Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  It was something to do with the collar, she explained. Heavenly, quite heavenly as it was, it still didn’t seem quite right. Not ... not absolutely. She didn’t know what was wrong. Just felt it. So would Miss Hanson look at it, please. Tell her whether there was anything. Even though looking wouldn’t help, really. You had to wear it to know.

  Even though Miss Hanson couldn’t be ruffled, she could still stare. Marcia felt that she had never had such enormous, un-beautiful eyes fixed so intently upon her before. Or, for some reason, such unfriendly eyes. She couldn’t understand it. Hostile, almost. Suspicious anyhow. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of the Salon seemed to have changed somehow.

  Almost as though something had gone wrong, Marcia reflected. As though somewhere amidst the plush and the gilt and the silence someone had recently been unhappy about something.

  2

  It was Irene’s early night. She was back at Fewkes Road at six-thirty. That was because, every Tuesday, Ted went along to his cricket practice. Love and romance, the engaged state and new responsibilities had made no difference to him. Wet or fine—even that didn’t matter because the nets were under cover, anyhow—he went along to bowl, bowl, bowl against men who knew his leg-breaks quite as well as he did and to bat, bat, bat against bowling that changed only when someone was away sick or something. But it helped to keep your eye in, he contended. And it kept the fellows together. And it kept you fit. And it wasn’t expensive. And it had been on B.B.C. television. All in all, in fact, chaps who didn’t belong to the Rammell Cricket Club were certainly missing something.

  Irene resented the Club. Nowadays, she was living in that desperate half-life condition when to be parted from Ted even for a single evening meant misery. Wretchedness. Despair. But tonight was different. She had too much on her mind. News. And hot news at that. She wanted to tell Mrs. Privett all about it.

  “ ... and she went absolutely as white as a sheet, when she heard that Mr. Rammell and Mr. Preece both wanted to see her.” She finished up breathlessly. “And then all the fuss about getting Miss Hanson to take over. But when Marcia came in actually wearing it. You could have knocked us all down with a feather. You never saw anything like it. Miss Hanson just stood there, staring. I thought she was going to faint, or something.”

  Mrs. Privett did not reply immediately.

  “Does your father know?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Irene answered. “I suppose so. Everybody else seemed to. You can just imagine.”

  “Well, until you know for certain I shouldn’t say anything,” Mrs. Privett told her. “It’s not right. Not from someone in your position. There are some things best forgotten.”

  “Oh, this one won’t be, I can tell you,” Irene answered. “It’s all over Bond Street. It is reely.”

  “We’ll see,” was all that Mrs. Privett said. “You leave this to me.”

  It was, in point of fact, by way of a victory for Irene that Mr. Privett no longer hung about the Staff Entrance waiting for her. But it was really Ted’s doing. He was always there himself for certain. A couple of escorts would have been too many. And on Tuesday when net-practice night came round and Ted had to go off in the opposite direction, Mr. Privett had somehow got out of the habit of it.

  They had to wait until nearly seven o’clock for Mr. Privett to arrive home. Irene had gone upstairs by then. And Mrs. Privett tackled him immediately. Not that she need have troubled. It was on the tip of his tongue, too. And it was worse than she had feared. Much worse. Apparently there had been goings-on for some time past.

  “ ... and he’s out with her every night,” Mr. Privett said despondently. “Dancing, you know, and all that sort of thing.”

  “How d’you know?” Mrs. Privett demanded.

  “Gus told me,” Mr. Privett replied, as though that were all the proof that could possibly be needed.

  “Has Gus ever seen him?” Mrs. Privett persisted.

  The question was a troublesome one. Mr. Privett didn’t want to say “No.” Because that would be like letting down a friend. On the other hand, he couldn’t possibly say “Yes.” Because, so far as he knew, Gus never went anywhere except back to Finsbury Park.

  “He hears things,” he said loyally. “Keeps his ear pretty close to the ground. Doesn’t miss much.”

  “And you say he’s paying for it himself? On his own personal account, I mean?”

  Mr. Privett nodded.

  “That’s what Gus says. Got it straight from the Counting House. That’s why there was such a row when they sent off the insurance note to Mrs. Rammell. And the label. You see ...”

  “I know,” Mrs. Privett interrupted him. “You told me.”

  But Mr. Privett was still mooning over the tragedy of it.

  “I do hope nothing comes of it,” he said. “Nothing serious, I mean. Like a divorce. Or a scandal. Something that might get into the papers. There’s never been anything like that at Rammell’s. And that’s really all Gus cares about. Avoiding a scandal.”

  “He’ll be lucky,” Mrs. Privett replied tartly. Then she paused. It was obvious that she was working up to something. “I still think it’s wrong talking about it,” she said. “It only makes it seem worse. And there may be a perfectly innocent explanation. You and Gus are as bad as the rest of them. You two ought to set an example. And you don’t. When Irene comes down you go on just as though nothing had happened.”

  “But she was there,” Mr. Privett objected.

  “I don’t care where she was,” Mrs. Privett told him. “So far as you’re concerned it’s never happened. And perhaps it never will.”

  Mrs. Privett was in no doubt that she had done the right thing. It was with her a point of pride that she had never indulged in gossip. In her own shop days she had learnt, taught herself indeed, to ignore the ceaseless scum of rumour, tittle-tattle and invention that goes drifting round the surface of all staff cloakroom conversation.

  And she had another reason at the moment for preserving silence. It was because of Nancy. She and Nancy saw quite a bit of each other nowadays. Every other week or so. Not that it was always easy to get hold of her. During her long wilderness years, while her sister in her own separate world had soared steadily upwards, Nancy herself had developed a kind of timid furtiveness, a self-protective and unnatural caution. She spoke nowadays as though she were running the gauntlet of invisible posses.

  “I’ll see if I can slip up again. Not next week. The week after,” she would say each time at the moment of departure. “But don’t count on it. Only if I can get away. I shall have to see how things are. I know what I’ll do: if I can I’ll send you a post-card. If it’s inconvenient you just let me know ...” And with these words of politeness, hesitation and indecision Nancy would go back to her little back bed-sitter, where every day was the same and there was no one to miss her no matter how often she went out or how long she stayed away.

  But the post-card always came. And Mrs. Privett always replied, again by post-card and by return of post. Nancy’s card had come yesterday. That meant that Nancy herself would be arriving to-day. Mrs. Privett had been preparing for it. She had baked a small seed cake and made some scones. The massive block of cut cake that Mr. Privett was accustomed to feed, slowly and lovingly, slice by slice to Mr. Bloot was something that Mrs. Privett would never have considered serving to a friend. Not, for that matter, that Mrs. Privett had many friends. None at all, in fact, now that poor Emmie had gone. In the ordinary way, she saw no one from the moment her family left in the morning until they came back again at night. That was why it was so exciting having Nancy. Why, having found her, she had pounced.

  And Nancy, just as friendless, cherished these meetings quite as ardently. She opened up astonishingly. If it had been neat gin and not tea that Mrs. Privett had poured out for her, she could not have been less discreet. Less reticent. Never really at ease with her own sister, she confided in Mrs. Privett. The fears, doubts, misgivings, and foolish hopes of a whole lifetime came gushing f
orth. With Mrs. Rammell, she was always afraid that she was being pitied, despised, laughed at, disapproved of. Here in Fewkes Road she was at her ease. Blissful and unguarded. And all because, as she kept reminding both herself and Mrs. Privett, she knew that whatever she said wouldn’t go any further. Mrs. Privett’s front sitting-room with the sewing machine under the window and the seed cake and scones at her elbow, had, in fact, become Nancy Parkinson’s confessional.

  And to-day she was more open and incautious than ever. Pushing back a stray wisp of hair from her forehead and dabbing at a corner of her lips where the butter from her scone kept running, she discussed Mrs. Rammell. Her woebegone state. Her estrangement from Mr. Rammell. The whited sepulchre that their marriage had become ... Nancy knew all the right phrases.

  “ ... and she’d never have let on, not to me at least she wouldn’t, not if things weren’t serious,” Nancy rambled on. “I’m the last person she’d tell. It’s Tony, really. That’s where the trouble lies. And Mr. Rammell”—even in her own mind Nancy had never got on to first name terms with her own brother-in-law—“won’t discuss it. Simply won’t let her mention it. She told me so herself. Not that she ever sees him. He might be dead for all she knows.” She paused for a moment and began dabbing with her handkerchief again. “Or cares,” she added as a frank afterthought.

  “It’s shocking,” Mrs. Privett agreed with her. “That’s what it is. It’s shocking.”

  Nancy was silent for a moment. Not that she was too unhappy to speak. Overcome by her own sister’s misery. Nothing like that. To be honest, she found it all strangely stimulating. Finding Mrs. Rammell’s private affairs in such a mess had somehow promoted her. Made her superior. Now even her own dependent state, her near-poverty, her loneliness, her spinsterhood seemed suddenly to hold unforeseen compensations. It was with real relief that she realized that she herself was un-letdownable.

  “And mark my words,” she added, “there’s more in this than meets the eye. There’s something going on somewhere. I don’t know what. But I can feel it. There’s something fishy somewhere.”

  Mrs. Privett forced the words out.

  “You mean another woman?” she asked.

  Nancy shook her head.

  “Not that,” she said confidently. “He isn’t that sort. Hasn’t got it in him. It’s debts. Or gambling. Or some big deal he’s on to. He’s got something on his mind. That’s what it is.”

  It was not easy for Mrs. Privett. Up to that moment it had not even occurred to her to mention the silly little slander about the mink wrap. That was something that she had promised herself she would keep locked away for ever. But, faced by stupidity on such a colossal scale as Nancy’s, she wavered. And more than wavered. She succumbed. She wanted to hit the woman. Thump her. Anything to wake her up.

  “That’s what you think,” she said. “Some of us may know different.”

  The words alone would have been enough to startle. But it was the tone of voice in which they were uttered that really overcame Nancy. Spoken quite quietly, whispered through tight lips that were scarcely parted, the remark sounded venomous and alarming. Nancy’s big silly heart gave a bump and she sat there staring.

  “What ... what do you know?” she asked.

  After that, it was no use pretending. Mrs. Privett did not tell her at once, of course. That would have been wrong. Downright wicked, in fact. She denied having said it. Claimed that she didn’t mean it anyhow. Affirmed that wild horses wouldn’t drag it from her. Swore Nancy to secrecy. And told her everything.

  The effect was disastrous. Nothing less. After remaining silent for a moment, she began sniffing. Then little sobs came. Then tears. Soon she was weeping quite openly. The wisp of grey hair came down again across her forehead and she didn’t notice. Didn’t care. She was just a collapsed, unhappy woman—no longer young, no longer strong enough to bear it—contemplating the ruin of the one thing in her life that had always seemed secure.

  And the shame of it! Divorce was something that she held in peculiar horror. Like blackmail. Or bankruptcy. Or being sent to prison. The mere thought of it gave her the shudders. Her own sister, too. It was easily the most dreadful thing that had happened to the Parkinsons since poor father’s business failure. Even though she didn’t pretend to understand about such things, she supposed that divorce was inevitable now. And immediate. For all she knew it might be in the papers to-morrow. Displayed there, blatantly, for all the staff to read. She remembered those shockingly frank little paragraphs that were usually made worse still by the portrait-photographs: “ ... misconduct was admitted ... intimacy took place ... the Judge exercised his discretion in respect of the petitioner’s own misconduct ...” Nancy’s heart gave another great bump. But no! That at least was unthinkable. Her own sister would never do a thing like that. Even without it, however, it was still quite bad enough. She had never been able to understand how, once the details had appeared in all the papers, either party ever dared appear in public again.

  “Mind you, not a word of this to anyone,” she heard Mrs. Privett’s voice saying from somewhere quite remote, quite unconnected with her own thoughts. “I’d rather have had my own tongue cut out if I thought you were going to repeat it.”

  Nancy nodded her head. It was the best that she could manage. When at last she did contrive to speak, the words were little better than a moan.

  “As if I would,” she said reproachfully. “As if I would.”

  3

  There are some people, women especially, who are born without the usual sense of self-preservation. They are the sort that cut themselves on kitchen knives. Shut finger-tips in cupboard drawers. Drop heavy objects on their feet. Catch their heels in gratings. Their nightdresses catch fire. They drink medicines out of wrong bottles. They spill acids over themselves. They engage in missions.

  With Nancy, it was a mission that was the trouble. She left Fewkes Road a dedicated woman. Someone who was determined to save her own sister’s marriage. All the way home by bus and Underground she thought of nothing else. And all night, too. By breakfast-time next morning she was exhausted, hollow-eyed, headachy. And more determined, more fanatically purposeful, than ever.

  The only thing that escaped her was the method. Between two and three a.m. it had all seemed simple and straightforward. Demand a private interview with Mr. Rammell. Go in and denounce him to his face. Shame him, threaten him if necessary, into reasonableness. But somehow in the full light of day the scheme did not seem so attractive. She couldn’t, now that she was back on the job, even think of any good threats. And she didn’t know whether he had a sense of shame. But there were still other means left open to her. Subtle, feminine means. She could go behind his back. Undermine him. Appeal to Marcia’s sense of fair play. Her pity. Arouse a guilt feeling. Then she would have to give him up. Have to renounce him. But again, as nine a.m. came round, she foresaw the same disadvantages, the same awkwardness. If Mr. Rammell had no sense of shame how was she to know whether Marcia would have any sense of fair play? And if she hadn’t, Nancy would simply be wasting her time. And worse. Because of them the enemy would be alerted. On their guard. Ready to pop off any Good Angels that so much as showed their heads.

  But there were still other ways. Nancy had thought of them all. Anonymous post-cards sent to Mr. Rammell’s office. “WHO IS THE ATTRACTIVE MODEL WITH WHOM YOUR NAME IS BEING LINKED?” or “BEWARE. OTHER EYES ARE WATCHING YOU. LOOK OUT.” That kind of thing. Indeed, as Nancy turned her mind in that direction, she was surprised to find how good she was at it. The texts came rolling out by the dozen. And this surprised her. Because she had never before realized that she was a born anonymous letter writer, a natural. But post-cards, she remembered, can be traced. Even when a typewriter is used, the typescript reveals its own secrets. And ordinary pen and nibs are nothing less than self-accusatory. Something to do with the thick strokes and the hair-lines, she recalled. On the other hand, there were always telephone kiosks. A few pennies in the slot. Button A. The poi
son message. Hang up. And away again, mysterious and undetected. Provided the pennies held out, she could conduct her wandering-voice purity campaign for years that way.

  It was all terrible. Nightmarish. Nerve-racking. She sat there, clasping and unclasping her hands. Indecision was no answer. She had got to do something. And, if she was not strong enough to do it alone, she would have to find a partner. Have to tell someone.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  1

  It was Mrs. Privett who insisted. Lumley’s of Camden Town had at last written to say that they had done up the yacht for which Mr. Privett had been waiting—practically the replica of Daisy II—and they were keeping her for him. The price was a stiff one. Over twenty pounds. On the other hand, she had cost nearly forty when new, Mr. Lumley said. And she had just been completely rerigged under Mr. Lumley’s personal supervision. “This class racing craft” was how the letter described her.

  Mr. Privett’s heart gave a great bump simply at the thought. To be back amongst the brethren! An owner once more. But the price. It was a real shocker. Not the sort of thing that a man with the expenses of a grown-up daughter could even contemplate.

  That was why he was so surprised when Mrs. Privett didn’t even hesitate. He had waited long enough, she told him. And if he didn’t do something about it now he might as well put it out of his mind for ever. He’d be too old for it, she added brutally.

  What Mr. Privett did not know was that Mrs. Privett had been working things out in her mind for months past. She was living in a state of morbid trepidation for the future. With Mr. Bloot married and Irene getting ready for it, what was to become of Mr. Privett, she had kept asking herself. The thought of him left behind, with nothing except his own wife to cherish, nothing to occupy his mind, filled her with misery and foreboding. She became disconsolate for his sake. And if Mr. Lumley could provide happiness and a new purpose in life all for twenty-two pounds ten she felt that the offer should be snapped up.