Outside the Downe Street entrance, however, Marcia drew back. It was raining. Real heavy stuff. As though Covent Garden had moved up on Bond Street.
Marcia looked hard at the big Rolls-Royce parked opposite the doorway.
“Do ... do you think someone could possibly get me a taxi?” she asked helplessly.
Mr. Rammell did not attempt any resistance. He did the simple, manly thing.
“Get in,” he said. “I’ll drop you.”
They drove round the Park in silence. Marcia was sitting back, the rug drawn round her and her eyes half-closed. Her hand, her long pale hand with the blue veins faintly showing, lay on the broad arm-rest between them.
“I ... I feel terribly guilty,” she said, “dragging you out of your way like this. Do ... do let me offer you a drink when we get there.”
But this time Mr. Rammell was prepared.
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m late already. Must be getting along.”
The car had already reached Knightsbridge before Marcia spoke again. There was barely two minutes to go.
“It’s ... it’s funny it should be New York you’re sending him to,” she said.
“Why, what’s funny about it?” Mr. Rammell asked.
“Because I’ve been asked to go, too.”
Mr. Rammell started.
“You mean Tony’s asked you?”
“Oh, no.”
Marcia gave a little laugh.
Her laugh was noticeably better than her speaking voice. When she laughed it was low and rather husky. “An agent. It’s Adler’s he wants me for. They ... they like English models over there.”
The car had stopped by now. And the chauffeur was standing out in the rain ready to open the door.
“What have you told him?” Mr. Rammell demanded.
“I ... I haven’t really decided,” Marcia replied. “It’s ... it’s all so difficult now.”
Mr. Rammell glanced across at the small gilt clock let into the walnut woodwork of the partition. It showed six forty-five. He was certain, absolutely certain, that he was late for something. But he couldn’t let matters rest where they were.
“Just a minute,” he said. “We ought to discuss this together. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I ... I didn’t think of it,” Marcia answered truthfully.
“When have you got to let him know?”
“To ... to-morrow,” Marcia told him. “F ... first thing.” She paused. “Well, g ... good night. And thank you ag ... again.”
But Mr. Rammell had laid his hand upon her arm.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I’ll come in for a moment. We’ve got to get this thing settled one way or the other.”
Chapter Thirty-five
1
The astonishing thing had happened: Mr. Bloot was beginning to come round to Fewkes Road again.
And after so long, too. It was getting on for a year now since he had last dropped in alone. There had, of course, been the formal prearranged visits. Sunday evening suppers for Gus and Hetty at the Privetts’. And too much to drink, and a lot of gelatiney fancy stuff from the local delicatessen for the return visits to Artillery Mansions. But even these family reunions had lapsed.
Try as she might, Mrs. Privett could not help disliking Hetty. Disliking Hetty, and despising Mr. Bloot. Particularly when at Artillery Mansions. While the other three sat round, usually with a pack of cards stacked hopefully on the table in case Chick should drop in, it was impossible to be unaware of Mrs. Privett’s disapproval. She remained silent and subdued in the corner, like a book-end. With her glass untouched and the ash-tray beside her empty, she loyally remembered poor Emmie.
But nowadays it was quite like old times. The unannounced ring on the door bell. The mumbled greeting. The insatiable thirst for tea.
And the difference in Mr. Privett was enormous. Having Mr. Bloot in the house again—and unaccompanied—had made a new man of him. He was like someone in the throes of a late love-affair.
Nor was Mr. Bloot’s return the only reason for Mr. Privett’s high spirits. He was about to become the owner of Daisy III. That was what really counted. Any day now he expected to receive the post-card from Lumley’s saying that she was ready. Twenty-two pounds ten to pay, admittedly. But why worry? The money was there all ready in the Post Office to meet it. That was because Mrs. Privett had refused the new sewing-machine. And more than refused it. Rejected it point blank. Her old one was quite good enough for her, she had said. A pearl among machines, in fact. They didn’t even make machines like it nowadays. She had been so emphatic, in fact, that there had been nothing for it but for Mr. Privett to get off at Camden Town on his way in next morning and cancel everything. Not that he had any choice in the matter. It was bad enough, Mrs. Privett had said, to have all that fruit to get through. Let alone trying to fit a convertible sofa-table-sewing-machine into the drawing-room.
And it was just as well, as it turned out. Because Mr. Hamster lost no time in sending in his bill. He did not come of the school of solicitors which allow charges to go on mounting up month after month to a final reckoning at the end of the year. Why should he? Mr. Privett’s was practically the only case on his books at the moment. He spent almost every evening gloating over it. In consequence, he knew to a halfpenny where the costs stood as he came out of the Brecknock County Court. And what he knew he slammed in immediately.
The bill came as a shock to Mr. Privett. A nasty shock. When he saw how large it was he felt frightened. And disgusted. The damages, or rather four-fifths of them, amounted to forty pounds and Mr. Hamster’s bill was for thirty-two ten. Apparently being knocked off a bicycle, rolled in the gutter and having a famous model racing yacht demolished in front of his eyes was worth only about seven pounds ten in the eyes of blindfold Justice.
It was Mrs. Privett who underwrote Daisy III. Seven pounds ten was still seven pounds ten, as she put it. And fifteen pounds could perfectly well be found from her dressmaking account. If it would help to get Mr. Privett out of the house on Sunday mornings, eager to go and with a sense of purpose, she reckoned that the price was, on any showing, remarkably reasonable.
2
It was the absence of a telephone in Fewkes Road that made the newly-restored visits of Mr. Bloot so exciting. Telephones are remarkably convenient. Doctors and dentists, for instance, have come to rely on them. But they are the ruination of surprise visits. Take any home that is on the telephone, and unexpected callers hardly ever occur. Take any home that isn’t, and the front door bell may still mean absolutely anything.
The bell on the Privetts’ door was a good loud one. And simple in construction. It was screwed straight on to the back of the panel. When you pressed the little china button outside, the whole thing sprang to life right under your finger-tip. It seemed to explode.
Not that Mr. Bloot need ever really have touched the thing at all. He had a naturally massive tread. Mr. Privett was usually aware of his approach as soon as he reached the metal drain-cover at the bottom of the front step.
It was like that this evening. A dull rumble outside like distant summer thunder, and Mr. Privett looked up from his paper.
“That’ll be Gus,” he said.
There was a pause. Then came the harsh whirr-rurrk as the bell mechanism unwound itself.
Mrs. Privett looked up, too.
“I’ll put a kettle on,” was all she said.
And it was needed. As soon as Mr. Privett saw his friend he could tell that there was something wrong. Mr. Bloot didn’t look at all himself to-night. His collar had escaped altogether from the collar stud at the back. And below his right eye was a patch of angry redness as though he had bumped into something.
Mr. Privett stood there, staring.
“What’s happened to your—?” he began.
But he got no further. Mr. Bloot raised his forefinger and placed it vertically across his lips.
“Ssssh!” he said. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment and added,
almost in a whisper: “Later.”
It was then that Mr. Privett became seriously alarmed. Large as Mr. Bloot was, he tried to put his arm right round him.
“Better come in here, Gus,” he said. “Then we shan’t be disturbed.”
It was cold in the little sitting-room. Mr. Privett shivered as they went in. But Mr. Bloot did not seem to notice. He was breathing so hard that he might have run all the way there. He sat down heavily, collapsed almost, into the arm-chair by the fireplace.
“Ah’m all raht,” he said. “Just shaken up a bit.”
Mr. Privett took a small chair opposite. Then he leaned forward to pat his friend reassuringly on the knee. As he did so, he noticed to his surprise that Mr. Bloot was even more dishevelled than he had realized. On both feet, his bootlaces were undone nearly the whole way down.
“Sit back and take it quietly,” Mr. Privett advised. “Eileen’s making us some tea.”
But, for once Mr. Bloot did not respond. Not even to tea. He was too much consumed by his own secret thoughts.
“Take it quahtly,” he repeated bitterly. “Take it quahtly. How d’you lahk—?”
It was Mrs. Privett who interrupted him. She opened the door and stood there in the doorway, not attempting to come in.
“Are you two trying to catch your deaths of cold?” she demanded. “It’s like an ice-box in here.”
She broke off because, now that she could see him properly, the sight of Mr. Bloot amazed her.
“What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she asked.
Mr. Privett winced at the sheer callousness of the question. He had noticed many times before that Mrs. Privett seemed to have simply no idea how sensitive Mr. Bloot really was.
“Eileen!” Mr. Privett said sharply.
But he need not have bothered. Mr. Bloot had risen to his feet.
“Ah’m all raht. Ah’m all raht,” he repeated.
He went across and stood in front of the small oval mirror that hung above the bamboo side-table. The light always had been bad there. Mr. Bloot had to crane right forward in order to see anything. And even he seemed to be surprised by what he saw. He refixed his collar. Flattened down his hair. Rubbed the back of his hand reflectively across the sore patch beneath his eye.
But that was not all. From where Mr. Privett was standing he could see that Mr. Bloot’s lips were moving all the time. He seemed to be rehearsing something.
Then he turned round.
“Ah’m sorry if Ah upset you, Ahleen,” he said. “Ah’ve ’ad er naccident. That’s all it is. Just er naccident.”
Mrs. Privett came forward. She was peering closely.
“You’d better have something on that cheek,” she said. “When did it happen?”
The question obviously caught Mr. Bloot by surprise. The period of silent rehearsal started up again.
“On the bus,” he said at last. “Coming dahn the stairs. Ah slipped.” He paused and gave a not very convincing little laugh. “Maht have been really nahsty. Maht have been fatal.” He paused again and added, unnecessarily: “Yes, that’s raht. On the bus. Coming dahn the stairs. Er 27 bus.”
Mrs. Privett, however, was no longer listening. Either that, or not believing.
“You come in the other room where it’s warm,” she said. “And for goodness’ sake do your shoes up or you’ll be falling down again.”
It was fortunate that they had some of the dark cherry fruit cake that Mr. Bloot liked. He ate two large slices. And ate them ravenously. As though he had been without food all day. But it was the tea that saved him. By the third cup, his naturally rather florid colour had returned. And a familiar light perspiration broke out across his forehead.
“Stoopid of me, wasn’t it?” he kept saying at intervals. “Lahk er chahld. Falling dahn stairs. At mah age.”
As soon as Mr. Bloot had finished his tea, Mrs. Privett left them. The skin on Mr. Bloot’s cheek was not actually broken. And she did not press the offer of first-aid. She could tell that the two men wanted to be alone together. And the sooner she went the sooner she would be able to get Mr. Privett’s full report afterwards.
“Good night, Gus,” she said.
“Good naht, Ahleen,” he replied. “Thank you for everything.”
It was getting on for eleven o’clock by now. Mr. Privett was leaning forward. Right on the edge of his chair, in fact.
“You mean this isn’t the first time?” he asked. “She’s actually hit you before?”
“Yurss,” Mr. Bloot admitted. “Raht from the start. In the yotel. That was the first tahm. It wasn’t mah fault, either. Ah didn’t know how much she mahnded.”
“Minded what?”
“Abaht mah shoes. Mah black ones. She prefers brahn on holidays.”
“Was that all?”
“It was quaht enough.” Mr. Bloot told him. “Lahk to-naht.”
“What did happen to-night?” Mr. Privett asked.
“Nothing as you maht say. Absolutely nothing. She asked if Ah’d lahk to go to er cinema and Ah said ‘no.’ Then she asked if Ah’d lahk to play bezique with her and Ah said ‘no’ again. Ah was sitting there quahtly reading mah bird magazine when she flew at me. But Ah controlled myself. Ah didn’t even answer. Ah put mah hat on and came round. Ah didn’t even wait to do up mah boots.”
Mr. Privett shook his head.
“Would you believe it,” he said.
“She’s lahk that,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Sudden. And impeturous. A real woman. Not lahk mah Emmie.” Mr. Bloot let out a deep sigh in which despair, nostalgia and the fading relics of admiration were all mingled. “Ah’ve been black and blue, Ah tell you. Only I haven’t let on. Not to a soul. Not until nahw. It’s been a matter of prahd.”
“What are you going to do?” Mr. Privett asked.
Mr. Bloot sighed again.
“Injoor it, I suppose,” he said. “Just injoor it.”
There was silence between them for a moment. Mr. Privett sat back and stared gloomily downwards at his feet. His whole heart went out to Mr. Bloot in his misfortune. He wondered if he ought to offer to make him some more tea. Cut another slice of the dark cherry fruit cake. Then a faint sound made him glance up again. For a moment Mr. Privett could not believe it. But, when the sound was repeated, there could be no mistake. Mr. Bloot had broken down. He was in tears.
“Don’t take on so,” Mr. Privett said gently. “Things’ll turn out all right. You see if they don’t.”
But Mr. Bloot was past comforting. He was crying quite openly by now. Handkerchief up to his eyes, and everything. His voice in consequence sounded sniffly and strangulated.
“It’s not me Ah’m thinking of,” he replied at last. “Ah can take care of mahself. It’s Billy.”
“Billy?”
“One of mah budgies. She ’ates ’im, Ah tell you. Yurss, ackshually ’ates ’im.” Mr. Bloot paused long enough to wipe away a tear that was trickling slowly down his cheek. “Ah feel guilty leaving ’em. For fear of what might ’appen.”
Mr. Privett was leaning forward again by now.
“Such as what?” he asked.
This time, however, Mr. Bloot could not answer immediately. He was struggling with emotions that were too deep for words. He blew his nose loudly before he could even attempt to speak.
“Said she’d give ’im to the cat,” he blurted out suddenly. “Let the cat ’ave mah Billy if Ah didn’t stop messin’ abaht with ’im.” There was another pause. Another paroxysm. “Mah Billy,” he repeated. “Three Firsts and a Mention. It’d be murder. That’s what it’d be. It’s drahving me raht aht of mah mahnd.”
“She’d never do it,” Mr. Privett assured him. “Never. She’s only jealous.”
“Ah know,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Jealousy’s a very terrible thing. She watches me. There’s er crool streak in her somewhere. Er nard, crool streak.” Mr. Bloot paused again, his shoulders heaving. “If anything ’appens to Billy,” he went on, “Ah shall do something desprit. That’s what Ah�
�m afraid of. Something desprit.”
By now, Mr. Privett was rocking backwards and forwards in his chair in sheer misery. In the last quarter of an hour, he had grown to hate Hetty. Hate her bitterly. For being so horrible to Gus. For holding out threats to little Billy. Then, suddenly, he saw it all quite clearly. It was the voice of true friendship that was speaking.
“Why not have him here?” he said. “Bring him round cage and all. Just till it blows over.”
As he said it, he wished that there were a spare bedroom in Fewkes Road. Then he could have invited Gus to come as well.
But Mr. Bloot was too much bowed down by the sheer misery of things even to remember to be polite.
“It isn’t only the cage,” he said. “It’s the company. They’re like little oomans. They fret if they’re with strangers. Ah’ve ’ad Billy since the egg ...”
He broke off for a moment and looked at his watch. It showed just after eleven-thirty. A flicker of apprehension, of fear almost, passed across the face of Mr. Bloot.
“Well, back to the fray,” he said wearily. “Back to the fray. Ah’d better see what’s ’appening.”
It was after midnight by now. The lights were out in the front bedroom. But Mr. and Mrs. Privett were still talking.
“I told you so,” Mrs. Privett had just said. “I knew the sort she was the first time I set eyes on her.”
But Mr. Privett’s thoughts had been racing on ahead of her.
“What about over by the dresser?” he asked. “In the corner. Out of the draught. Billy’d be all right there. He’d see Gus as soon as he came in.”
3
The other person who was glad that Mr. Bloot had resumed his visits was Irene. It made things easier for her.
For some time now, the friend from Classical Records and her tall silent brother, Ted, had been coming round to Fewkes Road on Sundays. They were regulars. And, even when Classical Records herself couldn’t make it, Ted came along without her. Mr. Privett raised no objections. He found Ted a most agreeable young man. Polite. Respectful. And obviously very much attached to Irene. Even Mrs. Privett was prepared to accept him. She liked the way he got up and opened doors for her. And it was useful having someone for Mr. Privett to talk to while she and Irene washed up together. But she did draw the line at leaving Ted and Irene alone together. She also disliked the idea of young people spending all their time in cinemas. In consequence, there had been a whole succession of Sunday evenings when Ted and Irene just sat.
Bond Street Story Page 32