Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  As for Sylvia, the fair pretty girl on the inside, she was starting next week at the Brecknock Secretarial College. She knew exactly what the next twelve months were going to be like. And she wasn’t particularly looking forward to them. By the time young Sylvia emerged she would be expected to know everything that there was about Pitman’s shorthand up to 120 words a minute, touch-typing, correct forms of address, Roneo stencil cutting, office-filing, simple double-entry book-keeping, and how to answer the telephone correctly. The fact that she intended to marry one of the partners in whatever business she found herself was the only thing that made the future tolerable.

  Compared with Sylvia’s tremendous syllabus, Esther, the third one of the party, was embracing life the easy way. She was going to join her father in some vague, undefined job that was obviously without prospects. But it didn’t matter with Esther, because it was a family business that she was going into. She alone had no need to make her own way in the world.

  “It won’t half seem funny not going back to the Eleanor Atkinson,” Sylvia said suddenly. “Not seeing anybody you know, I mean.”

  “There’s the Old Girls.”

  It was Madge who had spoken. She was an almost model Atkinsonian. Quiet. Loyal. Dependable. She had never even considered cutting herself off from Miss Preston and Miss Harris and Mrs. Wells and the games mistress, and all her other friends.

  But the Eleanor Atkinson had always contained both kinds, the solid rock and the rolling stones. And it was evident that Esther was one of the rollers.

  “I’m not joining,” she said. “It’s just a waste of money. Nobody ever turns up. Not after the first time.”

  She had a quick, clipped way of talking. And when she had finished she always threw her chin back. The gesture was an unconscious one. But it was emphatic in an uncontradictable, adult sort of way that always impressed the others.

  “You’ll join, won’t you?” Madge asked. “I mean it’s up to all of us.”

  She said the words as though she really believed in them. Obviously nothing less than natural affinity had brought Madge and life insurance together.

  Irene shrugged her shoulders.

  “I haven’t made up my mind,” she said. “In any case, I mayn’t have the time. I may be going into Rammell’s.”

  Instantly there was a pause. This wasn’t just gossip any longer. It was important. A piece of news. Something to be passed on at home.

  “Why ever are you going there?”

  It was Esther who had spoken again. She always wanted to know everything about everything. The reasons. The motives. The facts behind any fresh decision. Wanted to make quite sure that she hadn’t missed anything.

  “Dad thinks it’ll be a good thing. He’s spoken to one of the managers.”

  “But I thought you were going to do acting.”

  Esther sounded hurt about it. It was as though Irene had deceived her.

  “Dad says the prospects in Rammells’ll be better.”

  “It’s all right if you get into gowns,” Esther said with that little tilt of the chin again. “My mum’s best friend started in gowns. She’s got a business of her own now. Outsize and children’s.”

  But Sylvia was the one who minded.

  “Well, I think it’s a shame,” she said. “You going into Rammell’s. You’re ever so brainy, you know you are. Miss Preston said you ought to be one of the ones who’re stopping.”

  Irene paused.

  “Oh, Rammells’ll be all right,” she replied. “Might be worse. I haven’t actually got the job yet. I’ve only been up for the interview. Probably won’t be so bad. I’m not worrying ...”

  The last bit was untrue. But the very last thing she wanted was to go over all that again. Besides, they’d reached the Odeon by now. And suddenly everything seemed funny once more. It was the way the commissionaire held the door open that started them giggling. Then the girl in the box office looked funny, too. And the sight of Humphrey Bogart’s beard in a poster completely overcame them. Madge and Sylvia had to hold on to each other.

  It was only Esther who was silent.

  “When d’you expect to start?” she asked. “What are they paying you?”

  2

  “Can’t say whether you’ll like it till you’ve tried,” Sir Harry was saying. “Never try, never find out. Stands to reason. Pour yourself out some more brandy.”

  It had been an unusually good dinner. Sir Harry had ordered it with all the enthusiasm of a rich choirboy. And Tony Rammell on the other side of the table was already feeling consciously insulated from the whole world. He had perhaps taken just a trifle too much drink. But no more than Sir Harry, he kept telling himself. Less, in fact. A great deal less. Only, Sir Harry appeared to be impervious. Sherry. Pouilly. Burgundy. Brandy. It all went down as so much ginger-pop to him. Even now his hand was stretched out for the bottle as soon as Tony was ready to pass it to him.

  “Wanted to be a minin’ prospector myself,” Sir Harry went on. “Gold and all that. Or show business. Circuses, y’know. That side of it. Not sorry now, I can tell you. Was at the time though. Very.”

  Tony put his glass down and folded his arms on the table. It would have been so much easier if only Sir Harry would stop talking.

  “I’ve been thinking ...” he began.

  But Sir Harry was off again already.

  “Used to know a young feller once,” he said. “About your age. Sister shot herself. Shockin’ business. Wanted to take up farmin’. Never did. Made boxes instead.” Sir Harry broke off for a moment and with the flat of his hands drew boxes in the air in case the point of his story was eluding Tony. “Owns the whole thing now. Just raised a new issue. Half a million. Oversubscribed.”

  “What I said was I’ve been thinking ...”

  “And there was another chap. One of the Burneys. Bankers. Said he was goin’ to paint. They saw to that. Handles all their foreign business. Big place off Mincing Lane.”

  “I said I’ve been ...”

  Sir Harry looked up, surprised.

  “What d’you keep interruptin’ for?” he asked. “Gettin’ me mixed up now. Wasn’t that chap at all. Confusin’ him with his brother.”

  “Were you?” Tony asked helplessly.

  “I should know,” Sir Harry told him. “Lived just opposite for years. Dead now. Both of ’em.”

  There were a few seconds’ respite while Sir Harry relit his cigar. Tony made straight for the gap.

  “Lishen to me!”

  But it was just as he had feared. The brandy had done its work. His speech was now ever so slightly blurred. The “t’s” proved unaccountably difficult. But his mind was clear. Clearer than he had ever known it. Now, if never before, he would make Sir Harry see how he really felt.

  “I don’ liker shop,” he said, speaking slowly and he hoped distinctly. “I don’ like anything abow it. I don’ even liker people who go there. Is boring. Very boring. I don’ wanna have anythinger to do with it. I just wanna be lef’alone go my own way.”

  Sir Harry grinned across at him.

  “When d’you start?” he asked.

  “Never. Neverarra shop. Never,” Tony told him. It suddenly seemed a particularly succulent sort of word, and he repeated it with relish. “Never. An’ never. An’ never.”

  “Got y’cuff in y’coffee,” Sir Harry replied. He paused for a second—but not long enough for Tony to speak again. “Admire y’spirit,” he said. “Plenty of guts. Like y’mother.”

  Tony roused himself with difficulty and addressed Sir Harry directly.

  “An’ lemme tell you,” he said. “My mother entirely suppors me in m’attitude. She dishliksh”—for no reason at all speech was suddenly becoming more and more difficult—“the idea of commersh for me just ash mush ash I dishlike commersh myshelf. Jush ash mush. Commersh ish ri’ out. An’ thasher end of it.”

  As he finished, he drew his right arm scimitar fashion across his chest for emphasis.

  But Sir Harry only winked.<
br />
  “That’s what she tells you,” he said. “Ought to hear her with y’father. Breaks her heart y’know. Thinks you’re just like him.”

  “I do not reshemble my father in the schlightesht degree.”

  With the exception of two of the words the statement was clear and emphatic. But Sir Harry would have none of it.

  “Spittin’ image,” he said. “Frightened of y’own shadow. Not like y’mother. There’s courage for you. Knew a man once ...”

  Tony was now leaning forward half across the table.

  “Is that a challengsh?”

  Sir Harry did not reply. Instead he leant across the table and gave Tony a nudge that nearly dislodged him.

  “Look over there,” he said.

  Tony looked.

  Coming in through the door was Marcia. She was wearing a long white dress with one of the Rammell midnight-blue minks. The young man who was with her—Mr. Bulping was far away in Wolverhampton manufacturing Neptunettes—seemed faintly self-conscious about the extent of the treasure that he was escorting.

  “Who ish she?”

  Sir Harry gave a little laugh.

  “There y’are,” he said. “Shut y’self away. Don’t know the facts. One of our gals. Could be one of yours, y’know. Call her over if you like.”

  But Tony only shook his head. What he had just seen was loveliness. Real loveliness. He wanted nothing to disturb the vision in the doorway. Also, he was far too drunk. If she actually spoke to him, he was afraid that he might break down and cry or something.

  Chapter Twelve

  1

  It was one of those Sundays again. Bond Street was shrouded in dust sheets. And the cats and caretakers were in control once more.

  For Marcia it couldn’t all have been simpler. Everything had been decided for her. By Mr. Bulping of course. He had been on the phone all Saturday evening arranging things. At this very moment he was somewhere on the Great North Road tearing down towards her. Lunch at the Ritz, he had said; adding that they could decide when he got there what to do afterwards. From the tone of his voice it sounded as though he had already decided. But Marcia was past caring. After all, love—particularly love on Mr. Bulping’s scale—was elemental. Undeniable. And wouldn’t anyone expect some reward after a hundred-and-twenty miles of fast Sunday motoring?

  For Mr. Rammell, too, there were no problems. He was down in Torquay. Staying at the Grand. One of the best rooms, with a pleasant study-boudoir adjoining. And no Mrs. Rammell. Not that there was any real significance in that. No sudden domestic flare-up. No instantaneous separation. Nothing like that. Merely the annual conference of the Retail Trades Federation. Mr. Rammell was this year’s President. He had chosen Government Interference for the theme of his address. And a pretty powerful piece it was going to be. Slaps and punches all round, with what amounted to nothing less than a broadside on the whole Board of Trade. Real headline stuff, TORY ATTACKS WHITEHALL, CIVIL SERVICE v. PUBLIC SERVICE—that kind of thing. Mr. Rammell would, as a matter of fact, have rather liked Mrs. Rammell to hear him deliver it. It would have revealed him to her in a new light. As someone vital. Dynamic. Unpredictable. But Mrs. Rammell had never really fitted into those trade do’s. Somehow looked too superior. Which was fatal. The last time she had attended an annual conference Mr. Rammell had been forced to hang about afterwards giving an extra handshake all round just to show how much they had both enjoyed themselves.

  And it had never so much as crossed Tony’s mind that he might even have been expected to come. All that he had said when he heard where his father was going was: “God! How bloody for you.”

  Whereas, Sir Harry simply could not be dissuaded. It had been real touch and go with him. The long train journey, the late hours, the strain of meeting so many people—he would listen to none of it. Torquay, he declared, was precisely what he needed to set him up. He ordered a new grey suit specially for the Conference. He booked the best suite. He bought his ticket. And then, on the very eve, the colic took him. Nothing dangerous. Just two or three days in bed. But long enough. By the time Sir Harry was about again, Torquay and the retailers would have said good-bye for ever.

  Not that Sir Harry cared. He had subsequently remembered that it was Newquay and not Torquay that he really liked. Besides, his new high-fidelity player had just been delivered. It was a lavish affair in figured walnut with a separate loudspeaker cabinet. And it played on and on for hours. Classical music mostly. Which Sir Harry didn’t care for. But the tone was magnificent. It was like owning a whole Brass Band Festival, right there in the bedroom.

  For Mr. Privett it was not so easy. That was because he had nothing to do. No model yacht. And no Mr. Bloot. But a load of anxiety. And all because he had taken his friend’s advice about consulting a solicitor. He kept telling himself that he would have been better off without anyone. But he was no longer sure even about that. Ever since he had consulted a solicitor, in fact, he wasn’t really sure about anything.

  It may, of course, have been the solicitor’s fault. Mr. Felix Hamster, on whom he finally picked, was not one of London’s acknowledged leaders. He was, in fact, in no more than quite a modest way of practice. But he seemed a thoroughly conscientious and reliable kind of man. And so convenient too. His office was only about a couple of hundred yards from Fewkes Road, over a coal merchant’s, practically next door to the Underground. That meant that Mr. Privett could drop in on his way back from Bond Street just to see how the case was progressing.

  What’s more, even though the man didn’t look very much, he was a real fighter. Behind the striped shirt, that had been patched on both sides where the points of the stiff collar cut into it, beat the heart of a Haldane. Practically single-handed as he was in his small back office, he was fully prepared to defy even the largest of insurance companies. It was the Federated Equitable that he was up against. And every letter that he sent contained the authentic note of challenge. It was as though Mr. Hamster had not merely written but had called personally and slapped the recipient across the face with his glove.

  The only disturbing thing from Mr. Privett’s point of view was that the Federated Equitable was equally prepared to defy Mr. Hamster. It might have been Mr. Hamster’s own twin brother who wrote back to him.

  Already Mr. Privett had been accused of cycling to the public danger, negligence, endangering the safety of the motor-coach and making an impudent claim. He was half sick from the sheer misery of thinking about it, and dearly wished that he had never made a claim at all.

  In consequence, he was having a perfectly wretched Sunday.

  2

  Not so Mr. Bloot. He was made for Sundays. And Sundays were made for him.

  He had just set out from the house, wearing his mysterious Viking expression. And as he walked his lips were moving. It was not, however, the name of Hetty Florence that he was repeating. It was her address. The words “23b Artillery Mansions, Tregunter Road, N.12” had penetrated into his brain like a charm. The inexpressible beauty of the address overwhelmed him. But what was more bewitching still, he had actually been invited there.

  When he reached The Nag’s Head a happy thought came to him. On the opposite corner was a man selling flowers. And Mr. Bloot realized immediately that flowers would give just the right note to the occasion. Moreover, he felt in a lavish and spending mood. Hovering about the stall like a huge enthusiastic bee, he chose sweet-peas and gladioli. Six shillings’ worth altogether. But it was not the price he minded. It was the size. Instead of the neat little bouquet that he had intended, it was enormous. And down at the thin end of the bundle, the stalks dripped obstinately. It was the sort of load that would have been better delivered on a barrow.

  As soon as he had mounted the number 18 bus, however, a strange, dare-devil feeling came over him. There he was, with his ticket in one hand and a harvest festival sheaf of flowers in the other, cruising across London in pursuit of a woman with black midnight hair.

  He was so deep in thought, marvelling at t
he sheer magic of the morning, that he nearly missed it when the conductor called out the name “Tregunter Road”. And the shock of the discovery startled him. He got mixed up with his own flowers. From inside the huge white paper parcel there came the sound of stalks snapping. But if he had left it a moment longer he would have been carried on. In the result, he came down the stairs so fast that he missed his footing. If it had not been for the conductor, Mr. Bloot would have fallen. The conductor, who was a good deal smaller than Mr. Bloot, resented the whole incident. Any more of that, he said, and he would report him.

  But Mr. Bloot was safe. And past caring. The bus with its rude conductor was already receding. And Mr. Bloot took his bearings. He was able to identify Artillery Mansions immediately. It was a large, square block of red brick with a battlemented coping of fancy stone running along the top, for mortars and cannon to fire through. A short tiled walk led up to the front door. And there was a row of polished brass “IN” and “OUT” plates just inside the entrance hall. Altogether, it was definitely upper-class. Even classy.

  But Mr. Bloot need not have bothered. Dressed as he was, he looked more like the landlord than a casual visitor. He would have adorned anywhere. Artillery Mansions was mostly show anyway. The stairs, which had metal treads on the front of each step, were dark and steep. And the walls were of an unpleasant dark green colour. Nevertheless, they were definitely mansion-flats. And, remembering his own unself-contained state in Tufnell Park, Mr. Bloot felt a sudden qualm. Was he worthy of her? he wondered.

  When he reached the doorway of number 23b, however, he saw to his astonishment that the milk bottle had not yet been taken in. This was surprising. Because it was already after midday. And when he rang there was no answer. Behind the panelled front door with its little diamond panes of frosted glass there was silence. Complete silence. The suspense was terrible. His palms went wet and sticky. After a moment, Mr. Bloot rang again.