It was Mr. Bloot who settled that. He filled up things so. With him in the one really comfortable arm-chair, there was no room for the young people. And no future, either. Mr. Bloot had only a limited number of topics of conversation. But he believed in going over them. There was some sort of trigger mechanism that meant that, in the same room and with the same company, he went over them all in the same order. On the third Sunday when they had heard Mr. Bloot’s views on women in the police force (against), Socialism (against), young men with beards (against) and the smaller cage birds (in favour), Mrs. Privett recognized that she would have to let Irene escape from it. The only hold that she maintained was in telling Ted that he mustn’t bring her back later than ten-thirty.
As a result, Sunday evenings were now perfectly heavenly. Her good work done, Classical Records had obligingly fallen out completely. It was just Ted and Irene. And they set off for the cinema together almost as soon as tea was over.
Not that they were alone when they got there. The local Odeon was full of other Teds and Irenes all sheltering from their own homes. It was warm. Discreetly dark. Deeply upholstered. No sharp corners anywhere. And it smelt nice. There were ashtrays for smokers within arm’s reach. And, for the hungry and thirsty, there was popcorn, orangeade and ice-cream brought politely to the bedside. All life’s needs had been provided for. Even the route to the lavatories was indicated by illuminated signs. And on the screen in front a film of some kind was showing.
Irene sank down into the deep arm-chair that Lord Rank had provided. Ted carefully rolled up his raincoat and thrust it under the companion-piece divan alongside hers. Then he reached out his hand. And hers was ready for him. They had been holding hands for the past three Sundays now.
At first, it had been no more than a loose, lingering contact. Like a handshake that wouldn’t let go. Now it was the real thing. Fingers laced. And palms pressed closely together. It was hot. It was sticky. But it was what they were there for. And it was what they wanted.
It had come as an entire surprise to both of them to find how much they wanted it. For a start, it wasn’t a bit like Ted. But a most distinct change had come over him lately. He was still keeping up his bookkeeping and accountancy classes in the evenings. And in a sense they seemed more than ever important now. But his mind was no longer really on them. It kept drifting towards life insurance. And impossible house mortgages. And domestic budgets worked out on the backs of envelopes.
Irene had changed, too. She was still an actress at heart. But somehow she never managed to get to the theatre. Hadn’t been to one for months, in fact. That was because of Ted’s evening classes. She didn’t really enjoy going anywhere without Ted nowadays. But what was even stranger was that she didn’t even read plays nowadays. Couldn’t really settle down to them. When she tried, her mind kept straying off and wondering whether Ted got enough to eat on the evenings when he dashed off to the Institute. And how he would manage, supposing he felt ill. And who looked after his socks and things ... Fry and Rattigan and Priestley and Anouilh might simply have been living on pensions for all the support she was giving them.
Even on Saturdays they didn’t go to theatres. It was only just lately—during the past month—that they had been seeing each other on both days during the week-ends. But after being cooped up in Rammell’s all the week, Ted needed exercise. Lots and lots of it. Walking was the kind he principally fancied. And it was because it was hard to keep up with him otherwise that she had begun to take his arm.
There is something about arm-taking that is important. More important than cinema hand-holding. It is public. With hand-holding, usherettes don’t see. But with arm-taking, everybody notices. Also, it is part of the training. There is nothing like arm-taking for reminding you that you can’t just go on going your own way any longer.
Irene was used to it by now. Arm-in-arm, she and Ted had tramped over half London. There was one regular route that they took. It started off from Bond Street across Grosvenor Square into Hyde Park. Then over the bridge at the Serpentine. And it finished up at a small tearoom in South Kensington. By the end of it, Ted was beginning to feel nicely loosened up. All ready for the walk home again, in fact. And Irene was wondering what sort of shoes a girl could buy that would stand up to it. Something that would do for pavements. Gravel. Wet grass. Tea shops. Everything.
It was getting on for ten-forty-five when she and Ted came out of the Odeon. That in itself was promising. Mr. Bloot rarely stayed later than eleven. And it was important that Mr. Bloot shouldn’t be there to-night. Ted and Irene had something that they both wanted to say to Mr. and Mrs. Privett.
But that was as far as agreement went. Left to herself, Irene would have done it the simple way. Just said: “Oh, by the way, Ted’s asked me to marry him. And I’ve said ‘yes.’ So we’re engaged. And we’re going to get married.”
But Ted was obstinate. Mulish. Adamant. He adopted a know-better, take-it-from-me kind of manner that she found maddening. He might have been going round getting engaged all his life he was so absolutely certain how the thing should be done.
“I’m only doing what’s right,” he told her. “After all, he is your father.”
“Well, I think it’s silly,” Irene answered. “And there’s no need for it. It isn’t as if they didn’t like you.”
Ted shook his head.
“It isn’t only just a matter of liking,” he said. “This is different.”
“Oh, well, have it your own way then,” she replied. “Only don’t blame me if anything goes wrong. My way it couldn’t have.”
She had removed her arm from his while they were talking. They were now walking along side by side like strangers.
“You ... you don’t think there will be any objections, do you?” Ted asked suddenly. “I mean about not having enough money, or anything.”
But Irene was maddened with him. Really furious. She’d no idea he could be so stupid. That he cared so little for her feelings. She had planned everything. Got it all ready for him. And he had deliberately spoilt it.
She did not turn her head as she answered.
“That’s your affair,” she said. “Better ask him. Then you’ll find out.”
They had reached Fewkes Road by now. The light was still burning in the front room. And Ted followed her up the path without speaking. It was not until they were inside the house that she noticed how nervous he was. He stood there, with his back to the front door, pulling at his tie and going through a kind of dry, swallowing action in his throat. He looked grim. And awkward. For no reason that she could explain, she found herself loving him again.
She went up and kissed him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll be all right. I know it will.”
His arms went round her so tightly that he left her breathless.
“It’s got to be,” he said.
They were still embracing when the door of the sitting-room opened. Mrs. Privett came out into the hall.
“That you, Ireen?” she asked.
Irene broke away hurriedly.
“We’re back, Mum.”
There came a gulp from close beside her.
“Good evening, Mrs. Privett.”
“Good evening, Ted.”
Irene went up and took Mrs. Privett by the arm.
“Come along, Mum,” she said. “Ted’s got something he wants to say to Dad.”
“Then tell him to go in,” Mrs. Privett said. “Dad’s only got Gus with him.”
“ ... well, why didn’t you say so before?” Mr. Privett was asking. “Then he’d have left us sooner. He’s not the kind to stay if he isn’t wanted.”
He felt rather resentful as he said it. Up to that moment he’d always liked Ted. Even looked forward to seeing him. But this was rather overstepping it. He’d practically ordered Mr. Bloot out of the room just now.
“I had to see you alone,” Ted explained. “It’s private.”
Mr. Privett stood in front of the fireplace regarding h
im. He’d never noticed before what an extraordinarily jumpy kind of young man Ted was. He was fiddling with a button with one hand. And tugging at the lapel of his coat with the other. And his feet weren’t still either. He was shifting around all the time like a boxer.
“Well, what is it?” Mr. Privett asked.
There was a pause. Ted swallowed hard again.
“Irene and me want to get married.”
“You want what?”
Mr. Privett had heard perfectly. But he had to play for time. He had guessed for some time how things were going. Known that sooner or later it might come to this. But he had always put the thought clean out of his mind. Never once really faced up to it.
“To get married,” he heard Ted say again.
There could be no further avoiding it. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t heard this time either. He would have to say something.
“Ireen’s only eighteen remember,” he said reproachfully.
More fiddling. More swallowing. So far as Mr. Privett was concerned this was another habit of Ted’s that he had never noticed before. The boy gave a distinct, audible gulp every time he attempted to say anything.
“I know,” Ted answered. “That’s why we ... we’d like to be engaged first.”
Mr. Privett considered for a moment. There seemed to be a possible let out here.
“I see,” he said. “You want to get engaged.”
Ted gave another gulp.
“That’s right, sir” he replied. “Get engaged.”
He was glad that he’d remembered to say “sir.” It was one of those things that were expected at such moments. But it hadn’t really helped. Instead it seemed rather to have embarrassed Mr. Privett. To Ted’s surprise Mr. Privett seemed to be nervous too. Rattled. He kept pulling at his watch chain. Moving from one foot to the other.
“How long have you known each other?” he asked at last.
“Nearly six months, sir. You remember. At the last staff dance.”
“The staff dance,” Mr. Privett repeated dully. “Oh, yes. The staff dance. I suppose it must be about six months.”
“Yes, sir. Nearly.”
He paused.
“Does Ireen know you’re asking me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, she does.”
“Yes, sir.”
It wasn’t getting any easier for either of them. Indeed, for Mr. Privett it was getting appreciably harder every moment. He couldn’t go on asking questions for ever. Eventually he would have to say something. Be decisive. In the meantime, he wasn’t going to be rushed by this nervous young man opposite.
“And does she want it?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Privett paused.
“Well ...” he began.
But he got no further. The door opened. And Irene stood there. She was wearing the excited, eyes-shining expression that he remembered from the time when she had been quite a little girl. She looked younger than ever this evening. So young that it didn’t seem possible that this tall, gulping, tie-pulling young man was seriously thinking of getting married to her.
“What did you tell him, Dad?” she asked.
Mr. Privett began pulling at his watch chain again.
“We hadn’t quite got there yet,” he admitted. “I was just ... just asking him things.”
Then Mr. Privett looked up. Over Irene’s shoulder he could see Mrs. Privett. And beyond Mrs. Privett glowed the pink, moonlike face of Mr. Bloot.
“Maht Ah be the first ...” he began.
Mr. Privett had just come back from the bathroom. Mrs. Privett was already in bed. She was sitting up rubbing some cream into her hands.
“Whatever were you two talking about all that time?” she demanded.
“I was asking him things,” Mr. Privett told her. “About him. And Ireen. About both of them.”
“What sort of things?”
“About how long they’d known each other.”
“And what else?”
“Whether Ireen wanted it.”
Mrs. Privett put the cream jar down with a thump.
“Of course, she wants it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been asking you.”
“I had to make sure,” Mr. Privett replied. “It’s very important.”
“I know it’s important. That’s what I’ve been saying to you. What are his prospects?”
“You mean how much he earns?”
Mrs. Privett nodded.
“There wasn’t time to ask,” he told her. “I was only just getting round to it.”
“Well, he gets eight-ten at the moment,” Mrs. Privett continued. “And it’ll be twelve if he gets the Counting House job. But that isn’t certain. So they’ll have to wait. About three years, I told her. Till she’s twenty-one. And, of course, there’s the commission. That’s another thirty pounds.”
“How d’you know about that?” Mr. Privett demanded.
“I asked Ireen.”
“When?”
“While he was in there talking to you.”
Mr. Privett went over to the window and pulled the Venetian blind half-way up.
“It all came so sudden,” he said. “I wasn’t really prepared. I like him all right myself. But I didn’t know how you’d take it if ...”
But Mrs. Privett interrupted him.
“Do you think I’d have let him go on coming here if I hadn’t thought he was suitable?” she asked. “It’s been standing out a mile. She could have done better. But she hasn’t. That’s all there is to it.”
“Ted’s a nice boy,” Mr. Privett said slowly.
“Well, I haven’t said he wasn’t, have I? All I said was our Ireen could have done better.”
Mr. Privett went back across the room to put the light out. Instead of feeling pleased about Irene’s engagement, he felt miserable. Utterly miserable. Miserable about everything. About how inadequate he’d been. And about how little Ted earned. And about how it might have been young Tony Rammell himself if only Mrs. Privett herself hadn’t stopped it. And about the way Mrs. Privett kept on reminding him that Irene could have done better. She was exhibiting a kind of heartlessness that left him speechless and aghast.
When he reached the switch, however, Mrs. Privett stopped him.
“Don’t put the light out,” she said. “I’m just going through to Ireen. I never kissed her good night properly.”
Chapter Thirty-six
1
The chair in which Mr. Rammell was sitting was quite the wrong shape. Modern. Undeniably modern. And undeniably wrong.
Built of thin struts of some dark, sinister-looking wood, the seat was so close to the ground that Mr. Rammell could hardly see over his knees. The arms, too, were low. So low that Mr. Rammell wondered what to do with his own arms. Even the striped, zebra-ish cushions were hostile. Stuffed with a kind of rubber-sponge material they fought back again when pressed against.
The table alongside matched the chair. Same wood. Same height. The entire suite might have been made by pygmies for other pygmies. And the table itself was of an extraordinary near-oval shape that was scarcely a shape at all. Mr. Rammell had an uneasy feeling that it was still forming.
But the drink that stood on it was reassuringly normal. He had seen to that himself. The amount of soda was just exactly right. And even with the silly furniture, and the pictures that might have come out of the same factory as the chair and table, Mr. Rammell had to admit that he somehow felt relaxed. Relaxed. Rested. And refreshed.
It had been the same on the last two occasions when he had visited the flat. Each time a strange guilty sensation of complete freedom had come over him. Of holiday, almost. He had kept telling himself that it was an error of judgment on his part to have set foot in the place at all. It was that damn’ rain that had been responsible. But for the rain he would never have had Marcia in the car with him. And if they hadn’t shared a car he would certainly never have gone to her flat. Not even had considered it. But it hadn’t proved al
l loss. Not by any means. It is always a ticklish business discussing intimate family affairs against an office background. And he was glad to have avoided it.
In the ordinary way, of course, he would simply have got Marcia to come round to Eaton Square. But that would have involved Mrs. Rammell. And keeping Mrs. Rammell out of it had always been his chief thought.
It was interesting, too, from his standpoint to see how a girl like Marcia really did live. On the whole, it was pretty much what he had expected. White paintwork. A trace of perfume and cigarette smoke in the air. Copies of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar left lying around. Drinks on a side table. And photographs of Marcia herself, heaven knows how many of them, stuck up everywhere. Dimly he wondered how she could afford it all. And then he remembered the Outside Activities clause in the Staff Agreement. That he reckoned must be bringing her in quite a packet. Probably doubling up, in fact. And perks on the side, of course. That goddamn-awful chair and table, for instance. Given to her by one of the agencies probably.
He glanced at his watch. If he had been at home at this moment, for instance, he would have been changing into a black tie ready to be dragged off to dinner with the Burnetts.
Avoiding the Burnetts was always its own reward. But there was another reason altogether why he was glad that he was not going. That was because he and Mrs. Rammell were not yet properly on speaking terms. They were out of the vulgar, recriminatory phase. Out of the silence phase, too. They were now in the third stage of the cycle, the ghastly politeness phase. Mr. Rammell held doors open for her. She thanked him. He passed her things. She thanked him. He asked if she had had a tiring day. She thanked him. He inquired after her neuritis, her slipped disc, her sinus. She said, “Better, thank you.” As conversation goes, however, even a Trappist couldn’t have pretended that it added up to very much.
Bond Street Story Page 33