Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  That was how they were lying when Mr. Bulping came in. Marcia realized at once how silly she had been ever to let him have that spare latch key of hers. It was only because he had been so insistent that she had consented. But what else could a girl do? That was where it was so downright hellish being poor. And, after all, Mr. Bulping had been generosity itself about things like telephone bills. And electric light. And all the other accounts that keep popping up unexpectedly.

  Mr. Bulping stood in the doorway regarding them. And compared with Tony he looked really quite horrible. So male. And so aggressive. Not that he was violent. Or anything like it. On the contrary, he seemed positively to be enjoying himself. With his hat pushed on to the back of his head—Marcia had never been able to break him of that habit of coming into the flat with his hat on—he was wearing a broad grin right across his face.

  “’Ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo, ’ullo,” was all he said.

  Naturally Marcia had got up as soon as he came in. But Tony continued to lie where he was.

  “Am I in the way?” he asked.

  Marcia could have wept because of the sheer humiliation that Tony must be feeling. And for being so restrained, so civilized, about it all. If only Mr. Bulping could have been the same. But the sheer absence of niceness in his nature had been one of the things that had always worried her.

  “Don’t nobody move,” he said. “I’m just going to pick up my pyjamas and my toothbrush and then I’m clearing out.”

  It was as he said it that Marcia decided to give up Mr. Bulping. For good. And for ever. Renounce him entirely. Cut him clean out of her life. It was madness, sheer madness, to have imagined that they could ever really mean anything to each other. At least, on her part it was.

  And when he telephoned to her next day, her mind was already made up. All the apologies in the world weren’t going to move her. Only it wasn’t to apologize that he had telephoned. It was simply to be abusive. Straight vulgar abuse came pouring out at her. Which just showed how right she was to have nothing more to do with him.

  2

  Not that any real harm had been done. Not so far. It was simply that it had been horrid for Marcia to have to sit there—she was alone in the flat at the time—being scolded in that uncouth vulgar voice from Wolverhampton.

  And her reading of Mr. Bulping was being proved the correct one. In short, he was not a gentleman. If he had been, he would have kept quiet about it. Not gone round repeating it. In Rammell’s of all places, too.

  It was the chief buyer, Mr. Galbraith, whom he told. And on the very next day. Lunch was the time Mr. Bulping chose for it. But not until the end of the meal when he had got his man properly receptive and conditioned.

  “I don’t say Rammell’s isn’t a valuable account,” he led into it quietly. “But there are others, you know. There are others.”

  “Meaning what?” Mr. Galbraith asked, expecting some objection to the present discount.

  He was an elderly man. Practically on the edge of retirement. And he was no longer up to these enormous business lunches. Every Monday he came into the office swearing that he would never eat another meal that he hadn’t paid for himself. And every week he was hard at it again, gnawing his way through great slices of smoked salmon and slabs of steak at the expense of Woollens, Worsteds, Knitwear, Rayons, Textiles, Model Gowns, Swimsuits and all the rest of them.

  “Meaning that we all have our own standards,” Mr. Bulping replied. “I’m prepared to go so far and no further. Last night ...”

  Mr. Galbraith drew in his breath sharply.

  “You’re sure Marcia is that kind of girl?” he asked at last. “I mean there’s always a lot of talk about models.”

  “I should know,” Mr. Bulping told him.

  “And Mr. Tony? It’s easy to make mistakes. And in those sort of circumstances ...”

  “I don’t make mistakes,” Mr. Bulping interrupted him. “I tell you I was introduced to the boy. At that blasted staff dance she dragged me to.”

  “D’you think other people know?” Mr. Galbraith inquired cautiously.

  “Talk of London,” Mr. Bulping replied. “Can’t keep that sort of thing quiet. Not the way those two are behaving.”

  Mr. Galbraith sat staring glumly at the cigar that he was holding. It was something else he hadn’t really wanted.

  “I wonder what we ought to do,” he said at last.

  “That’s your affair,” Mr. Bulping assured him. “It’s no business of mine. I couldn’t care less about Rammell’s reputation. It’s mine I’m thinking of. Have another brandy?”

  Mr. Galbraith was not the sort of man to be rushed into anything. Nor was he a trouble-maker. He had got where he was by a combination of known Tory principles, caution and, in his younger days, an astonishing capacity for going on drinking at the expense of other people. His first instinct was to do absolutely nothing.

  But a new topic of conversation is always tempting. And more for something to say than for any other reason he mentioned it casually to Mr. Birt, the Chief Cashier.

  Mr. Birt was no more than at the mid-point of his career. He constantly saw it stretching out ahead of him—Secretary, General Manager, Director. Even Managing Director if only the right sort of vacuum occurred. And he was constitutionally incapable of doing nothing. Up to that moment he had been thinking about a new system of slotted cards for the mail-order side. But this was every bit as interesting. He had to discuss it with someone.

  The person he chose was Mr. Rappelly (Foreign Exchange). He brought the matter up while they were waiting for some bank statements to be brought down. They had been in the R.A.F. together, and this was by no means the first confidence that they had shared. Nor was it the first confidence that Mr. Rappelly had shared with Mr. Cousins of General Accounts.

  Mr. Cousins in turn lived out at Esher and travelled home most days with a Mr. Sandalwood who was one of Mr. Galbraith’s own buyers—on the Boot, Shoe and Leather side. Secretly, Mr. Cousins was a little bored by Mr. Sandalwood’s company. He was glad to have something fresh to talk about. And Mr. Sandalwood, for his part, was a man always ready to talk to anybody. The first person he told was Mr. Galbraith.

  That was what resolved Mr. Galbraith. Up to that moment he had decided that the sensible thing was to ignore Mr. Bulping’s warning. Why, he asked himself, should he get himself mixed up with any unpleasantness during his last six months. But if there really were rumours around the place, then it was clearly his duty to tell someone. And the person whom he told was Mr. Preece.

  In consequence, Mr. Preece spent an entirely sleepless night. It was always in the matter of personal relations that Mr. Preece was at his weakest. And, once he had made his mind up, he did the entirely wrong thing. He questioned people. Starting with Mr. Rawle of Shirtings where Tony was still working he moved on steadily and relentlessly to Miss Bywater, the Salon Supervisor. And it was fatal. If he had called a Press Conference, complete with hand-out, he could not have started more people talking. Not until he had got the whole place fairly buzzing did he go along to Mr. Rammell.

  “ ... so I thought I’d just mention it,” he said. “I’m sure there’s nothing to it but I thought you ought to know.”

  Nothing to it! Mr. Rammell could not imagine how anyone could be quite so idiotic as Mr. Preece. Of course, there was something to it. Mr. Rammell didn’t doubt that for a moment. And he was already determined that this was going to be something that he would deal with single-handed.

  “Thank you, Preece. Thank you,” was all he said.

  But before he went home that night he did two things. The first was to see if Mr. Adler of New York was still in town. And the second was to ask his secretary to fix up for Marcia to see him to-morrow.

  Mr. Rammell was lucky to catch Mr. Adler. Another couple of hours and Mr. Adler would have been in the hired limousine on the way out to the airport. But a quarter of an hour was all that Mr. Rammell needed. And Mr. Adler needed no persuading. Seemed rather flattered, in fact. H
e was President of Adler’s Inc. in Fifth Avenue. Adler’s and Rammell’s. There was no tie-up that he could possibly have liked better.

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “Suits me fine. I’ll have the boy. Just you send me a cable. I’ll be back there in the morning.”

  3

  Marcia decided to wear black for the interview. Not mourning black. Just black black. With pearls. And a dress ornament of some kind—a flower possibly—right up by the shoulder.

  It was not until half past five, in any case. That gave her all the time in the world. She could cut short the afternoon tea parade. Only once round instead of twice. Above all things, she wanted to appear at her best when she saw Mr. Rammell. There was a new British fashion drive in Latin-America just about to start. Marcia had set her heart on going. And she had to admit that—to herself anyway—she had been looking the weeniest bit tired just lately.

  But not half so tired looking as Mr. Rammell. He could hardly have seemed worse. Grey. Puffy. Dull-eyed. It had been one of the very worst of his bad nights. And after a thoroughly bad evening, too. He and Mrs. Rammell were no longer even on simple speaking terms.

  “So you want to snatch the boy right away from me, do you?” she had demanded.

  “Only for a year,” Mr. Rammell had replied patiently.

  He had told her that six or seven times already. Had explained that it was not exile to which he was proposing to send Tony. Merely New York. To Adler’s in Fifth Avenue. So that the boy could learn something of American methods. See a bit of the world. Find his own feet, in fact. He had deliberately avoided all mention of Marcia.

  “But why? Why?” Mrs. Rammell had gone on. “There’s no need for it. He’s had his lesson. If you hadn’t driven him into the shop in the first place none of this would ever have happened. Can’t you see that Tony’s whole future ...”

  It had been nearly one o’clock when they finally broke up. And sometime after four when Mr. Rammell had at last dropped off to sleep. In consequence, he had been intolerably sleepy all day. After lunch, particularly. The clock now showed five-twenty. It was one of his really strictest rules not to drink before six o’clock. But to-day he felt he needed it. He went over to the big cabinet in Rammell-Chippendale and poured himself out a large whisky and soda. And he timed it perfectly. He had even finished the charcoal tablet as well by the time Marcia was announced.

  Mr. Rammell was at his absolute best at these difficult personal interviews. He had, in the first place, developed a technique. It consisted in meeting the visitor right over by the door. This was a very important stroke. It helped to establish the fiction that Mr. Rammell had been hanging about all the afternoon simply waiting for his visitor to arrive. And the second master stroke was to occupy one of the two arm-chairs that stood in front of the desk. Not carry on the conversation across the no-man’s-land of the ink wells and blotter.

  “Miss Tutty,” Miss Winters announced.

  Marcia squirmed. It was only up in Management where the staff records were kept that anyone ever used the name nowadays.

  But Mr. Rammell put it right immediately.

  “Come in, Marcia,” he said. “Come in.”

  He regarded her closely for a moment. And really it was impossible not to admire her. Here she was at one of the most awkward moments of her life. For all she knew she was going to be out of a job by to-morrow. And she was unperturbed. Absolutely unperturbed. She was, if anything, taking things even more placidly than usual. Scarcely even walking. Drifting rather.

  “Cigarette?” Mr. Rammell asked as soon as they had sat down.

  Marcia shook her head.

  “No thank you,” she said slowly.

  She had been reading lately about what cigarettes did to you. Years and years off your life apparently. Even a month or two ago that wouldn’t have mattered. But now it was different. She had so much to live for.

  “Well, well,” Mr. Rammell went on. “I expect you know why you’re here.”

  The pause was rather longer than he had expected. And then he remembered. Marcia always did take rather a long time before actually saying anything.

  “How long would it be for?” she asked.

  “How long?” Mr. Rammell repeated.

  Another pause.

  “Before I get back, I mean?”

  Mr. Rammell got up and began to walk about. Without actually realizing that he had done so, he sat himself down behind his desk before he answered.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked bluntly.

  “About going away,” Marcia told him.

  “Where to?”

  The pause was even longer than usual this time. That was because Marcia wasn’t quite sure where Latin-America really was.

  “Mexico,” she said at last.

  “Mexico?”

  “The tour,” Marcia explained. “The fashion tour.”

  Mr. Rammell let out a deep sigh. Not of relief. Of sheer irritation.

  “I’m not talking about any kind of tour,” he said.

  Marcia did not raise her eyes. Mr. Rammell sat there regarding her. She really was quite strikingly beautiful. He had to admit that. The way she was sitting now, with her eyelashes brushing her cheek, he could understand everything ... He pulled himself together abruptly. Remembered his technique. Got up and came round to the chair on her side of the desk.

  “What I want to talk to you about is Tony,” he went on.

  Another pause. But still no sign of any agitation. Not even emotion. Marcia hadn’t yet raised her eyes.

  “Tony,” she repeated softly.

  It was then that Mr. Rammell realized that he would have to be quite brutal if they were going to get anywhere.

  “Yes, and it’s got to stop,” he told her.

  This time it was more promising. He could tell that Marcia was getting ready to say something.

  “But Tony and I ...” she began.

  Mr. Rammell got up and began to walk about. He was determined, absolutely determined, that he wasn’t going to lose his temper.

  “I don’t care what you and Tony have been plotting together,” he said. “My mind’s made up. If this goes any further, out you go. Both of you. For good.”

  He was studying Marcia closely while he was speaking. And he could see that he had finally made an impression. Very slowly she uncrossed her feet and folded them again the other way.

  “Oh, but I agree with you,” Marcia said. “It’s ... it’s what I’ve always been telling him. But he wouldn’t listen. Really he wouldn’t. I couldn’t make him see it. I tried so hard, too.”

  Mr. Rammell came over and stood facing her.

  “You mean you’ve had enough of him?”

  “Oh, no,” Marcia’s reply was almost immediate this time. “I could never have enough of Tony. It’s just that he’s ... so young.”

  “You’re old enough to be his mother,” Mr. Rammell reminded her.

  For a moment Marcia raised one hand to her cheek as though for protection.

  “That’s what I tell him,” she answered, even more softly this time. “But he doesn’t realize. He’ll ... he’ll need all your help.”

  Mr. Rammell took out his handkerchief and began running it across his forehead. He was aware that at last Marcia was actually looking at him. And not merely looking. She was staring. Those remarkable violet eyes of hers were fixed full on him. She was devouring and consuming him. Mr. Rammell looked hurriedly away.

  But still Marcia’s gaze did not waver. It had absorbed him completely by now.

  “The poor darling thing,” she was thinking. “How awful! He’s embarrassed! So strong and powerful, too, if he only knew. But so unsure of himself. So painfully unsure. And so ill looking. So haggard. And all because of me. Oh, why can’t I do something. How can I ever make him understand?”

  Mr. Rammell had pulled out his cigar-case and was carefully removing a cigar. He fingered it gently. Lovingly. When he applied the cutter, he was delicate. Precise. It might have been surgery, not m
ere smoking, in which he was engaged.

  Marcia’s whole heart went out to him.

  “Now he’s just playing for time,” she reflected. “He doesn’t know what to say. That’s because he doesn’t really trust me.”

  Mr. Rammell lit the cigar and blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

  “I think you’re taking the whole thing very sensibly,” he said. “Very.”

  “I’m ... I’m glad you do.”

  “Must mean quite a wrench,” he went on. “I see that.”

  Marcia raised her right hand again for an instant. But this time it was merely to run the back of her fingers across her lashes. She gave the tiniest of little sniffs.

  “Oh, God,” thought Mr. Rammell. “I hope she isn’t going to start crying.”

  He decided that he had better say something. And say it quickly.

  “I can tell you one thing,” he said briskly. “I shan’t forget about this. You can rely on me.”

  Marcia looked up again. Her eyes seemed even darker violet now.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Please, please, don’t.”

  Because it was so late, the adjoining offices were all in darkness. Only Miss Winters’s light was still burning. The corridor ahead of them looked empty and deserted. Marcia experienced that strange mountains-of-the-moon sensation again. It seemed that she and Mr. Rammell were the only two people left alive. Survivors, as it were. In a world that had died around them while they had still been talking.

  “Better use this lift,” she dimly heard Mr. Rammell say to her. “Staff entrance’ll be closed by now.”

  And again in the lift she had it. This extraordinary feeling of twoness. Of twoness that was somehow oneness. It was as though she and Mr. Rammell had been on terms of intimate confidences all their lives. When the lift reached the ground floor Mr. Rammell had to nudge her before she even noticed.