Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Finally, Mr. Rammell himself had put it to him point blank. Told him to go.

  “You go along. And try and be of some use,” he said. “Let them do the talking. Just keep your ears open, and pick up what you can.”

  Mr. Rammell, too, had read that month’s edition of Sales Efficiency. He knew exactly how the game should be played. It was merely that he did not feel strong enough to play it himself.

  “As a matter of fact,” Tony began. “I was going out this evening ...”

  But Mr. Rammell interrupted him. This was not a moment when he felt like entering into an argument.

  “Then go out some other evening,” he snapped back.

  But there he paused. Perhaps Mrs. Rammell was right. Perhaps sometimes he was unduly terse with the boy. Didn’t make the effort to draw him out. He came across from the door.

  “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I’d appreciate it if you looked in. Preece’s idea, not mine. Like to hear what you think of it. Needn’t repeat it if it’s no use.”

  It was no good, however. That first remark of his had done it. On the other side of the desk Tony was regarding him with an expression that might have been not his son’s but his wife’s. And the most maddening thing about it was that on Tony’s face lay the half smile that Mrs. Rammell always used when she was particularly irritated.

  “You’ve already told me to go,” Tony said. “Shall we leave it at that?”

  2

  Without the drinks that Sales Efficiency had so carefully recommended, the Staff get-together led off to a pretty slow start. Mr. Prescott of Stock Deliveries, a pale, heavily-spectacled young man with a lot of wrist and ankle, was the first to arrive. He shook hands with Mr. Preece in a quick, experimental fashion and then began furtively to move away. Not that Mr. Preece would have embarrassed him if he had remained. Mr. Preece couldn’t think of anything to say either.

  And when Miss Hallett got there she was frankly tired. It had been a long day already without this. Ever since five o’clock she had felt one of her headaches coming on. That was why she was so untalkative. Altogether Mr. Preece simply couldn’t make it out at all. He had been listening hard ever since he got there And so far, he was still waiting for something. Not that he need have bothered. Because up to the present, nobody had said anything.

  There were about a score of them already assembled when Tony got there. And they had arranged themselves discreetly in the manner of all easy, carefree, English parties—the men on one side of the room and the girls on the other. There was an air of slightly nervous expectancy hanging over the company as though at any moment they were afraid that Mr. Preece might start addressing them.

  “’Evening, Mr. Preece,” said Tony. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Tony,” Mr. Preece assured him. “We’re only just warming up.”

  The room that had been quiet before, now suddenly became silent. The men, as a body, moved apprehensively a little farther away from the women. And the women avoided each other’s eyes. Instead they looked down carefully at their feet as though they had never seen them before. Mr. Preece wished that he had read Sales Efficiency more carefully. Then he would have known how long this rush of uninhibited revelations might be expected to continue.

  It was Tony who spoke.

  “Isn’t it about the right time of day for a drink, Mr. Preece?” he asked. “Don’t you think the ladies might like a glass of sherry?”

  In the hush, Mr. Preece thought rapidly. It was, after all, precisely what the Sales Efficiency had specified. And nobody had told him not to serve drinks. Besides, if he refused, what would Mr. Tony think? Even though—or rather, because—he despised the young man, the last thing he wanted was for young Tony to go away with the idea that he didn’t know how to organize a Staff get-together.

  “Just coming, Mr. Tony,” he said hurriedly. “I was just about to order it.”

  Because it was so late—getting on for 5.45 already—Mr. Preece experienced some difficulty in getting the sherry. The bar of the public restaurant had been closed long ago. Ever since three o’clock, in fact. And in the end, it was the directors’ sherry that had to be sent for. Mr. Preece felt rather self-conscious about using it. It was the best pale Amontillado. The kind of stuff that in the ordinary way was reserved for Board occasions, at which Mr. Preece was no more than in attendance.

  But it certainly worked. It was not in the least that everyone in Stock and Haberdashery had suddenly been tormented by a craving for alcohol. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the Staff get-together, the most that any of the men would have had would have been a quick mild-and-bitter or light ale on the way home; and the girls wouldn’t even have thought of it. But here at six o’clock in the empty lounge outside the main restaurant it all suddenly seemed rather fun because of it. Like a surprise present. And now that it was clear that Mr. Preece wasn’t going to make a speech after all, everyone’s spirits had noticeably begun to mount again.

  Tony went dutifully right round the room. It surprised him a little that there should be so many people connected with the Stock side. And some of them seemed so important, too. Compared with his own future, there were two or three of them who looked as if they could have bought out Mr. Rammell to-morrow. Solid, massive men. Men with horn-rimmed glasses. And waistcoats.

  And, now that he appreciated that this was simply an informal social occasion, even Mr. Prescott of Stock Deliveries allowed himself to relax. When Tony reached him, he shot out a red, bony hand in greeting and tried to show how much he was really enjoying himself. It was only that he couldn’t think of anything to say. Just nothing at all. Not that it mattered. Because by then Tony was already on his way over to the ladies’ side.

  Naturally, Miss Hallett put herself out for him. She wanted to introduce him to all her girls. But things were not easy for her either. Coming so soon on top of her headache, the sherry had been a mistake. A bad mistake. It was now nothing less than a real migraine that she was suffering. Already she had bright spots like star-shells dancing about before her eyes. Mr. Tony kept appearing and disappearing in the midst of them. At any moment now there would be nothing for it but to go and lie down. And even that would be difficult. Because the ladies’ rest-room had been shut up a good half-hour ago. But to her relief Tony scarcely noticed her. It was Irene whom he had just seen.

  “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Irene told him. “Not any longer.”

  “How are you getting on?”

  “Oh, I’m all right, thank you,” she said.

  “Enjoying it?”

  “Oh, yes, ever so.”

  “They don’t work you too hard?”

  “Oh, no. Not a bit.”

  “Still glad when it’s the end of the day, though?”

  “Definitely.”

  It seemed to Tony quite one of the silliest conversations that he had ever had. And it was getting nowhere. For every foolish question he asked she had a foolish answer all ready. And she was worth more than that. She was looking at her very prettiest this evening.

  “Come over here,” he said. “Let’s see if there’s any sherry left.”

  It was quieter over there by the side-table, away from the main group. And it was rather pleasant having the dark, pretty girl all to himself for a moment. He poured out some more sherry for both of them.

  “Did you want to come into Rammell’s?” he asked.

  “Not really,” she told him.

  “What did you want to do?”

  “I wanted to go on the stage.”

  “Then why didn’t you ...?”

  It was Mr. Preece who interrupted them. While Tony had been talking to Irene, the restaurant lounge behind them had emptied mysteriously. The solid, important men, the ones with the chins and waistcoats, had all said their good-byes to Mr. Preece. And poor Miss Hallett had made a bolt for it long ago. It was only Tony and Irene who were now left. But Mr. Preece was still listening har
d. So far the only remark that he had heard all the evening was that Mr. Prescott had apparently already missed the 6.35 and was afraid that he would miss the 7.5 as well. All things considered, it hardly seemed worth six bottles of directors’ sherry to have learned that. But he was still master of the situation. And he was thinking about his own train as well.

  “Well, all good things must come to an end,” he said brightly.

  Tony, however did not seem to be entirely convinced. He lingered. After they had both thanked Mr. Preece for his nice get-together, Tony walked down to the main floor with Irene.

  “What about coming over to see the new film at the Curzon?” he asked her.

  “Oh, thank you ever so. But I couldn’t possibly,” Irene told him. “Not to-night. Not now. It’s frightfully late. Besides, Dad’s waiting for me. He’s been hanging about for hours.”

  Tony thought for a moment.

  “Make it next Monday,” he said. “It’ll still be on.”

  “D’you really mean it?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Oh, thanks ever so. I’d love to.”

  And she looked so pretty as she said it that Tony knew that he was going to love it, too.

  The following day Mrs. Privett came down to Bond Street at closing time. It was her birthday, and she and Mr. Privett were going to make an evening of it. With Irene, of course. Nothing late. Just a bit of dinner. Somewhere nice. At the Corner House, probably. Mrs. Privett had been looking forward to it all day. It was as they were going up Bond Street together that Mr. Privett pointed to someone crossing the road just ahead of them.

  “That’s him,” he said. “That’s Mr. Tony. The one without a hat.”

  “He isn’t much like his father, is he?” Mrs. Privett remarked. “I’d never have known him.”

  Irene herself said nothing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  1

  Even now, after the night when he had missed his last bus, Mr. Bloot remained as perplexed as ever by Hetty. He felt himself to be neither one thing nor the other. Because, though she was ready to accept his advances, she remained obstinately opposed to any public linking of her name with his.

  “People’ll know soon enough,” she said lightly. “Why start getting them worried now?”

  “But suppose they see me coming here?” Mr. Bloot objected.

  “They’d get over it,” she told him.

  Mr. Bloot, however, was not so easily reassured.

  “Ah mean late. Late at naght,” he explained. “Leaving the flat. Wot’d they think?”

  “They’d be right, wouldn’t they, dear?” Hetty replied softly.

  She was seated on his knee at the moment, and his arms were around her. Or, at least, partly around. Because he could only half encircle her. And she was heavier than he had imagined. Heavier, in fact, than anything that he had ever imagined. He had pins-and-needles in both legs from the knee downwards.

  “It’s just that Ah’d rather have er nannouncement,” he told her.

  “Over the B.B.C.?”

  Mr. Bloot shook his head.

  “Inner noospaper.”

  He took a firmer grip of her as he was speaking, and tried to straighten out his legs. Even the pins-and-needles had ceased by now. Both limbs were entirely numb practically from the hips downwards.

  But he was unprepared for the fact that Hetty suddenly wriggled free. She got up and stood facing him.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “I’m not going to have my name appearing in any newspaper, thank you.”

  “It ... it’d only be to show people,” Mr. Bloot explained. “Just ... just so that they’d know”.

  He was, however, secretly more than a little relieved that Hetty wasn’t in fact the newspaper kind. In a passing moment of panic he had looked up the social announcement rates in the best national dailies. And even the merest mention, “The wedding has been arranged and will shortly take place between Henrietta Florence, daughter of ...”—who the hell was she the daughter of? he wondered—“of 23b Artillery Mansions, Tregunter Road, Finsbury Park, N.12, and Augustus Archibald Bloot, eldest son of Archibald Augustus Bloot and Maud Caroline (both deceased) of 17 Tufnell Park Crescent,” would have set him back by about five guineas at least.

  But there was an unshakable single-mindedness about Mr. Bloot.

  “Ah still think there oughter be some sorter er nannouncement,” he persisted. “Ah’m thinking of mah friends.”

  “Then why not give a little party?” Hetty asked. “Break it to them that way.”

  Mr. Bloot paused. His lips began moving. But no sound came. That was because he was adding up in his head. And the total that he reached astonished him. Because up to now he had always seen himself as rather a sociable sort of chap. The kind of man around whom other men inevitably gather. Whereas, in reality, he was practically alone.

  “There’s only two,” he finally admitted. “Only two that matter.”

  But Hetty did not seem unduly put out.

  “Then have ’em here,” she told him. “Ask ’em round. Isn’t this good enough for you?”

  Mr. Bloot felt his whole mind lighten. He knew that he had behaved badly to Mr. Privett in having kept his romance concealed. And this would make it all right again. He tried to struggle to his feet. But it was not easy. The circulation had not yet properly returned. And he had difficulty in balancing.

  “That’s what Ah’ll do,” he said jubilantly. “Ah’ll ask ’em.”

  He was close beside her again, and his arms went out towards her.

  “Yur’re er nangel,” he said. “That’s what yur are er nangel.”

  Breaking the news to Mr. Privett proved easier than Mr. Bloot had feared. It was all done the following morning over a cup of tea. And Mr. Privett was delighted. Absolutely delighted. The fact that he now shared his friend’s confidence again was all that mattered.

  “I’ll tell Eileen to-night,” he said. “She’ll be ever so excited. You say which evening. And we’ll come over.”

  But Mrs. Privett was not so delighted. Nor was she logical. Merely loyal.

  “No, we don’t,” she said firmly. “Not until he’s brought her here first. I’m not going chasing over to Finsbury Park just to please her. Think of Emily.”

  That made it very awkward for Mr. Privett. He hardly knew how to put it to Mr. Bloot.

  “It’s ... it’s just that Mother,” he explained haltingly, “wants you to come over to us first. She ... she feels it would be friendlier.”

  And that made it awkward for Mr. Bloot, too. Because he had already learnt enough about women to know that they do not like having their arrangements questioned.

  But if Mrs. Privett had been obstructive, Hetty was nothing if not forthcoming. She enjoyed all parties. And naturally she was excited at the prospect of this one.

  “I hope you said ‘yes’,” she told Mr. Bloot when he had delivered the invitation. “I could do with a bit of gaiety.”

  2

  It was the following Monday they finally fixed on. Indeed, urgency had seemed to be of the very essence of the arrangement. But now that everything was settled Mr. Bloot began to suffer misgivings. He wondered what Hetty and Mrs. Privett could possibly find in common.

  It wasn’t even as if the Privetts played cards. Whereas as soon as Hetty sat down for relaxation with a few friends, out would come the pack and she would begin shuffling it with that fascinating whirring movement that always had such a strangely hypnotizing effect upon him. Then again Hetty smoked such a lot, leaving the Cornish pottery ash-tray full to the brim after each rubber with inch-long stubs thickly daubed with rich gleaming lipstick. And neither Mr. Privett nor his wife ever smoked at all.

  Mr. Bloot reminded himself that he would have to put a packet—or even possibly two—into his pocket before they set out. He even wondered if there were not some simple game, about midway between Ludo and Canasta, that he could buy in the toy department and take with him as a surprise.

  But i
t was the memory of all those pots of tea that Mrs. Privett used to make that really alarmed him. He panicked. He knew that Hetty could not be expected to survive an evening of the Privetts without something in a glass beside her. And he began making desperate plans. He would take her first into The Nag’s Head and give her a little something before they got there. Or he would invent an imaginery ailment—pernicious anaemia possibly—from which his loved-one suffered, and ask Mr. Privett if a little Australian Burgundy or Invalid Port could just for once be laid on specially for the patient. Or a hip flask, and keep smuggling it across to her during the course of the evening ...

  Mrs. Privett’s misgivings were of an entirely different kind. She wanted everything to be nice, she kept telling herself. And, now that she came to review her surroundings, she was dissatisfied with them. The curtains in the front room, for instance. They were old and faded. And the repairs which she had made on them, though skilful, were still unmistakably repairs. Then the rug in front of the fireplace. It was all right at the sides. Still thick and plushy, in fact, but worn right down in the middle where Mr. Privett’s heels—and Mr. Bloot’s for that matter—had rested. The covers, too. They had a limp, sagging look as though having just managed to reach the chairs they had simply collapsed there.

  As Monday drew nearer, tension mounted appreciably on both sides. At elevenses Mr. Privett and Mr. Bloot continued to see each other regularly. But there was now a brooding sense of foreboding that hung over both of them. They kept catching each other’s eye and looking down at the tablecloth again.

  On the day itself Mr. Privett could stand it no longer. He blurted out exactly what was in his mind.

  “I ... I hope to-night’s going to be all right,” he said. “I ... mean I hope the lady’s going to enjoy herself.”

  Mr. Bloot was in the middle of drinking. The tea was exactly right for once. Right temperature. Right strength. Right sweetness. Not too much milk. And it showed how keyed-up he was that he should interrupt himself to speak at all.

  “Yurss,” he said. “Let’s ’ope so.”