Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Mr. Privett would have liked something more affirmative. But he was in no mood for false sentiment.

  “Of course, it’s bound to be on the quiet side. Just the four of us.”

  By now, Mr. Bloot had finished his tea. He wiped first his mouth and then his forehead. Then he stared glazedly at the sugar basin. Nothing that Mr. Privett had said had done anything to reassure him.

  “Ah know, Ah know,” he replied.

  Mr. Privett took a sip at his own tea.

  “Ireen’s going to be out,” he went on. Then he paused. “She asked me to apologize,” he added untruthfully.

  Mr. Bloot made a gesture with his hands that was at once gallant and dispirited.

  “Ahr lorss,” he said. “Ahr lorss entirely.”

  But Mr. Bloot was not thinking of Irene. He was still thinking of Hetty and the drink problem.

  And Mr. Privett was not thinking of Irene, either. He was secretly preoccupied by what he had discovered when he got home last night. For, going into the front room as usual to make sure that the windows had been fastened properly, he had found himself fumbling about in thick folds of something that he had never encountered before. What he had expected was merely the smooth surface of rather threadbare cretonne. And when he had put the light on he could see that the window was now framed in thick drapes of russet-coloured velvet. They gave the whole room a new and slightly theatrical appearance. As though when drawn, they would reveal some startling transformation scene, and not merely the houses on the other side of Fewkes Road.

  This shock was followed closely by finding a new Axminster hearth-rug in front of the fire. The two of them together had left him strangely unsettled. It was evident that Mrs. Privett had been keeping things from him.

  And this was doubly disturbing. Because, without telling Mrs. Privett, he had already bought a half bottle of gin, a bottle of lime juice, a bottle of Sauterne and four glasses in readiness for the evening so that Mr. Bloot should really feel welcome and know that his old friends had been trying to make things a success for his sake.

  That was why it seemed that someone had been overdoing it a bit when he got home and went into the front room. Because the pair of easy chairs that had been dark red for as long as he could remember now had blue covers with white piping. And on the couch were two bright pneumatic-looking cushions that he had never seen before.

  Mr. Privett was now too curious to restrain himself any longer.

  “What’s been going on in the front room, Mother?” he asked. “All those new cushions ... and things.”

  Mrs. Privett, however, was busy in the kitchen. She merely gave a little wriggle of annoyance.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Just a few odd bits and pieces I had by me.”

  If Mr. Privett had shown even the slightest discretion he would have left it at that. But he went on.

  “Because you needn’t have put yourself out that way, Mother,” he said. “Gus knows all about us. And just because he’s bringing ...”

  But Mr. Privett got no farther.

  Mrs. Privett rounded on him.

  “If you think I’ve been doing it because that woman’s coming you’d better think again,” she said. Her voice rose shrilly with scorn at the sheer outrageous absurdity of such a notion. “Refurnishing for her, indeed! I’m doing it because this house isn’t fit to be lived in. And I’m not prepared to live in it any longer like that, even if you are.”

  This time Mr. Privett had the good sense to say nothing. In any case, he had just remembered that he hadn’t put out the cigarettes that he had bought.

  They were still in the pocket of his raincoat.

  3

  Mr. Bloot, too, had been buying cigarettes. He had thought of asking Hetty if he could buy two packets of twenty from her at cost price. But in the end he had decided against it. It might seem to savour too much of meanness. There was nothing for it therefore but to put a good face on it, and behave as though he were a confirmed chain smoker himself. Then, having invested more than seven shillings in tobacco, he went along to the Off Licence.

  It was a bit of a rush because he had promised to call for Hetty. And he could not make up his mind. But the young lady behind the counter was the understanding sort. And in the end she sold him a bottle of South African white wine, called “Voortrekker”, and a small bottle of very bright red port that she added cryptically was just the thing. Then Mr. Bloot remembered that Hetty always liked to end up the evening with whisky. So he bought a half bottle of that, too. By then, it was nearly ten-to-seven.

  As Mr. Bloot came away from the Off Licence he thought gloomily about the way he was spending so much money. All courtship, he supposed, was costly. But living up to Hetty was positively crippling. At least he had the manner of the presentation all worked out.

  “Er little something for the ladies,” he was going to say. “Ah’m not muchuwer drinker mahself. Ah’d be glad if you’d relieve me of ’em ...”

  Mr. Privett had remembered more than cigarettes. He had remembered flowers as well. Two bunches of purple asters. And one of white. They made a rather fine display even all crushed together in the long spill of white paper that the florist wrapped round them. He could just see them arranged nicely in a vase.

  But when he went to arrange them, they were already there. White and purple asters standing on the side-table in the front room. He stood blankly regarding them. His own bunch drooped in his hand.

  Mrs. Privett came in carrying something, and he caught her eye.

  “I ... I just thought I’d buy you a few flowers,” he explained lamely.

  But Mrs. Privett was too busy even to say thank you.

  “Put ’em in the blue vase with the others,” she said sharply. “And then come with me. I need you.”

  It was to bring down the little table out of Irene’s room that he was needed. Then he was to put the remains of the yacht-trailer out of the hall. The old mat out of the front room was to go at the bottom of the stairs. And, when he’d seen to that, she wanted him to put a new bulb in the hall light.

  “You don’t have to bother yourself, Mother ...” he began.

  But there he stopped abruptly. Not that Mrs. Privett had heard. She was far too busy. Out in the scullery she was washing four Woolworth wine-glasses, and scratching the little “Made in Czechoslovakia” labels off their bases with her fingernail.

  A taxi would have been better. Because there is no direct bus route between Artillery Mansions and Fewkes Road. And, with Hetty’s heels, serious walking was out of the question anyway. But Mr. Bloot was being economical. There was nothing for it therefore but to make a public transport zig-zag, changing first at The Nag’s Head. Then travelling due north to The Archway. And finally doubling back in a south-westerly direction to Kentish Town. Hetty said afterwards that via Camden Town would have been quicker. But Mr. Bloot was taking no risks. A Tufnell Parker himself, he believed in keeping to routes that he knew.

  It was while they were waiting at The Nag’s Head that Hetty suggested that it would be a nice idea if Mr. Bloot took the Privetts a few flowers. Every woman liked receiving flowers, she said. For a moment, Mr. Bloot thought of refusing. He was already making the Privetts a present of various expensive liquors. He did not see why he should start giving them bouquets as well. But the last thing that he wanted was to upset Hetty. So he merely gave a little nod of assent and went over to a flower-seller in the doorway of the Fifty-Shilling Tailors opposite. It was asters that he chose. White asters, with surprisingly little foliage. Hetty said outright that they gave her creeps. If he had to buy asters at all, she explained, he should have bought the dark purple ones.

  She was still going on about the flowers when they reached Fewkes Road. But by then it wasn’t about the flowers that Mr. Bloot was worrying about. It was about Hetty. As he followed her up the short, flagged path to the Privett’s front door it occurred to him that possibly she was a shade too fashionable. It was the flounce of nutria around the hem of the sk
irt, as well as around the collar and cuffs, that did it. And, as he looked at her, he had misgivings. He could not help remembering the plain brown dress with pearl buttons that Mrs. Privett had worn almost for as long as he could remember.

  But he was wrong. It was Mrs. Privett herself who opened the door. She was wearing a smart, obviously new, black dress with white collar and cuffs that gave her a brisk, rather waitressy appearance.

  “Erlow me to introdoos mah friend, Hetty ...” Mr. Bloot began over Hetty’s shoulder.

  But he got no further.

  “We were expecting you earlier,” Mrs. Privett told him. “Fred was wondering what had happened to you.”

  The first part of the remark was not strictly true. Because, as they moved into the narrow hallway, Mr. Privett appeared in his shirt sleeves. He had, in fact, been straightening the new pelmet. And, by the time he had got down from the step ladder, he was trapped. His jacket was in the kitchen. And before he could shake hands, or even say how glad he was to see them, he had to sidle out of the room carrying the step ladder with him.

  When he got back, Mr. Bloot was already making his presentation.

  “A few flahs for you, mah dear,” he was saying to Mrs. Privett.

  Hetty, however, had already glanced appraisingly round the room.

  “You’ve certainly come to the right place,” she said. “They collect ’em.”

  It was as she was saying it that she remembered her own little present. Just before setting out she had thrust a box of fifty Players into her handbag as a kind of goodwill token.

  “I say ‘never go into a new home without a little something,’” she explained.

  Mrs. Privett was on the point of refusing. The twenty that she had bought already were in the china box on the mantelpiece. And she had just discovered that Mr. Privett had been wasting his money, too. Two packets of ten apiece were arranged in strategic positions round the room so that no matter where Hetty was sitting she had only to extend a hand.

  “Thank you very much,” she said coldly. “It was kind of you to think of it.”

  But Hetty was determined not to allow formalities to spoil the evening.

  “Don’t mention it,” she replied. “I’m in the business.”

  As Mr. Bloot realized that the room was practically full of cigarettes already, he decided to say nothing about the supply that he had brought along himself. Instead, he produced the parcel that he had been saving up for Mr. Privett.

  “Er little something for the larder,” he said. “Ah’m not muchuvver drinker mahself. Ah’d be glad if you’d relieve me of ’em.”

  Mr. Privett received the parcel with astonishment. It was, in point of fact, the first present that Mr. Bloot had ever given him. And when he found it contained nothing but drink he was more amazed than ever.

  “Well, that’s very nice of you, Gussie,” he said as he unwrapped the bottles. “We’ll have to ... to drink it, won’t we?” He paused. “Excuse me a moment. I ... I’ve just remembered something.”

  This was quite true. He had just remembered the half bottle of gin and the bottle of lime-juice that he had bought so that Gus’s friend should be able to make a good start to the evening. He blamed himself for not having thought of it earlier.

  “I’ll be back later,” he promised, as he reached the door.

  Mrs. Privett watched him go. Then she turned to Hetty.

  “You’ll take a little something?” she asked.

  It was in the corner cabinet that Mrs. Privett had been hiding the bottles. There was a small bottle of gin and a large green looking lime-juice bottle. The glasses were on the shelf beneath. She had just finished arranging them on the table out of Irene’s room when Mr. Privett returned. He was just in time to hear Hetty refuse everything.

  “Not for me, dear,” she said. “Not after last night. I’m not touching a thing. But don’t let me stop you. Give one to Gussie. He needs it.”

  The supper table with Mrs. Privett’s bottle of Sauterne and Mr. Privett’s Moselle as well as Mr. Bloot’s Boerish vintage from South Africa looked festive. Even overladen. Hetty herself drank nothing but water. Mrs. Privett resentfully sipped a little of her own Sauterne. But it was left to the men to finish it. And because the Sauterne was so sweet it made Mr. Privett feel a little sick. But Mr. Bloot was content. He rather liked it. And he would in any case have needed something to wash down the huge quantities of food that Mrs. Privett kept putting down in front of him. He had already spooned up a plateful of fruit salad and now he was being offered little cheeses in silver paper as well. The profusion astonished him. It seemed that since he had last visited the Privetts their whole standard of living had gone up beyond recognition.

  Hetty herself, however, did not seem to be eating anything. And Mr. Bloot was suddenly glad after all that he had got a cigarette to offer her. Despite the number of cigarettes in the other room, it did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Privett that ladies like Hetty who went about a lot were accustomed to light up while still sitting at the table.

  He beamed across at her.

  “Have one of these, mah dear,” he said, producing the packet suddenly like a conjuror. “Ah know your brand.”

  But Hetty only shook her head.

  “Not me,” she answered. “You have one. I’ve got a mouth like a bird cage.”

  Because of Mr. Bloot’s half bottle of port, the small party lingered indolently over the supper table. And because the word “Invalid-type” appeared on the bottle, Mrs. Privett allowed herself to be persuaded. But it was a mistake. She was not accustomed to drinking. And she had already taken one glassful of Sauterne. Coming so soon on top of it, the port was too much. It immediately gave her a hot, angry flush as though someone had just said something deliberately offensive ...

  Between them, the two men finished up the bottle. They even seemed surprised when they found that it had all gone. But they felt better for it. Much better. A rather aimless little smile began playing round the corners of Mr. Privett’s mouth, and Mr. Bloot simply beamed. Large and pink looking, he glistened. Unable to imagine why he had ever been so anxious about the outcome of the evening, he blamed himself for having kept Hetty away from Fewkes Road for so long.

  Only Hetty remained entirely abstinent. Neither drinking nor smoking, she sat back observing her companions. And she found the sight strangely consoling. More than once just lately she had told herself that she would have to go easy, and miss every other round. And it came as a relief to discover that other people took just as much as she did. One glance at the Privetts was enough to show that they were practically pickled. And there was a smile on Gus’s face that she had never even seen before.

  4

  The film that Tony and Irene were seeing was at the Curzon. It had been on for weeks already. And judging by the queues outside it would be on for ever. What was so remarkable was that it was all in French, too. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of that end of Curzon Street was so thoroughly continental that it was obvious that if an English film should have been booked by mistake, the management would have had to add French sub-titles before their patrons would have been able to follow it.

  Irene was not merely happy. She was blissful. The seats in which they were sitting did not seem to have been made for ordinary cinema-goers at all. She had never before sat in anything like them. They were obviously designed for an exclusive race of luxurious, movie-loving satraps.

  But it wasn’t merely a matter of the upholstery. It was the fact that she was holding hands that counted. When she had felt Tony’s hand come stealing up out of the semi-darkness she had thought at first that it was by accident that it had touched hers. She had expected it to go away again. But it hadn’t. It had taken hold. And stayed there. At first she felt a strange electric tingle run through her at the contact. Then came the hot, rather sticky period. And finally she had reached the dumb, inert, stage.

  The film itself—the wildly popular one—was rather sad, Irene thought. It was set in the Canebi�
�re district of Marseilles. And it was all about a deaf and dumb girl who murdered her illegitimate baby when it turned out to be blind like her lover. But the photography, everyone agreed was out of this world. It was shot mostly at night. Or in rain. With only the outlines of things showing. These however were enough. Rubbish bins, urinoirs, public wash-houses, sewers, horse-abattoirs—they were all there. In short, the film had Cannes Festival Award written all over it.

  When it finished, everyone dutifully stood up. But it was the National Anthem that was played. For a moment, Irene had half expected that it would be the “Marseillaise.”

  Tony helped her into her coat, and they made their way out into the night scene of Mayfair.

  “Thank you ever so,” Irene told him. “I loved it. Really, I did.”

  Tony glanced at his watch.

  “Better come and get a drink,” he said. “We can just make it.”

  Because it was so near to closing-time, it wasn’t much of a drink. But that didn’t matter, because Irene wasn’t much of a drinker. She asked for gin-and-lime because it was the only thing that she could think of. And Tony himself drank only beer. Five minutes after they had gone into the pub, they were outside on the pavement again, right in the middle of Shepherd Market among the antique shops. And the poodles. And the ladies who looked as though they had somehow remained over from some previous attraction.

  Tony and Irene walked round as far as Hertford Street where the car was parked.

  “I’ll run you home ...” he began.

  But Irene stopped him.

  “No, please don’t bother,” she said. “I’ll just pop into the Underground.”

  “Get in,” Tony told her.

  Irene hesitated.

  “Well, only as far as Piccadilly,” she said. “It isn’t really out of your way.”

  “Where d’you live?” Tony asked.

  “Kentish Town.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s miles. Really it is. It’ll take hours. You mustn’t think of it.”