Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  “I’m new here,” Irene told her. “I’m only just starting. Are you Miss Kent?”

  Miss Kent was flexing her toes and bending her ankles, like someone getting ready to dive. “Call me Babs. It sounds nicer. First day?”

  Irene nodded.

  “I’ll pray for you,” Miss Kent promised.

  There was a pause. Miss Kent was examining her nails, holding them up so as to get the light on them. There was an air of having only just discovered that she had fingernails.

  Irene began to feel a bit out of it. She gave a little cough.

  “My name’s Irene,” she said at last. “Irene Privett.”

  Miss Kent stopped examining her nails. The magic had evidently been broken.

  “Oh, that’s right,” she replied. “I remember now. Poor you.” She was winding a bit of her hair round her finger as she was speaking. “I need a new perm,” she added. “That’s what’s the matter with me. I only had the ends done last time.” She paused. “Your dad’s here, isn’t he?” she asked. “He was down all last week talking about you. How much do you think you’ll be able to get away with?”

  But Miss Kent had already forgotten about Irene. She was wetting her finger and running it up and down the calf of her leg.

  “Laddered,” she said. “Oh, God! My last pair, too.”

  Irene tried to look sympathetic. But it was really about Miss Hallett’s last remark that she was still thinking.

  “Would you mind showing me about carbons?” she said. “I don’t know the first thing.”

  Miss Kent stopped rubbing her stockings, and brought out her sales book.

  “Nothing to it,” she said. “You just fold the top sheet over like this, and ... somebody’s taken my pencil again. Be a pet, dear, and lend me yours. I’ll give it back to you ...”

  3

  But on that particular Monday morning Irene wasn’t the only person in Rammell’s who was feeling lost. Resentful. Bewildered.

  Upstairs in a little room leading off the managing director’s office there was someone else who was whole-heartedly loathing every minute of it. Not that there had been many minutes for Tony to loathe so far. It was still only ten-thirty. And up to the present he hadn’t really done anything. Admittedly, two traysful of letters had been put down on the desk in front of him. But he hadn’t done more than glance at them. They seemed to be complaints mostly. Rather rude, too, some of them. They represented retail commerce at its most sordid. And then, just when he had begun to get interested comparing the handwriting, the trays had been whisked away by Miss Underhill. He had decided already that he didn’t like Miss Underhill. She kept sweeping in and out like some kind of ageing ice-queen. And he felt a chill run through him every time she entered. But even she had gone away by now. Her small efficiency igloo was just across the passage.

  Left completely alone for the last quarter of an hour, he had done nothing but stare out of the window. It was all as bloody silly as he had told his father it would be. He would have been of more use to everybody, certainly less of an aching misery to himself, if he had simply stayed quietly at home. He had made one last attempt to explain this to Mr. Rammell as they came along to Bond Street in the car together. But he had already discovered that there were two completely different Mr. Rammells. One was the Mr. Rammell who crossed his legs on the footstool in the study and kept pouring himself out whisky and soda—first a little more whisky, and then a little more soda—right on through the evening. Rather a boringly talkative type, Tony had always found him. And the other was Mr. Rammell with his feet up on the footrail of the car. This Mr. Rammell had his nose inside the Financial Times, and wasn’t prepared to talk about anything. Tony had just got as far as: “Y’know, Dad, I still think we’re both making a big mistake ...” when Mr. Rammell interrupted him.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, boy,” he said irritably as the first twinge of the morning’s indigestion began cutting into him, “how the hell can I read if you’re talking to me all the time? I’ll leave you to find your own way in to-morrow.”

  That was rich, Tony thought. It was irony at its most subtle. Because one of the grimmest things about going into Rammell’s at all was that he was being carted along in this way in the morning. If Mr. Rammell had hired a nannie to bring him it couldn’t have been worse. He had come down this morning as usual wearing his suède shoes and his purple pullover, and his father had said flatly that they wouldn’t do. Had sent him upstairs again to change, in fact. And told him to hurry. What Tony was now wearing was a double-breasted blue suit with a dark tie, and a pair of very ordinary black shoes.

  “Oh, God,” he was thinking. “I feel like some bloody awful bank clerk. Perhaps the old man’d like it better if I wore pince-nez ...”

  But he wasn’t entirely wasting his time. His window staring at least had a definite purpose. He was making a social survey. And the results were certainly interesting. Because, whereas Oxford Street was packed solid with Austins and Morrises and Fords, Bond Street—which after all was only just around the corner—was equally jammed up with Rolls-Royces and Bentleys and Daimlers. A correspondent of Pravda could have drawn all the wrong conclusions about England simply by standing at that particular window and being observant. Tony was still counting cars when his father came in.

  “Come along now,” he said. “Time to go round the departments.”

  This was very much the other Mr. Rammell. The one whom Tony scarcely recognized. There was a new air of authority about him. Tony even felt rather respectful. Because this version of his father made sense. He seemed more at home, as it were. More at home in the shop than back in Eaton Square.

  But all the same Tony didn’t find the prospect of going round the departments very attractive. It was too public for his liking. Suppose he met someone he knew. That wouldn’t be so funny. And as they got into the lift, he mentioned what he was feeling.

  “I say, Dad,” he said diffidently. “Don’t want you to feel you have to do this, you know. Not on my account. No point in making a spectacle of ourselves.”

  But Mr. Rammell merely laid his hand on Tony’s arm for a moment.

  “Got to get used to being stared at,” he said. “Doesn’t do you any harm, and it’s good for them. Great mistake to slink round. Bad for you, and they resent it. Say good morning, and remember their names. That’s the chief point. Very important, people’s names. They’re the only ones they’ve got.”

  They had reached the ground floor by now, and the lift girl pressed the knob that slid the big fancy doors back for them. Tony had been observing her carefully on the way down. They held a mysterious fascination for him, these lift girls. The one in charge of their lift was clearly a twin of the girl in charge of the adjoining one—the one which was going up while theirs had been starting to go down. But that wasn’t the end of it. There were two more of the family, apparently of exactly the same age, both sailing serenely up and down the lift shafts on the north side of the buildings, and another pair, twins, in charge of the main lifts by the front entrance. The only difference was that some of them wore fair hair, and some of them dark. It was obviously the same hair, however—rather long and very curly, and fluffed carefully up under the hat band at the back. It occurred to Tony that perhaps the hair was issued along with the uniform.

  Tony was thinking vaguely about a ballet that could be made with Robert Helpmann for the shop-walker, and a chorus of little blonde and brunette lift-dolls, when he became aware that his father was introducing him to someone. It was to Mr. Bloot. It was, indeed, Mr. Bloot who destroyed the ballet in Tony’s mind. Because Mr. Bloot was not in the least like Robert Helpmann. It would have to have been an all-police ballet to do justice to Mr. Bloot.

  “Vurry per-oud to meet yur, sir,” Mr. Bloot was saying, with the sort of bow that is usually reserved for Royalty. “Vurry per-oud, indeed, sir.”

  “Everything all right?” Mr. Rammell asked.

  He had a quick, clipped way of speaking that Tony had not hea
rd before. The thought that his father was possibly quite a brisk efficient sort of person surprised him. Certainly he seemed to know a lot about the place. And he gave the air of wanting to know exactly what was going on. Not that Mr. Bloot had very much to tell him.

  “Vurry quaht, sir,” was all he said. “Vurry quaht, indeed. Always vurry quaht of a Monday.”

  But already Mr. Rammell was moving on.

  “Get his name?” he inquired.

  Tony shook his head.

  “Didn’t catch it,” he said.

  “Then listen,” Mr. Rammell said sharply. “And concentrate. No good coming round if you don’t pay attention. Just a waste of everybody’s time. It was Bloot. B-l-o-o-t.”

  Tony said nothing. That was because he was finding it difficult to keep up with Mr. Rammell. His father seemed to have collected a new store of energy from somewhere. He was stepping out like a road walker. What’s more, he had just seen one of the ground floor’s real aristocracy. Someone to whom he was rather proud to introduce his son. That was because he had himself once been introduced to him. The man, in fact, was almost as old as Rammell’s. Been there for fifty years. And beginning to look as though it had been longer. Practically quills and parchment it must have been when he had started.

  “This is Mr. Barwell,” Mr. Rammell said quickly. “Try to remember. B-a-r-w-e-l-l.”

  The letters were positively hissed at him, Tony noticed. It was the sort of voice that a frayed schoolmaster uses when up against a really stupid child. Tony resented it. And it hurt all the more because it was so strikingly different from the tone of voice that Mr. Rammell used when speaking to Mr. Barwell himself.

  “Ah, morning, Barwell,” he said, rather as though it might have been in the saloon bar that they were meeting. “How’s the back? Got to take care of yourself, you know. Like you to meet my son. Just taking a look round for himself. Probably be seeing a good deal more of him. Wants to find out how it all works, don’t you, Tony?”

  This was even more embarrassing. Because his father seemed to have forgotten what age his own son was. From the way he was speaking he was practically inviting Mr. Barwell to come forward and pat him on the head. Not that Mr. Barwell looked the sort of man to be unduly familiar. He had been in the stationery trade for so long that he had gone a bit dry and papery himself. And he didn’t say very much. Just stood there smiling like a polite mummy, and rubbing the ball of his thumb across his fingers as though sampling invisible weaves. Tony felt sorry for the old thing.

  But apparently Mr. Rammell saw Mr. Barwell differently. There was no trace of being sorry when he referred to him. There was respect, rather. Open, unconcealed admiration. A reverence for this ancient wizard of diaries and note-paper.

  “No flies on old Barwell,” Mr. Rammell said, admiringly. “Knows the whole thing from back to front. Best buyer in the business. Good standing, too. He’s this year’s President.”

  “What of?”

  “S.D.T.A.,” Mr. Rammell told him in a tone of surprise, as though he expected everybody to know about the S.D.T.A. and Mr. Barwell’s presidency. “You know, Stationery and Diary Trades Association. Quite a figure, old Barwell.” He paused, and then, dropping his voice a little, added more respectfully than ever. “He could kill a new line if he didn’t like it.”

  Even so, the despotic, line-killing Mr. Barwell was only one of them. There were other figures all evidently in their own way as well-established and formidable as that desiccated figure under the illuminated “FOUNTAIN PENS” notice. There was Mr. Chubb, a very tall, sad man who kept bending forward like a flamingo and easing his knee-joints while he was talking. He, it seemed, was a complete master of neckwear. There was Mr. Gibson, fat and squat and damp-looking like a toad, who knew all about gloves. And Mr. Rawle, upright and military in appearance, who was an authority on shirts. There was Mr. Hamlin, Mr. Newby, Mr. Bridson, Mr ...

  But it was none of these that Tony Rammell was thinking. The names were too many. The accomplishments too various. He had given up. He wasn’t even listening any more. He was looking instead at the dress ornament counter just beyond the handbags. There was a big dark girl there that he didn’t care for. She looked altogether too glowering and sultry for his taste. And she was apparently having some sort of trouble with her dress. A shoulder strap had gone, or something. It was the girl beside her who interested Tony. She was dark, too. But in a younger, fresher sort of way. She couldn’t have been more than about seventeen or eighteen, he reckoned. Scarcely more than a child. Ought to have been at the seaside somewhere enjoying herself. Not standing about in a big shop looking agitated.

  Because there was no doubt about it: she was certainly in a state about something. And he saw the cause of all the trouble was a rather seedy-looking, undersized man who was talking to her. Tony supposed that he was finding fault with the girl. He moved forward to hear what the row was all about.

  But the words he caught surprised him. It might have been Rammell’s medical officer who was speaking.

  “You’ll take a glass of hot milk like I say,” the man was telling her. “A glass of hot milk and a bun. It’s nearly eleven. I’ll show you the way.”

  By now, however, it wasn’t only Tony who was interested. It was Mr. Rammell as well. He had just spoken a word to Mr. Higgett of smoking accessories, nodded to Mr. Sparkes who specialized in binoculars and opera glasses, and smiled warmly at Mr. Benskin (umbrellas and shooting-sticks). Then he noticed what was going on through the archway on the feminine side of the store. It was astonishing! Five minutes to eleven, and the upper floor shopwalker engaged in what looked like a rather stormy flirtation with a pretty girl whom he had never seen before. Mr. Rammell hurried forward. He was glad to observe that Tony, too, had spotted that something was amiss.

  “Good morning, Mr. Privett,” he said briskly. “What’s going on here?”

  The “Mr.” was itself significant. There was a coldness, a sense of distance about it, that would never have been there if he had met him normally on his own ground two floors higher up. Then it would have been: “’Morning, Privett. Leg getting on all right?”

  But to his surprise, Mr. Privett did not seem to notice that anything was wrong. At the sight of Mr. Rammell he began beaming.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said as though he had engineered the whole meeting. “This is er nappy omen. Might I introduce my daughter, Ireen? First day here, sir. Just starting. Ireen, this is our Managing Director.”

  He was as a matter of fact showing off a bit. Building up the part to impress Irene. He didn’t usually carry on quite such a spirited conversation when he met Mr. Rammell. Generally it was nothing more than: “Nicely, thank you, sir. Very kind of you to inquire.” But Irene’s presence gave him a new confidence. He wanted to give her plenty of confidence, too. Show her that her father was the sort of man who was on practically back-slapping terms with all the directors.

  And he felt bound to say—he did, indeed, say it very frequently to Mrs. Privett that evening—that Mr. Rammell behaved very nicely indeed. Because even though Irene, apart from being Mr. Privett’s daughter, was a nobody, a mere beginner, Mr. Rammell leant across and shook hands with her.

  “I hope you’ll be very happy here,” he said.

  And Irene, instead of remaining silent, or blushing or doing anything silly like that, delighted Mr. Privett by behaving in her best Eleanor Atkinson speech-day manner.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rammell,” she said. “I feel quite sure I shall.”

  That in itself would have been good enough. But it was nothing to what was coming. Because Mr. Rammell glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to the rather diffident, shy-looking young man who was standing behind him.

  “Well, well, well Privett,” he said. There was no trace of the “Mr.” now. “Quite a family party, isn’t it? This is my son, Mr. Anthony. First day here, too. Tony, this is Mr. Privett. Keeps the third floor in order, eh, Privett?”

  Like Mr. Privett, Mr. Rammell was over-playin
g his part a bit by now.

  Tony shook hands.

  “I shall be coming up to see you one of these days, Mr. Privett,” he said. “Perhaps you could spare the time to show me round.”

  At that, Mr. Rammell was delighted, too. Absolutely delighted. The politeness was so exactly right. The “one of these days” had the authentic ring to it. Tony might have been on the managerial board already.

  But what Mr. Rammell couldn’t understand was Tony’s behaviour when he was introduced to Irene Privett. Because then he did more than shake hands with her. He said something that Mr. Rammell couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like a warning against hot milk.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1

  Marcia had been trying hard, desperately hard, to bring her interests in line with Mr. Bulping’s. She now even tried to read the articles in Country Life instead of merely glancing at the advertisements. Because it turned out that Mr. Bulping was by way of being a country gentleman as well as a manufacturer.

  Secretly, the prospect of country life still appalled her. The perpetual rain. The brogues. The incredibly doggy-smelling spaniels. The neighbours. But she had learnt her lesson the hard way. After two husband failures she was ready to identify herself absolutely with the third one. And if her new life had to include racehorses she was determined to do her best by them. That was why she sometimes read The Field as well.

  It was because of her selflessness that she was so wretched at the present moment. Quite cast-down and despondent. Almost suicidal, in fact. That was because she had begun to doubt Mr. Bulping. If she hadn’t been working for her living it would all have been so much easier. But professional engagements were after all her livelihood. There were whole regiments of debs, and generals’ daughters simply sitting by the telephone day after day waiting for their agents to call them.

  And Mr. Bulping’s visits were always so sudden. A telephoned love message at four-thirty meant that the lover himself would be arriving at Euston by nine-thirty. And it wasn’t always convenient. What was she to do if he clashed with National Silk Week or a B.B.C. Television Knit-Wear Gala?