Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  They were now hard at it, the motor-coach solicitor and Mr. Privett. It was real diamond-cut-diamond stuff.

  “How fast were you going when you reached the Kentish Town Road?”

  There was a pause.

  “I haven’t got a speedometer.”

  The solicitor frowned. He seemed a pressing sort of chap, Mr. Privett thought. His air of gentle patience only made him that bit more dangerous.

  “I didn’t ask you whether you had a speedometer or not. I asked you how fast you were going.”

  Mr. Privett began looking down at his boots again.

  “I wasn’t going fast at all.”

  There was a quick intake of breath by the solicitor, a sudden snake-like hissing.

  “But I take it that you were moving?”

  Mr. Privett thought for a moment. Then he gave a quick furtive glance in Mr. Hamster’s direction. Mr. Hamster was half off his chair with excitement and anxiety.

  “Yes, sir,” he replied quietly.

  “Speak up, please. I still can’t hear you. Were you moving?”

  “YES I WAS!”

  The solicitor pushed his glasses up on to his forehead and regarded Mr. Privett. Somehow the witness hadn’t looked the kind of man who was likely to give trouble of this sort.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Well, was it, shall we say, five miles an hour?”

  Mr. Privett looked again towards Mr. Hamster. But the strain had been too much for him. He was now crouching back with his face covered by his hands. Mr. Privett was utterly alone.

  “I never timed it,” he said.

  The solicitor leant forward. He was doing his best to be quiet, persuasive, reassuring.

  “Oh, come now. I don’t want a stop-watch reading. I merely want your own estimate of your speed. Was it faster, say, than if you had been walking?”

  Mr. Privett paused. Was it this that Mr. Hamster had warned him against?

  “Will you kindly answer my question?”

  “YES.”

  “Well, may I have the answer?”

  “Yes. It’s ‘Yes!’”

  The solicitor sighed. At this rate he would be trapped in the stiffling atmosphere of Brecknock Road Court until next morning.

  “Now perhaps we are getting somewhere,” he said. “Was it faster than anybody running?”

  There was a longer pause this time.

  “There wasn’t anybody running.”

  “Well, then as fast as a horse and cart perhaps?”

  Mr. Privett drew his tongue across his lips.

  “I’ve never driven in a horse and cart.”

  This was too much for the solicitor. He flung the batch of papers that he was holding down on to the desk in front of him.

  “I put it to you that you have no idea how fast you were going. That you were scorching along with your head down and didn’t see a thing. That you haven’t the slightest idea what happened.”

  There was no pause this time. It was obvious that if Mr. Privett had been holding anything in his hands he would have flung that down, too.

  “YES I HAVE,” he replied. He was fairly roaring by now. “I WAS RUN INTO. RUN INTO FROM BEHIND.”

  Mr. Hamster was waiting for Mr. Privett when he climbed down out of the box. And his eyes were moist.

  “Magnificent,” he whispered. “Absolutely magnificent. Just like I told you.”

  And it was now Mr. Hamster’s turn. He had always rather fancied himself as a cross-examiner, a sort of Marshall Hall of the County Courts. He had cultivated a way of holding his head to one side while regarding witnesses, as though he were trying to make up his mind whether he had ever seen them before. It cast a vague but valuable aura of suspicion.

  “Did you see my client’s bicycle and trailer?”

  “I did.”

  The motor-coach driver was a large red-faced man who might have been a butcher. His expression was one of simple, beefish confidence. But that soon wore off as Mr. Hamster pursed up his lips and peered at him through one eye.

  “Did you think you could avoid it?”

  “I did.”

  “But you couldn’t, could you?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It cut across me.”

  “So you expected the other vehicle to avoid you?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you always expect the other vehicle to do the avoiding?”

  “No.”

  “But in your view nothing you could have done on this occasion could have prevented a collision?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Hamster’s one weakness as a cross-examiner was that he never had the slightest idea of where his questions were leading. He just went on putting them. Everything had been going so smoothly, too. Right up to this point he could hardly have done better. But now, he realized, he had practically cleared the coach driver. He recovered himself hurriedly.

  “Was that because you were going too fast?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then how did you come to demolish my client’s trailer?”

  “I told you, he cut across me.”

  “Were your brakes faulty?”

  “No.”

  “And you were not going fast?”

  “No.”

  “Just fast enough to cause this collision, eh?”

  Mr. Hamster was purring to himself when he resumed his seat. That last remark had been brilliant. Really brilliant. A real scale-turner.

  And there was still Mr. Hamster’s own cross-examination of Mr. Privett. By then Mr. Hamster was absolutely on the top of his form.

  “ ... and upon entering a main road from a side-turning do you always look right and left and then right again as laid down in the Highway Code?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you do so on this occasion?”

  “I did.”

  “And did you see the motor-coach approaching?”

  “No.”

  “You are quite sure you looked?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then it can’t have been there, can it?”

  Mr. Hamster passed his hand across his forehead. The line of reasoning was eluding him again. He reached out desperately.

  “If it had been there you would have seen it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you didn’t see it?”

  “No.”

  “So it can’t have run into you?”

  “No. I mean, yes. It did run into me. From behind.”

  By now there was a red film across Mr. Hamster’s eyes. His palms were sweating. He could hear his own life blood beating against his eardrums. He was in the Brecknock County Court. He knew that much. Otherwise his mind was a clean and total blank. This worried him. Because it had happened to him before. Always in Court. And always in the winning moment of an important case ...

  After Mr. Hamster had sat down there was a prolonged silence. Even the Judge seemed a little dazed. The solicitor for the motor-coach company began rubbing his hands together. And then, afraid that any premature show of jubilation on his part might prejudice his clients’ chances, he started to blow upon his finger-nails as if he were cold.

  Mr. Privett sat, with head bowed, beside the still trembling Mr. Hamster and waited for the verdict. At any moment he expected the Judge to begin reaching out for the black cap.

  That was why he nearly broke into tears of sheer happiness when the Judge did finally speak. And it was why the solicitor for the motor-coach company suddenly thrust his papers away from him as though they were contaminated. Because the verdict allowed of no possible misunderstanding. Fifty pounds’ worth of damage had been done, the Judge said; neither less nor more. And the division of responsibility for the fact that there had been an accident at all lay as four-fifths on the shoulders of the motor-coach company and one-fifth upon Mr. Privett’s own.

  Mr. Hamster, however, was too much overcome to speak. It was the first case that he had won for months. The first since May, in fact. And, n
ow that it was over, he realized how fortunate he had been. Because, when he had sat down after his blackout he had been under the impression that it was the motor-coach company whom he was representing.

  2

  But Mr. Privett with forty pounds of somebody’s else’s money as good as in his pocket was a transformed man. He could begin living again.

  Camden Town was where he was bound for. Lumley’s in the Chalk Farm Road, to be precise. Just under the bridge and opposite the first lamp-post. But everybody knows Lumley’s. The window is full of models of all kinds—Bermuda rigs, remote-controlled gunboats, steam-driven cabin-cruisers, hydroplanes. Daisy II had originally come from Lumley’s. On a one-to-twenty scale of things Lumley’s has about the same kind of standing as John Brown’s or Vickers’.

  And then an extraordinary thing happened. Mr. Privett had just got off his bus and was cutting through the open entrance hall of the Underground station when all the sparkle and exhilaration went from him. At one moment he was rushing along like an intoxicated schoolboy, and at the next he had stopped dead. That was because another sensation, at least as powerful, had suddenly taken possession of him. He was now filled with a strange savage joy that the saints know. The joy of renunciation. Within the last ten seconds he had decided to buy something for Mrs. Privett instead.

  But it was not easy to be so generous. It was nearly five-fifteen already. And at five-thirty everything in Camden Town closes down. Mr. Privett therefore had precisely a quarter of an hour in which to ransack the place. In consequence, he rushed. He tore from jeweller to jeweller. He examined diamond engagement rings, christening mugs, an infant’s spoon and pusher, a cut-glass toilet set. He was almost frantic with frustration as he darted backwards and forwards. And then staring him coldly in the face from the Co-op’s plate-glass windows, he saw the very thing that he wanted. It was a new and very shiny, treadle sewing-machine. There was a whole box of accessories that went with it. And, folded suitably, the instrument miraculously transformed itself into a kind of bedside-table. The contraption cost twenty-six pounds ten.

  Mr. Privett went straight in and bought it. But here he ran into a difficulty. He had only fourteen and six on him. There was nothing for it therefore but to arrange for the instrument to be sent round C.O.D. in the morning.

  Mr. Privett was still feeling happy and excited as he stepped out of the now empty shop on to the pavement. And then suddenly his mood changed again. An overwhelming sense of defeat came over him. Despite the immense rush, the urgency, he had achieved nothing—nothing at all that he could show for it. He might, he realized, just as well have waited until the morning and then ordered the machine through the Staff Association in the ordinary way.

  Flowers were thus the obvious solution. Considering that they were all paid for by the motor-coach company he could afford to be reckless. But trying to buy flowers at Camden Town at twenty to six on a Thursday evening is impossible. The only shop that was still open was a greengrocer’s. And even there the shutters were already going up. But Mr. Privett was desperate. Determined at all costs not to go home empty-handed, he pounced. In the absence of flowers, he bought everything that he could see. The greengrocer served him in stolid but mounting astonishment. It seemed like the preparations for some kind of vast vegetarian orgy. Brown paper bag after brown paper bag was filled. And still Mr. Privett was not satisfied. When he finally left the shop, he had become the owner of two pounds of Cox’s, two pounds of pale unhealthy-looking apples called Grannie’s Sweetheart, a pineapple, a pound of assorted nuts, a stick of celery, two pounds of tomatoes, a box of dates and half a dozen oranges.

  It was nearly six-forty-five when Mr. Privett at last reached Fewkes Road. And Mrs. Privett gave a little scream at the sight of him. She had been worrying all the time about the court case. When six, six-fifteen, six-thirty passed she became convinced that the worst, the very worst, must have happened. Even if he weren’t actually in the cells already, he was probably tramping the streets afraid to come home and break the news that he had a new motor-coach to pay for.

  That was why the sight of him with all those paper bags came as such a shock. If he had made himself up as a Red Indian she could not have been more amazed. As he stepped into the narrow hall, the odour of fresh fruit was overpowering. Mrs. Privett became seriously alarmed. Perhaps, under the strain, his poor overloaded mind ...

  “What’s ... what’s happened?” she asked.

  Mr. Privett was so excited that he was rather inclined to rush.

  “It’s coming in the morning,” he told her. “C.O.D. And it’s not a table really. It does all sorts of things. Buttonholes and ...”

  He was unloading paper bags all the while he was talking. The one with the nuts in it gave him particular trouble because the paper had burst open. They scattered. Mrs. Privett gave one glance and went back into the kitchen. She now suspected drink.

  “It’s all right, Ireen,” she said. “It’s only your father. You stay where you are. I’ll attend to this.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  1

  Marcia had made her big decision. She had decided to break with Mr. Bulping.

  In the circumstances, it was the only thing that a nice girl could do. Because during the past month she had been seeing far more of Tony than of Mr. Bulping. Almost every night, in fact. And now that she had really got to know Tony she had discovered the most astonishing thing. For all his marvellous opportunities, the sweet darling boy was every bit as lonely and unattached as she was. That was why he had been so grateful, so pathetically grateful, for her company. And so appreciative in his own peculiar fashion. He had a way of running his hand over her hair and then turning her face towards him so that he could kiss it that she found quite irresistible. No one else had ever said: “Darling, do you know, corpse-like or not, you’re quite beautiful?”

  And the attraction was not merely physical. That was what made it all so much worth while. It was a mingling of minds as well. They talked about so many things together. Marcia had discovered a three-and-sixpenny book entitled The A.B.C. of Ballet. And she had practically memorized it. If ever he invited her to Covent Garden again she would know exactly what to look out for. Because apparently it was all quite deliberate and intentional—even that funny duck-walk with the toes turned out too far. And so rehearsed, too. Marcia could see now that, in its way, ballet dancing was every bit as exacting as modelling.

  Nor was ballet the end of it. There was music, as well. Tony, bless him, was absolutely swoony about music. But no matter how utterly Marcia adored music too—and she could tell as soon as she tried it how musical she really was—it was definitely harder than ballet. There weren’t even any simple books on it. There was nothing for it but to listen. And that took simply ages. It had been just darling of Tony to lend her his own record-player, because her little portable only took 78s. And he couldn’t have been sweeter trusting her with all those glorious L.P. records of his. One day, any day now, she intended to stay away from Bond Street altogether and play them all right through. Really get the hang of them. In the meantime, she had to do the next best thing. Leave one of them—a different one each time, of course—permanently on the turntable so that she could switch it on the moment she heard Tony’s ring on the door-bell.

  Not that they spent all that much time in the flat. Most evenings they went out dancing together. And it was Tony’s dancing that really astonished her. It was not merely bad. It was appalling. As though it meant nothing to him. He held her so limply that, if she hadn’t known how much he cared, she could never even have guessed. Indeed, if it had not been for those rather special moments when he leant forward so that his cheek could rest against hers she would still have found herself doubting.

  But really it was wonderful. Too wonderful, having him there when he brought her home afterwards. And there was nothing with which she could possibly reproach herself. She simply couldn’t have behaved better. Practically every time he came she said the same thing.


  “Silly boy,” it ran. “I do believe you’re beginning to get fond of me. But you mustn’t, you know. It would be all wrong. You’ve got to go home now and forget all about me.”

  To-night, for example, was being perfect. It was one of the dreamiest of evenings. They had only just got back. Marcia had automatically flicked the knob of the record-player and the cosy little flat was filled with the muted horns of L.P. (New Series) 736/7X.

  Marcia herself had just gone through to change into something looser. When she came back she was wearing a long padded housecoat. She had kicked off her shoes, too. And oh, the relief! In the little flat mules that she now had on she could really begin to live again.

  Tony himself was lying almost full-length on the hearth-rug. Only almost full-length. Because that end of the room wasn’t really quite long enough. His head was propped up against the wall. But that didn’t matter. The extraordinary boy hardly ever sat on chairs like other people. He preferred floors. Window-sills. Corners of fenders. He had poured out a drink for both of them. And, gathering the long house-coat around her, Marcia sat herself down on the hearth-rug beside him.

  Rather to her disappointment, Tony leant over and switched off the record-player. For one awful moment Marcia feared that it must have been an L.P. that she had played before. But it seemed to be all right. Apparently, Tony just wanted to talk. And before he spoke Marcia wanted to get in her little piece.

  “You can’t say, darling,” she began, “that I haven’t warned you. You mustn’t start letting yourself get fond of me. I’m not worth it. Really, I’m not. It’s only you I’m thinking of. I don’t matter. You ought to find yourself some big strong hockey-playing girl ...”

  Her voice drifted off to nothingness because he was stroking her leg again. And here again she realized how different he was, how precious. Because it was with the back of his hand that he was stroking it. And so gently, too. It was like being caressed by a feather. But so exciting somehow. Out of all the men she had ever met Tony was the only one who seemed to have appreciated how desperately fragile she really was. And now—still ever so gently—he was pulling her down so that her head could rest against his shoulder.