight.

  Mr. Rammell’s day, for instance. His digestion was even worse than usual. The first symptoms—a kind of mild sea-sickness—began to show up before his car had got even as far as Hyde Park Corner. He reached out instinctively for the bottle of dyspepsia tablets that he kept in one of the side pockets. And he was still chewing away like a G.I. by the time they reached Bond Street.

  Then, when he got there, he found that there was no Miss Underhill. Only a telephone message to say that she was suffering from—of all things—a bilious attack. It was astonishing. To all appearances Miss Underhill had the innards of a goat. Indeed, before now, Mr. Rammell had frequently marvelled at her. Most busy secretaries, he knew, are inclined to be nibblers. But Miss Underhill was in a class by herself. She was in the habit of producing mysterious little pieces of milk chocolate out of her handbag almost as she sat down in the morning. While Mr. Rammell was sipping away at his hot water with a slice of lemon, Miss Underhill, surrounded by files and memoranda pads, would be busy lapping up a cupful of thick, creamy-looking breakfast cocoa.