Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Tony leant across her and tried the door to make sure that it was shut properly.

  “Come on,” he said. “There’s no traffic at this time of night.”

  It was as they were going along the Hampstead Road that Irene kept telling herself how silly she had been to get into the car at all. Because now that she was in, Tony obviously intended to drive her all the way. And she didn’t want to be driven all the way. There was no use in disguising it. The Curzon and Fewkes Road just didn’t belong together. And she wanted them left separate. Part of the fun of the whole evening had been the fact that she had been able to forget all about everything. What she had been enjoying was a glorious girl-from-nowhere kind of feeling.

  She made one more attempt to save herself when they got to Camden Town.

  “Do drop me here,” she said. “Then I can get a bus.”

  But it was no use. Tony was intent on taking her. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to tell him to go half-right and keep straight up the Kentish Town Road.

  She wished more than ever by now that she hadn’t allowed him to come at all. The Kentish Town Road is not on any showing a particularly pretty sort of thoroughfare at the best of times. It needs people to give life to it. And at eleven-thirty at night it was neither pretty nor lively. Compared with Curzon Street, it might have been somewhere down in the dock area.

  “It’s here,” she said at last. “On the right. Just past Woolworth’s.”

  Tony glanced up at the side of the public house on the corner.

  “Fewkes Road?” he asked.

  Irene nodded.

  “Second lamp-post,” she told him. “Before you get to the pillar-box.”

  Now that they had arrived, there was nothing for it. She certainly wasn’t going to let Tony know that she was ashamed of where she lived. Moreover, now that she came to think of it, she wasn’t ashamed of anything. Just happy.

  “Come in for a moment,” she said. “They’ll all have gone to bed.”

  Tony gave her a little smile.

  “Well, just for a moment,” he said. “Just to say good night.”

  Irene had her own key. And Tony did not need to be reminded to be quiet. He tip-toed in. He was so quiet, indeed, that it seemed to Irene that he must be used to tip-toeing. He came up close behind Irene and put his arms around her.

  “Kiss,” he said.

  But quiet as he was, he had not been quiet enough. They were just outside the front room door when it suddenly opened. It was Mrs. Privett who stood there.

  “Who’ve you got there, Irene?” she began.

  Then she stopped. She could see perfectly well who it was. And she was astonished. But not nearly so much astonished as Irene. That was because over Mrs. Privett’s shoulder she had an unobstructed view of her own sitting-room. And it might have been someone else’s. That was because when Mr. Privett had been told to bring through the drinks, he had brought everything. There seemed to be bottles everywhere. And cigarettes. The room was littered with cigarette packets. But what was most astonishing of all was the table. There were cards spread out on it. Not that they had been played with so far. It hadn’t got as far as that. The game was still merely in the tuition stage. It showed however, that Hetty must have been feeling better. Indeed, as soon as her headache had cleared away she had begun wondering what to do. And naturally her mind had turned to the pack of cards in her handbag ...

  Mrs. Privett steadied herself.

  “Good evening, Mr. Rammell,” she said loud enough for the name to reach the company behind her. “Come in, won’t you?”

  She stood back for him to pass. And then to show how much at ease she was, she added. “I expect you’d like a drink.”

  And as she said it, she fixed Irene with her eye.

  The one problem in Mr. Privett’s mind was that though he had got a half bottle of whisky practically untouched he had not remembered to buy any soda. His chief emotion, however, was one of warm gratification that Tony should be there at all.

  “Come in, Mister Tony” he said slightly indistinctly. “Thish ish a gray pleasure frollofush.”

  Naturally Hetty was delighted to see a newcomer. And in the face of such cordiality as hers it would have been impossible for Tony not to feel at home. She patted the empty chair beside her.

  “Thank God you’ve come” she said to him. “Perhaps if we both take a hand we can show them. Don’t tell me you can’t play either. Or I shall scream.”

  It was only Mr. Bloot who was not at ease. Hetty’s headache had somehow transferred itself to him. He was feeling slightly sick. And very sleepy.

  Not so sleepy, however, that he could not size up the situation. He glanced from Tony to Irene. And then back to Tony again. Finally he caught Tony’s eye. And he held the glance longer than he should have done. Finding himself being stared at by a pair of fixed incredulous eyes popping out of a pink shining face, Tony winked.

  And it was fatal. Mr. Bloot immediately misunderstood it. He came across to Tony and loomed respectfully over him. Then he dropped his voice.

  “Yur can rahly entahly on mah discretion, sir,” he told him. “Sahlence Ah assure you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  1

  Sir Harry had been on about it again. On and on. Incessantly.

  How much longer was young Tony going to be allowed to waste his time up there in the Management Suite? Was it Mrs. Rammell who was standing in the way? Why not put him in the Stock rooms for a spell? Or Dispatch? Or attach him to one of the buyers? Or better still, like he’d said, get him down into the shop so that he could meet his first customer?

  Sir Harry had been on the phone three times already this morning. And practically all day yesterday.

  It was Mr. Preece who agreed with him. There was something extraordinarily unattractive in the whole idea of having the young man messing about in Stock. Or Dispatch, for that matter. Anything could go wrong there. And probably would. But no harm at all that Mr. Preece could see in letting him have a go on the Sales side. Provided that he was properly supervised, of course. And that was where Mr. Rawle of Shirtings would come in so useful.

  Mr. Rawle was flattered. But unimpressed. He had been the Napoleon of shirts for nearly twenty-seven years. And an entire pageant of shirt history had passed across the counter over which he presided. First he had seen stiff shirts for day wear succeeded by soft ones. Some even with collar attached. And then, since revolutions run always to extremes, he had watched gentlemen buying themselves soft shirts for evening wear as well. Then substitute fabrics, home-washable and self-ironing, had become popular. There was, he had often felt, not much more that could possibly happen to the downfall of shirtings during his lifetime.

  In a sense it was a personal tribute to him that, of all the hundred and seven other departments, the managing director should have chosen his. But no Napoleon likes the feeling of being patronized. And after a brief spell of elation to think that he, Mr. Rawle, would now have the privilege of ordering a Rammell of the blood royal to perform the various little menial duties—spreading out dustcloths, picking up bits of string, re-stacking boxes and so forth—that go with all retail shopkeeping, he was feeling resentful.

  Nor when it happened, did it make things any easier that young Mr. Rammell should be confoundedly civil. Not ordinary straightforward civility either. It was a kind of jaunty humility which left Mr. Rawle powerless.

  “Now I’m entirely in your hands, Mr. Rawle,” he began. “Entirely and absolutely. Remember I know nothing. And you know everything. I want you to teach me. And I’m here to learn. I shall make mistakes at first. All beginners do that. But I shall expect you to jump on me as soon as you see things going wrong. No half measures, mind. No making allowances. And above all no favouritism, please ...”

  He had gone round to Mr. Rawle’s side of the counter while he was speaking. And he was already brushing imaginary specks of dust off the plate glass counter.

  “Well,” he continued in the same staccat
o fashion that Mr. Rawle found so unnerving, “I’m sure there’s plenty of work to be done. You show me what it is. And I’d better make a start with it.”

  Because it was only 9.10, the store at the moment was still entirely empty. The long blue-carpeted aisles had a bare and lonely look, as though they were set for a play that had not yet started. Only the figure of Mr. Bloot at the far end of one of the aisles gave even a hint that the audience might soon be there.

  Mr. Rawle turned towards the glass-fronted shelves behind the counter.

  “First of all, sir,” he said. “I suggest we run through the ranges. Then I can take you through the sizes afterwards.”

  But even that did not satisfy Tony.

  “Now Mr. Rawle,” he said. “No ‘sir’ when addressing me, please. Remember you’re the principal. I’m only the assistant.”

  It was while Tony was being shown the sports shirts that he made his one blunder. He ran his hand over the patterns. Then he turned to Mr. Rawle.

  “Bit grim, aren’t they?” he said.

  Mr. Rawle stiffened.

  “I beg pardon, sir?” he asked.

  “Grim,” Tony repeated. “Do they expect you to be able to sell these?”

  Mr. Rawle avoided Tony’s eye and stared down the empty corridor ahead of him.

  “I do sell them, sir.”

  “Good for you,” Tony answered. “They must take a bit of selling. Look at that one.”

  Mr. Rawle turned his head for a moment.

  “That, sir, is one of our most exclusive patterns ...” He paused. “Forgive me a moment, sir.”

  Already he was moving slowly, almost furtively away. His face had assumed a new expression. At once polite and predatory. Tony started to fold up the sports shirt. Then he turned and watched. On the other side of the counter, the day’s first customer was approaching. He seemed quite a reasonable sort of person, Tony thought. A bit hot and rushed-looking, perhaps, and carrying an over-large suitcase. But still civilized. And from the way he was bending down he seemed to be looking at price tickets. It was obvious that he was avoiding Mr. Rawle’s eye, while Mr. Rawle was trying to catch his.

  As he drew level, Mr. Rawle addressed him.

  “Can I show you something, sir?”

  The stranger paused.

  “No thanks. I was just looking.”

  Mr. Rawle drew back to make it plain that Rammell’s was the last shop in London where anything so vulgar as ordinary salesmanship was ever practised. He took out a drawer of soft evening shirts and began studying them as though purely for his own relaxation.

  The man with the suitcase hesitated.

  “Er ... how much are those evening shirts?” he asked.

  “Evening shirts, sir?”

  There was just the right note of surprise in his voice as he asked the question. He tilted the box forward as he spoke.

  “This is one of our regular shirts, sir. Special uncreasable front. Fifty-five and nine.”

  The man had put his bag down by now. He began examining the shirt.

  “You haven’t anything cheaper, have you?” he asked.

  Again Mr. Rawle seemed surprised.

  “Oh, yes, sir.”

  He brought out another drawer.

  “This is a very popular shirt, sir. Forty-two and sixpence.”

  “Anything between the two?”

  Already Mr. Rawle was bringing out a third drawer.

  “Two-ten, sir,” he said. “Only just come in. The cuffs are nylonized.”

  He had spread all three shirts out in a kind of fan on the counter. Now he was standing back again so as not to rush his man. He had the air rather of a collector showing his prized pieces to a cherished friend.

  The customer glanced for a moment at his watch and then stared down at the shirts again.

  “Which do you recommend?” he asked.

  Mr. Rawle seemed almost embarrassed.

  “Well, of course, this is the shirt, sir,” he explained. “The others are very good value. But this is the shirt.”

  The customer glanced down at his watch for the second time.

  “I’ll take one of those,” he said.

  Mr. Rawle came round to the customer’s side of the counter to measure his arm-length.

  “Are you all right for bow ties, sir?” he asked, confidentially as though he knew that the question was verging on the indiscreet.

  The customer nodded. And Mr. Rawle ignored the nod.

  As he was wrapping up the shirt he deftly thrust out a third arm from somewhere behind his back and placed a long Cellophane packet behind the shirt.

  “These are the pattern that are being worn,” he said almost diffidently. “You notice the new thin outline ...”

  A few moments later, Mr. Rawle had returned to Tony’s end of the counter. He had sold a shirt and an evening tie.

  “How d’you know he wanted dress shirts?” Tony asked.

  “The suitcase, sir,” Mr. Rawle told him. “And the time of day. Quite a lot of gentlemen drop in on the way to the office when they have to dress and go out somewhere. They frequently forget something. You’ll come to recognize the type, sir.”

  “And how did you know he’d buy a tie?”

  Mr. Rawle lowered his voice a little.

  “He wasn’t quite sure of himself, sir. If he had been, he wouldn’t have asked my advice.”

  Mr. Rawle broke off, and slid a box of sports shirts along the counter.

  “Suppose we go through these, sir,” he went on. “And allow me to show you. It’s the collars that require attention. Points always nicely down. And mind the pins. Never forget the pins, sir. And never drag one shirt across another. Lift them, sir. Lift them. Like this.”

  It was shortly after ten when the first of the Press arrived. The news of Tony Rammell’s staff appointment had only just broken. But it was obviously a good story, RAMMELL JUNIOR SERVES BEHIND COUNTER would be bound to catch the eye of every woman reader. Already in the glass panelled row of offices over on the Hurst Place side a whole company of rather smart young women with note-books concealed in the handbags and large sagging men with camera cases over their shoulders were now assembling. Mr. Thorpe of Publicity was trying to keep them all at bay while Mr. Robson of Public Relations got through on the phone to Mr. Preece.

  “The Press? Here? Why?” Mr. Preece kept repeating. “And photographers? I’ll speak to Mr. Rammell about it. Tell Thorpe to keep them where they are. We don’t want them wandering all round the store, until we know who authorized it.”

  Mr. Rammell was not at all pleased at being interrupted. He was dissolving a new kind of charcoal-and-bismuth tablet in his mouth. And he did not want to talk to anyone. Just suck.

  “The Pless?” he said, indistinctly because the tablet was an unusually large one. “No, of coulse not. Shlend them away.” He paused. “Shtlay where you are. I’ll ling you back.”

  Mr. Rammell poured himself a sip of water from the vacuum jug beside him. He had somehow managed to swallow the charcoal tablet. His speech was suddenly clear again. But his whole mouth now tasted dismally of late autumn.

  “Get me Sir Harry,” he said.

  When at last Sir Harry came through he seemed even at that hour in the morning to be in remarkably high spirits.

  “What’s that?” he asked. “Havin’ your photograph taken, you say?”

  “It’s Tony they’ve come to see,” Mr. Rammell told him. He spoke very slowly. Slowly and distinctly. As though he were speaking to a child. He had explained it to Sir Harry at least twice already.

  And gradually, very gradually it seemed, Sir Harry was getting round to the real nature of the problem.

  “Well, why did you ask ’em if you didn’t want ’em?”

  “Nobody asked them,” Mr. Rammell replied. “That’s the whole point.”

  Sir Harry gave a little chuckle.

  “Somebody must of. Stands to reason. Perhaps it was his mother.”

  “I thought,” Mr. Rammell continu
ed, still in the same quiet patient tone, “that perhaps you ...”

  But Sir Harry interrupted him.

  “Leave me right out,” he said. “Too old. Don’t photograph so good.”

  As Sir Harry replaced the receiver, he shook his head sadly. Lack of decision. That’s what his son’s trouble was. Sheer lack of it. Couldn’t make up his mind about anything. Sending for a lot of Press photographers, and then telling them to go away again. Finally trying to drag his own father out of bed just to make up a group ...

  Sir Harry was only thankful enough that he was still active enough to be able to step in when needed. Like this morning, for instance. If he hadn’t intervened goodness knows what sort of muddle they would have been getting themselves into round in Bond Street.

  2

  It was while Mr. Robson was holding the main body of the Press at bay that a small free-lance photographer slipped past him. He was a thin, shabby-looking young man with rather long hair, who came and went as he chose. Going straight through to Shirtings he got exactly what he wanted. And he was out of the shop again before anyone could stop him. Before anyone had really noticed him. Anyone with the exception of Tony, that is. And he was incredulous. Simply incredulous.

  Because he was really responsible. It had all happened the other night at a party. He had found himself talking to a rather distinguished-looking young man. One of Derek’s better friends. The young man with a pale waistcoat and a jacket with folded-back cuffs. “To do with publicity” was how he described himself. And as soon as he heard that Tony was really going to work his way through Rammell’s he stopped being languid. Instead, he became tremendously interested. He even brought out an apparently nibless fountain pen—the pen was so streamlined that it might have been made for writing in space-ships—and made a note of Tony’s name on the back of an invitation card.

  Moreover, the air of languidness must have been merely a veil. A deception. The young man was nothing if not thorough. When the picture appeared in all the evening papers, there was nothing missing. “ ... whose mother is, of course, the well-known hostess and musical patron,” the caption rambled on. “Sir Harry, 82, the original Chairman, is in excellent health and is a familiar figure on the racecourse.”