Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Not that it was easy. There were still difficulties. Practical difficulties. Like how to get the thing, once Mr. Privett had made the purchase, up to the Highgate Ponds so that he could begin playing with it. And here Mrs. Privett was adamant. No cycling, she said. Either push it. Or nothing. And, she added, she didn’t want some great ungainly perambulator-carrier blocking up her front hall. If Mr. Privett cared anything for her feelings he’d keep it right out at the back where Ted wouldn’t see it ...

  It was on Thursday when Mr. Lumley’s letter came. And on Friday morning first thing Mr. Privett got off at Camden Town and dropped in a note saying that he would be back the same evening if Mr. Lumley would keep open for him. In consequence, it was a restless, preoccupied day for Mr. Privett. He could not keep his attention from straying. When an angry, important-looking woman demanded to be directed to the Complaints Department he sent her absentmindedly up to Toddlers and Nursery Furniture. And it was only around teatime that he realized that he had not once been down to the Fur Salon to see how Irene was getting on. In the ordinary way, these fleeting little visits, scarcely more than a peep, were something to which he really looked forward. Something, in fact, from which he got quite a kick.

  But he didn’t forget about Lumley’s. And Mr. Lumley didn’t forget about him. Even though it was getting on for seven, Mr. Lumley was there. And waiting. Nor did Mr. Privett need any further persuading. There was only one sailing yacht of the size, amid all those other miscellaneous steam and electrical contraptions. And Mr. Privett went straight up to her. She was called the Dianthe. As soon as he saw her, Mr. Privett knew that he would have to have her. For a moment, even, he was unfaithful to the memory of Daisy II. The hull of Daisy II had been simply a dark, business-like brown. Dianthe on the other hand was pale duck-egg blue. She was easily the most beautiful thing, after Irene, that had ever come into Mr. Privett’s life.

  And Mr. Lumley was helpful and understanding. He saw Mrs. Privett’s point about bicycle trailers. He had known of nasty accidents with them before, he said. For an additional thirty bob he offered, therefore, to throw in a two-wheel carrier that he had picked up with an earlier lot. In the result, Mr. Privett was not only able to buy Dianthe but actually take her home with him the same night. Pushing the carrier in front of him, he marched proudly up the Kentish Town Road. Like a grandparent allowed for the first time to take the pram out. And this time he was so cautious—so extra cautious—about traffic that a policeman who was holding up a bus and two private cars specially for him had to call out, “Come on, Dad,” before he could get Mr. Privett to venture off the pavement and come over.

  It was nearly midnight when Mr. Privett finally went to bed. Not that he was doing very much. There are limits to what can be done with sailing yachts in a back kitchen. The sheets tend to get entangled. And the sails flap idly. He nearly got butter on one of them. From eleven-thirty or thereabouts, he just sat there, staring. Gloating. Humble. And adoring. Remembering all the time that to-morrow was Saturday.

  And there was another piece of happiness in store for him. Pure rapture. Because when he told Mr. Bloot about Dianthe, Mr. Bloot offered straight away to come up and watch her sail. Actually offered. No prompting. He added, not on Saturday afternoon, of course. But Mr. Privett understood that. Saturday afternoons had always been reserved by Mr. Bloot for his budgies. Sunday morning was a different matter entirely. And it was to be just the two of them. The way it had been before Daisy II had been reduced to matchwood and Mr. Bloot himself had taken on a wife.

  “Ah reckon it would do me good,” Mr. Bloot observed vacantly, staring down into his cup almost as though speaking to himself. “Get me aht of the flat for a bit. That’s what Ah need. Er noutlet.” He paused as though conscious that he had been allowing his thoughts to run away with him. “Mahnd you,” he added, “if Ah should be requahred, you go ahead without me. Ah’m speaking without Mrs. B. If she’s got plans, that does it.”

  2

  There is no place in the world quite like the Highgate Ponds. Especially early on a Sunday morning. There may be other places that are more central. And more fashionable. Like the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, for instance. But fashion never had any connection with serious yachting. And centralness is exactly what isn’t wanted. There is no real feeling of escape, of being away from it all, with just the wind in your face and the splash and ripple of water coming up at you, if you can hear the sound of motor horns from all quarters and see the red sides of the buses as they go trundling along Knightsbridge.

  Up at Highgate, there is nothing but green Nature. Great park-land trees. And rolling meadows. And the placid, duck-bearing surface of the lake. Standing on the little wooden jetty there is not a house to be seen. Not one. Not even in the misty distance. Just reed-beds and osiers. And willow-herb. And the massive forest skyline of Ken Wood where the whole dangling necklace of ponds begins in a dark, ferny grotto. Admittedly, by turning round you can see the top stages of the L.C.C. diving-board over in the bathing-pool across the path. That belongs to a lower order of things altogether. And on a fine day it can become quite unpleasantly crowded. But you can’t expect everything. Even the farthest of the ponds, the fenced-in one, with its coot and moorhens, its dragon-flies and its water rats, is only five miles from the City. And at any time up to about nine-thirty you’ve got the whole thing entirely to yourself. It’s like being a great landowner. But without the threat of death duties, of course.

  Mr. Privett was the first person up there. At least he thought he was until a tall, sad-looking man with a large, damp dog passed him disconsolately homeward bound already. Anyhow, the pond was all his. It was like a one-man regatta. And it nearly had its incident. The first racing fatality of the season. Because the Dianthe was longer than Mr. Privett had realized. And heavier. A good fourteen ounces more of her than there had been of Daisy II. Also, the keel was entirely different. It was a scooped-out, backward-facing C-shaped affair like modern sculpture. The bit that Mr. Privett tried to get hold of wasn’t there. When he grabbed, he missed. And, when he missed, he went forward with his left leg in the water right up to his thigh. The little lozenge with the word “Dunlop”, on the top of his wader was completely covered.

  But he clambered back on to the jetty all right. Heaved himself up with the thick bamboo rod with the rubber ferrule on the end. And after that he was extra careful. For a model yachtsman to fall in is to risk being made a laughing stock. He had seen it happen. And he knew. It wasn’t easy to be careful, however. He was too excited. Trembling all over, as he finally lowered the Dianthe into her own native element. And not only excited. Slow as well. He had to keep on stepping back to admire. First, stepping back. Then leaning forward to stroke. Fondle. Caress. He might have been a bridegroom.

  But science, cold and analytical, has a way of cutting across life’s rapture. When Mr. Privett did finally push the Dianthe off from the jetty—and it was the merest nudge, a request rather than an order—he saw at once that she wasn’t sailing properly. Instead of sliding artfully, cheek-by-cheek alongside the wind, she turned into it, fighting. She shuddered. Her sails flapped madly. She shipped water. For a moment the Dianthe had ceased to be beautiful.

  It was nothing serious, however. No basic fault on the drawing-board. Nothing that Mr. Privett himself couldn’t put right in a jiffy. And, in a way, he loved the Dianthe all the more because of it. It showed that she had her secrets. Temperament. A streak of overcomable obstinacy somewhere. And he alone understood her. Give her to any other man, no matter how experienced, and she would make the same lamentable exhibition of herself.

  By ten o’clock, the Dianthe had made her measure of the pond. Running with the wind. And against it. She was big. Unbelievably big. A good head taller than Mr. Privett himself. She towered. And, now that she was tamed, disciplined, she was unbelievably beautiful again. She became one with the water. Temporarily dividing, rather than cutting through it. As Mr. Privett hurried along the bank to her, she might have b
een a huge, white bird, a swan straight out of legend, that he was standing there so romantically to meet.

  But romantic or not, he was sweating. After all, he had run three times round the pond already. Before he left home Mrs. Privett had reminded him about his thick undervest. The woollen one. And he had not disobeyed. In consequence, he might have been on fire underneath his flannel shirt, his reefer-jacket and his raincoat. He could feel ants crawling all over him. There was nothing for it but to take a breather. After he had swabbed the Dianthe out, even using his handkerchief to get up the last tiny droplets, he sat there on the jetty, his collar undone and the Dianthe in dry dock beside him, an entirely happy man. He basked.

  By eleven o’clock there was still no sign of Mr. Bloot. But the jetty had become populated by now. The members of the N.L.M.Y.R.A. were there in force. All five of them. And all wearing the little flag and anchor badge that matched Mr. Privett’s own. As a reunion it could not have been more cordial. There were wet handshakes all round. The North London Model Yacht Racing Association was a body of nice steady men. They were genuinely pleased to see Mr. Privett. Most sailing yacht owners are somewhere on the other side of middle age. Distinctly elderly some of them. And prolonged absence from the jetty may mean anything. Even the worst.

  Also, they were openly eager to see the Dianthe. They crouched round her on their haunches, gum boots creaking, like a group of elderly, heavily-breathing infants. At one point Mr. Privett got elbowed completely out of it. But he didn’t care. There is nothing in life more profoundly satisfying than to be envied for one’s possessions.

  And it was only natural that the Dianthe should cause a bit of a stir. She was a stranger to these parts. A complete stranger. It was from somewhere up north by Bridlington that Mr. Lumley had bought her. All her previous sailing had been under steely grey skies, with the threat of sudden squalls and a hint of ice in the rigging. This morning’s was her first voyage in the balmy, southern lagoons of Highgate. Blue sky. A gentle breeze. Barometer high. Temperature in the upper sixties. It might have been angel-fish and coral gardens rather than sheer London clay over which she was sailing.

  Not that the water was without its dangers. Every five minutes or so a new menace arrived. And not merely the litter of small craft that children with parents kept bringing. There were unpleasant, mechanical-looking men with bottles of methylated spirit and petrol, bent over motor boats. Miniature two-stroke engines that roared and crackled like machine-guns and then spat themselves out in fury somewhere in the mid-channel. Hydroplanes with whirling aeroplane propellers that went bouncing along the surface like demented tea trays. Scale models of gunboats with bows like an ice-breaker’s, churning up the surface, ready and waiting to ram anything with sails.

  But just when the N.L.M.Y.R.A. had decided that there was nothing for it but to sit back and wait for the lunchtime lull, Mr. Bloot arrived. And that took Mr. Privett’s mind off everything. Because Mr. Bloot was looking particularly imposing this morning. Like glossy and prosperous autumn. He was wearing a brown top-coat with a black velvet collar. And a brown Trilby with a bound brim. It was a costume, including the brown shoes, that Hetty had personally selected for him. Originally inclined towards tweeds, she had finally compromised on gaberdine. Provided it was brown. Anything, she had said, rather than his Sunday black which was too much like a mute’s and gave her the creeps anyway.

  The others, too, were pleased to see Mr. Bloot. He had been away just as long as Mr. Privett. With his friend absent, there had been simply nothing to come up for. And it gave a certain un-definable note of class to the Club simply having him standing there. The sleek brownness of the coat, the bound brim, the broad stock and the gold-banded umbrella suggested the Chairman of the line rather than merely an interested spectator.

  And, at twelve-thirty when Mr. Bloot announced that he would have to be getting back, Mr. Privett left with him. He would have liked to stay longer—one more run against the wind at least—but he felt that he couldn’t let a friend down like that. And, for the first time since the wedding, Mr. Privett felt grateful to Hetty. Because this time Mr. Bloot himself suggested a drink at the Woodman on the way back.

  They didn’t walk quite side by side on the way there. Mr. Bloot tended to step out a little. And Mr. Privett followed up a few paces behind with the carrier. But that was only natural. The pavement down from the ponds is a narrow one. And, in any case, Mr. Bloot wasn’t dressed right to be shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone pushing anything.

  But in the saloon bar it was different. Crowded. Elbow-jogging. Convivial. Mr. Bloot and Mr. Privett forced their way into the window so that they could talk unimpeded, and Mr. Privett could keep his eyes on the Dianthe up on her two bicycle wheels outside.

  Mr. Bloot, moreover, was at his most confiding.

  “Er nawkward journey,” he said. “Ah’ve been travelling for er nouranerarf. Three changes. Ah ought to ’ave trahd a one-one-six. Then Ah could have walked dahn the hill.”

  Mr. Privett felt quite ashamed of himself. “I should have thought of that,” he said. “I could have suggested it.”

  But Mr. Bloot was bland. Indifferent.

  “No matter,” he said. “Ah’m not pressed. Not this morning. ’Etty’s got a few friends in.”

  “But oughtn’t you to be there?” Mr. Privett asked.

  Mr. Bloot shook his head.

  “’Er friends,” he said briefly. “Not mine.”

  He paused for a moment as though undecided whether to continue.

  “Ah reckon Ah’ve learnt something,” he went on at last. “Abaht marriage, Ah mean. Live and let live, I say. Works out quahter that way.”

  “D’you mean you don’t like her friends?” Mr. Privett asked.

  Mr. Bloot blew his cheeks out.

  “Just not mah kahnd,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.”

  He was silent again for a moment. And when he spoke it was in that intimate undertone that sets the seal on all old friendships.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “Ah never ’ad any of this trouble with Emmie. No trouble, at all. But then you see she didn’t ’ave any friends.”

  “There was me and Eileen,” Mr. Privett corrected him.

  Mr. Bloot acknowledged the rebuke. He raised his glass in Mr. Privett’s direction.

  “Present company,” he said, “excepted.”

  Then he stretched his legs out in front of him and sat looking at his brown shoes.

  “Ah’ve enjoyed this morning, Ah have,” he went on. “Lahk old tahms. Away-from-it-all as you maht say.”

  Chapter Fourty

  1

  Mr. Tattan (Garden Furniture) suggested it. Mr. Cuffley (Export) thought it was a good idea. Mr. Maple (Household Appliances) disliked rushing things. Mr. Langdale Senior (Restaurant and Catering) considered that the claims of Mr. Langdale Junior (Television and Radio) were somehow being overlooked. Mr. Privett naturally was delighted. Mr. Bloot said that he would drop a word in the raht quartah. And Mr. Finlay (Sports Goods) was completely opposed. Offended, even.

  But that is always the way it is with staff changes. There is nothing that upsets people like promotions. They have a disturbing effect all round. People who are left entirely unaffected still resent them. And no one could pretend that Mr. Finlay wasn’t affected. After all, it was his Sports Department. He had built it up from a few golf clubs and a cricket bat or two into something that stretched right across the fourth floor, with a Wimbledon at one end, Gleneagles over on the Downe Street side, Lord’s over in the corner and even a canoe and sailing dinghy section—practically a small Hayling—over by the lift.

  It was obvious, however, that something had to be done. Mr. Finlay was now sixty-four. Coming up to sixty-five in July. You couldn’t have a he-ancient in charge of a Sports Department. Mr. Finlay saw that all right. But, he kept telling himself, it wasn’t necessary to make things over to a mere youngster. And Ted Waters, at twenty-eight, was less than half his age. Surely somewhere in Ramme
ll’s, he kept telling himself, there was someone in the middle fifties, respected, reliable, hard-driving.

  But who? Mr. Preece had asked himself the question a hundred times. The list, the short list, was lying there on the desk in front of him. Mr. Bennett (Cycles and Touring)? No initiative. Mr. Gibbs (China and Glassware)? Too specialized. Mr. Langdale Junior (Television and Radio)? Not the right type at all for Sports Goods. Too glossy: he looked like a ladies’ hairdresser. Mr. Waters (Travel and Theatre Tickets)? A bit on the young side, admittedly. But did that matter? Mr. Preece liked to think of himself as a discoverer of new talent, a seer. And Mr. Waters certainly looked right. Tall. Clean-shaven. The open-air type. Women customers would undoubtedly respond. And he was a member of the Sports Club: Mr. Preece had established that. Subject to Mr. Rammell’s approval, Mr. Preece was prepared to appoint him.

  It was not Mr. Rammell, but Sir Harry who opposed it. Not for any personal reason. Simply because he was feeling unusually skittish and alert at the Board Meeting. Why not a well-known sportsman? he asked. Get in someone from outside. A County cricketer. Like ... like Tyldesley. Dead, they told him. Or a leading jockey? But Rammell’s did not sell saddlery, Mr. Preece pointed out. Or a Davis Cup player? He would lose his amateur status, Mr. Rammell snapped back. Or a woman golfer? Or a track athlete? Or a table-tennis champion? Or a rugger Blue? Or a cross-Channel swimmer? Or a ... But, unusually fertile though his mind was this morning, here Sir Harry paused for a moment. He had only just realized that there was more than management that was wrong with the sports department. It needed livening up, enlarging, re-thinking. Why not a swimming-pool? he started off again. Or a putting green with real turf? Or a rifle range? Or a ski-jump packed solid with artificial ice? Or ... It was while Sir Harry was replanning the whole department, that Mr. Preece was able to slip Mr. Waters’s name quietly forward again. Perhaps only an acting appointment, he suggested tactfully. But that was his blunder. Why only acting? Sir Harry demanded. Hadn’t Mr. Preece got the guts to back his own hunches? What was going to happen to morale when the staff discovered that the management didn’t trust them? Planned promotion was the most important thing in any large firm, he went on. If boards of directors had to begin looking round for strangers to come in and run the business for them they might as well put the shutters up ...