Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Tony, who was going out that night, entirely forgot to look. Mr. Rammell made a point of looking. And was appalled. Sir Harry was delighted. Simply delighted. Mrs. Rammell wept.

  3

  And next day there was a real first-class row up in Management Suite. With last night’s evening papers spread out on the desk in front of him, Mr. Rammell banged his fist down on the offending pictures and threatened to make a clean sweep of the Press, Publicity, Public Relations. The whole lot. Every damn’ one in the department. Start again. Get rid of dead wood. Find people who knew their jobs. Clear out the duds.

  Mr. Preece sat beside him, silent and dismayed. He knew what Mr. Rammell must be thinking. Because he was already thinking it himself. There was no getting round it. He was one of the duds. He had shown himself to be that worst of all things, a General Manager who couldn’t manage. After the others had gone, Mr. Rammell would be bound to keep him back. Put it to him point blank. Resignation or dismissal ... Like most professionally calm men, Mr. Preece had his private moments of panic.

  Mr. Rammell meanwhile was still threatening and banging. He was, indeed, so much caught up in the sheer enjoyment of being beastly that he refused to take a telephone call from Sir Harry. Flatly refused. In front of the staff, too. But there was more to it than mere annoyance at the interruption. The one thing that Mr. Rammell feared was Sir Harry’s voice crackling out of the receiver full of congratulations over the Press coverage.

  Meanwhile, two floors below, Tony knew nothing of the row. He was busy behind the Shirtings counter. Busy and dutiful. It was the latter quality that dumbfounded Mr. Rawle. He had been prepared for anything. Idleness. Frivolity. Inattention. Condescension. Rudeness, even. But not what he was getting. It was like having the industrious apprentice always at his elbow. He was so much impressed, indeed, that he mentioned it more than once to Mrs. Rawle. “It’s hereditary,” he said. “That’s what it is, hereditary. If there’s shirtings in the blood it’s bound to come out.”

  Mr. Rawle, however, was only partially correct. Because Tony was not being dutiful. He was only being bloody-minded. He had worked the whole thing out to his own satisfaction. Revenge and masochism were nicely mingled.

  The first that Mr. Rammell had known of it was this morning. The car had turned into Bond Street at the usual point. But at the Downe Street entrance Tony had said good-bye.

  “I go in round the back,” he had said. “Staff entrance. Got to clock in.”

  “No need to do that,” Mr. Rammell had begun.

  But that was as far as he got. Because by then Tony had already waved good-bye, and turned the corner.

  Not that the arrangement was altogether without its compensations.

  It meant that a Rammell was seeing the staff side of things for the first time in more than a quarter of a century. And already it was beginning to occur to Tony that perhaps the store wasn’t quite so well run as it seemed to be from the directors’ floor.

  Take the time-machines, for instance. There were four of them just inside the front door. Everyone, with the exception of the buyers and a few people like Marcia who led irregular hours anyway, had to get the exact minute of their arrival stamped on to the small buff card. It wasn’t the sheer impersonal tyranny of the machines that irritated Tony. It was the simple fact that they were in the wrong place. Around 8.50 a.m. there were two or three hundred people all arriving in Hurst Place at the same time. And on wet mornings the rear end of the queue had to stand outside getting steadily wetter. And later.

  “I’ll mention it to Preece. Get him to do something about it,” Tony promised himself.

  In point of fact, he forgot. Simply forgot all about it. The remarkable thing was, however, that he should even have thought of remembering. And, in any case, by then he was already busy on something else. By the end of his second day he was re-organizing the whole method of replacements. That, he had decided, was in one hell of a mess. Positively bloody awful, in fact. Because if any line—Tony had learnt by now to refer to everything as a “line”—started selling at all briskly, the head of the department sent one of the Juniors along to the stock room with a requisition slip. The stock room was in the basement at the Downe Street end. And on some mornings Tony had counted as many as twelve Juniors all standing about, waiting for their fresh supplies.

  “My God,” Tony reflected. “This is medieval. If there was only a decent internal phone system they could ring through for things as they wanted them. Then the stock department could pick up the requisition slip when they delivered the goods.”

  But it was around then that something happened that put departmental management and re-organization clean out of Tony’s head. He met Irene again.

  Irene worked in quite a different part of the building altogether. She was separated from him by three aisles, seven counters and a double row of imposing marble-looking pillars. Practically in the next parish, in fact. One hundred and seven departments is about a hundred too many when it comes to meeting people.

  But despite all those departments, even Rammell’s had only twenty-four windows. And men’s shirts, ladies’ handkerchiefs, beach wear, furs, sports goods, refrigerators, jewellery and all the rest had to share the displays. The windows were decisive. Merely to be allotted one was enough to put a whole department on trial. And it was these display weeks that brought the departments together.

  Not that the department itself was ever allowed actually to dress the window. That was the preserve of Mr. Banstraw. And of his assistant, Miss Defoy. Mr. Banstraw was tall, stooping and sedate with a preference for plain labels, plenty of top lighting and what he called “general straightforwardness”. Miss Defoy on the other hand wore a snood, inclined to Perspex cutouts and abhorred overcrowding.

  Mr. Banstraw in turn abhorred Miss Defoy. He prided himself that, with careful arrangement and a lot of standing about on the pavement peering in at the windows with his eyes screwed up and head on one side, he could manage to get as many as six different dress models into a single window frame. Left to herself, Miss Defoy would have preferred one. Her most successful window, she always contended, had consisted simply of a flight of white papier-mâché steps with a single evening bolero draped over the balustrade on the top landing.

  In consequence, there was always a lot of coming and going between principal and assistant, with Miss Defoy whisking things away as soon as Mr. Banstraw’s head was turned, and then Mr. Banstraw carting them all back again.

  Because it was soon to be Shirt Week, Mr. Rawle was moody and preoccupied. He still served his regular customers with as much care and attention as if shirts were something that he had personally invented and was still interested in promoting. But his mind wasn’t really on collar bands and cuff lengths. It was busy planning. Mapping things out. Devising the ground strategy.

  In the end it was stripes he decided on. Soft, with button cuffs and collars attached. There was only one objection. Mr. Banstraw insisted on ties to go with the shirts. That upset Mr. Rawle. He didn’t see why he should have to share his window with the unpleasantly flashy Mr. Clarkson from the next counter. But Mr. Banstraw was adamant.

  “Too bare,” he said firmly. “No finish. You just leave it to me. I know what I want. Some nice checks and foulards. And plenty of shirts. Dozens and dozens of ’em.”

  It was because the first requisition on the stock department was too small that Tony was now on his way over to the window with a fresh supply. Mr. Banstraw seemed relieved to see them.

  “I may need some more still,” he said. “No point in wasting valuable space. These windows cost money ...”

  At the same moment in the next window, Miss Defoy was speaking to Irene.

  “I shan’t be needing these,” she said. “Or these. Or these. It’s not a jumble-show we’re managing. It’s a window. And windows are what people go by. I always say they’re our ambassadors, these windows ...”

  That was how it was that Tony going back towards the stock department for more, m
et Irene as she was carrying away a collection of belts, fancy buckles, dress ornaments and every kind of flower except real ones.

  Miss Defoy had examined the velvet roses, the artificial violets, the sham camellias, the pink feather carnations. And being artistic, she had rejected the whole lot in favour of some small and rather nondescript budlets of dried beech husks and a bunch of flowering sea-shells. The rest were going back into stock. And Irene with her chin pressed down hard on to the top box lid to give steadiness to the pile was making her way as best she could.

  Tony and Irene met head on.

  “Here. Let me take those.”

  “No, really. Please don’t bother.”

  She felt herself blushing as she said it. That was what was so humiliating about being only seventeen. Because you found yourself blushing when there was nothing to blush at. Simply because someone spoke to you, for instance.

  And it would have been better if she had not attempted to resist. Cardboard boxes, especially the white shiny kind, are notoriously slippery. Handling them calls for a good firm grip. And no fumbling. Two lots of hands are usually fatal. A moment later the marble parquet was littered with multi-coloured fabric petals and sprays of fiercely curled synthetic foliage.

  “Clumsy,” Tony remarked.

  Between them, they picked up the whole lot. And then Tony slammed the last box lid back into place.

  “Well, that’s that,” he said.

  Then he glanced at his watch.

  “What about elevenses?” he asked. “Come and have a cup of coffee.”

  They stood side by side at the long staff counter with the words Horlicks and Oxo and Kia-Ora staring down at them.

  “When are you coming out to another flick with me?”

  “You haven’t asked me.”

  That was better. She wasn’t blushing now. She was easily holding her own with him.

  “Well, I’m asking you now.”

  He took out a limp little diary and began consulting it.

  “Can’t to-night,” he said. “Or to-morrow. What about Wednesday? Why not come on Wednesday?”

  “D’you really mean it?”

  “Of course I mean it. Why not come Wednesday?”

  “I ... I’d love to.”

  So that was settled. Then the stupid business of being seventeen suddenly cut right across everything. She felt herself blushing again.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  1

  It was because of Irene’s second visit to the cinema with Tony that Mrs. Privett decided that she must act. And act now.

  She had been on the point of it before. Had nearly done something after that first time when Tony and Irene had surprised them all during the evening party for Mr. Bloot and his fiancée. That had been a warning. A danger sign. But she had checked herself. Tried to pretend that it was nothing.

  But twice in one month was too much. It was more than a danger sign now. It was the peril itself. Right on top of them, too. There was only one thing that it could mean. Young Mr. Rammell was serious. And Mrs. Privett could see no good coming of it.

  Other mothers might have been flattered. Dazed. Bowled-over. And even for Mrs. Privett there was an element of bewilderment in it all. To think that her own daughter and one of the Rammells ... But that was precisely what she was determined not to allow herself to think. For a start, what did she know of his intentions? With young men of Mr. Tony’s age they were frequently of the worst. But that wasn’t all. Supposing he came to the point and actually proposed, what chance would there be of a match like that lasting?

  The real trouble was that Tony and Irene hadn’t got so much as a single piece of background in common. Fewkes Road and Eaton Square might have belonged to different planets they were so different. Mrs. Privett held strong views that the Fewkes Road planet held the better promise of a steady life. There had never been a divorce on either side of the family. And she wasn’t going to be a party to preparing for one now.

  Mr. Privett, however, held other views. Simpler ones. If it was love, he contended, wasn’t that all that mattered? And wasn’t his Irene good enough for Mr. Tony? Or for anyone else for that matter? Besides, at seventeen, she might change her mind. Most girls did. Quite a lot of times some of them. Besides if they tried to influence Irene in any way it would be bound to lead to trouble. Trying to influence Irene always did.

  Mrs. Privett had listened to her husband many times. And despised him. There was a weakness and lethargy about the middle-aged male that she found contemptible. That was why she kept on about it so. Kept on urging him to do something.

  She was at the moment sitting up in bed rubbing cold cream into her hands. And Mr. Privett was over by the dressing-table taking out his front and back studs. This was the time of day which the Privetts usually reserved for most of their really serious conversations.

  “Well, did you say something to her?” Mrs. Privett demanded.

  Mr. Privett did not even turn round.

  “I did try,” he said weakly. “But she didn’t seem to want to discuss it.”

  “You should have made her,” Mrs. Privett replied, replacing the lid of the cream jar with a snap.

  “That’s not so easy,” Mr. Privett told her. “Not with her. Not when she’s in one of her moods.”

  As he said it he was aware of something like duplicity. He was very fond of Irene. And she was practically a grown woman by now. It seemed sometimes as though he had two wives instead of the one. And he was always siding either with one or with the other. To-night it was Irene’s turn.

  “Well, what d’you propose to do about it?” Mrs. Privett asked from the bed.

  Mr. Privett did not reply immediately. He unscrewed the last metal stud cap, forced the shank out of the collar band with his thumb and then screwed the cap on again.

  “I don’t think that there’s very much we can do,” he said. “After all, it isn’t as though there was anything wrong with it.”

  “How do we know?” Mrs. Privett asked. “What makes you think she was the first?”

  Mr. Privett had not considered this aspect of it before.

  “I ... I just meant that I didn’t see any particular harm in it. It isn’t as though it’s gone very far.”

  “It’s gone quite far enough,” Mrs. Privett retorted. “Are you going to speak to Mr. Rammell, or am I?”

  Mr. Privett spun round.

  “We aren’t neither of us going to speak to Mr. Rammell,” he said. “It wouldn’t be fair to Ireen. Or to me for that matter.” He paused. “You can’t mix up business and ... and the other thing. It ... it only leads to awkwardness.”

  Mr. Privett was relieved that his wife attempted no reply. He climbed into bed beside her, kissed her gently on the forehead and reached up to put out the light.

  “These things always settle themselves,” he said. “Far better not to worry.”

  As he settled himself down on the pillow in the pleasant darkness, he felt rather pleased. He had been firm. And calm. It occurred to him that this was the great difference between men and women. Men were able to take a longer view. And a saner one. Whereas women, especially the quiet sort like Mrs. Privett, tended naturally to get a bit worked-up and fidgety. It was a pity. But there was nothing that could be done about it.

  He was asleep before Mrs. Privett.

  2

  As soon as Mr. Privett had left the house next morning, with the cause of all the trouble walking demurely beside him, Mrs. Privett took things in her own hands. She rang up Mrs. Rammell.

  It requires courage to ring up anybody on a personal matter. And it requires all the more courage when the call has to be made from a public call box. Mrs. Privett, moreover, was not an experienced telephonist. She had a tendency to dial too many numbers. And the buttons A and B had always confused her. By the time she did get through to Eaton 4537, the operation had cost her sixpence already. And by then she was so exhausted that she could scarcely answer.

  “Who wants her please?” the voi
ce kept asking.

  “It’s Mrs. Privett,” she said, adding by way of explanation, “Mr. Privett’s wife. And it’s personal.”

  There was a pause, during which Mrs. Privett grimly watched the buses passing along the Kentish Town Road. Then the voice at the other end spoke again.

  “Mrs. Rammell isn’t in,” it said. “Could you leave a message, please?”

  Mrs. Privett, however, wasn’t having any of that sort of stuff.

  “Tell her it’s important and it’s urgent,” she said firmly. “And tell her I want to speak to her myself.”

  The voice went away again. Mrs. Privett counted six more buses and a hearse. Then the voice came back.

  “Would you hold on please?” it said. “Mrs. Rammell’s just coming.”

  By the time Mrs. Rammell did come, Mrs. Privett was in a private flurry of her own. She seemed to have been in the little glass-and-steel cabinet for hours. And she was afraid that the operator would begin asking for another threepence. She was therefore brief. Even peremptory.

  “I’ve got to come round to see you,” she said. “It’s urgent.”

  “But what about?” Mrs. Rammell asked. “Who are you, please?”

  “I’m Mrs. Privett. I’ve got to see you.”

  She realized now how foolish it was to have allowed herself to be trapped.

  “It’s about Ireen,” Mrs. Privett told her.

  “About what?”

  Mrs. Rammell sounded more incredulous than ever.

  “About Ireen,” Mrs. Privett repeated. “Your boy and my Ireen.”

  For a moment, Mrs. Rammell very nearly rang off. The only possible explanation was that the poor woman at the other end really must be mad.

  “Did ... did you say ‘my boy?’” Mrs. Rammell asked.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Privett answered. “That’s why I want to see you.” The conversation seemed to her to be getting somewhere at last. She felt calmer. And she remembered her manners. “So if it’s convenient I’d like to come round to-day,” she said. “I don’t want to intrude. But it oughtn’t to wait.”