Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Mrs. Rammell sat there alone, eyes closed. She was too tired. Too utterly exhausted. She had a headache. Her hands were trembling. And she felt slightly sick. It would have been more sensible, she realized, if she had managed to fit dinner in somehow. Or at least a sandwich. And a drink. But she had forgotten all about food. Hadn’t eaten properly, in fact, ever since Mr. Rammell had been rushed off. Now she was beginning to pay the price. She had just caught sight of herself in one of the B.O. A.C. mirrors. And she had been shocked by what she saw. She was pale and haggard-looking. That was what she had been most anxious to avoid. It would only alarm young Tony if he found her looking an absolute wreck, a spectre. Make him think that it was a death-bed to which he had been so suddenly called back.

  And everything was going to be all right, she kept on telling herself. It was nothing serious. If it had been, they would have found out. But would they have told her? That was the point. Were they keeping something back? Mr. Huntley Cary might have been. But not nice, kind Dr. Webber. He was a friend. He couldn’t be so cruel as to deceive her. It was unthinkable. She was just worrying, agonizing herself, unnecessarily. They had told her that the best thing she could do was to relax. And they were right. It would only make things worse for Tony if he found her all nervy and on edge. She must relax.

  She was a woman of strong character. Quietly, deliberately she sat back in the basket-weave chair with the Speedbird emblem on the wall behind her, and willed herself to relax. She made her limbs go limp. She drew deep breaths. She stopped herself thinking. Her mind became a dim, empty blank. And into it, from nowhere, came the image of Mr. Rammell, so pathetically small and still, lying there in that ether-laden bedroom in Devonshire Place. Instantly she felt her fingers begin to tighten. Her legs went rigid. The waves of sickness came back again.

  The plane was on time. That was something. But the waiting was intolerable. Passports, currency exchange, Customs. How could they be so heartless? Mrs. Rammell wondered. She had been up to the policeman at the barrier three times already. And heaven knows it would have been simple enough to allow Tony through first. Just this once. It wasn’t favouritism that she was asking. Only ordinary decent feeling. She wouldn’t have asked at all if it hadn’t been urgent.

  That was what made it all the stranger that, when she did see him, she did not recognize him. His back was towards her as he stood at the Customs counter. All that she could see was one of those long, sacklike American sports coats with a camera strap slung over it and a pair of blue, non-U trousers.

  It wasn’t until he turned that she saw that it really was Tony. And even then she could scarcely believe it. Because his hair was so entirely different. The long lock that fell across his forehead was the last thing that she remembered about him. She had fondly pushed it back when she had kissed him good-bye. Had told him to remember to get his hair cut when he got there. But not like that. The result was appalling. Conscript stuff. He looked like some kind of awful college sportsman as he came towards her.

  But it was still wonderful to have him in her arms again. It was the same Tony underneath. But was it? He seemed to have put on weight. Grown thicker all over. More muscular. She was still aching from the embrace that he had just given her.

  “ ... and how is he?” she heard him asking.

  This was the moment on which everything depended. She must be reassuring. Must be strong.

  “Thank God, it’s nothing serious,” she said, not believing a word that she was telling him. “But it’s been a big operation. He’s terribly weak. We must get him to go away somewhere. Just as soon as he can be moved. He mustn’t think of going back to Bond Street.”

  She watched his face closely while she was speaking. It was her duty. She had to be quite sure that he really did believe her. That she had convinced him. It would have been criminal to leave him brooding, anxious, fearing the worst. His reply, however, surprised her.

  “Pity it had to be an English surgeon,” was what he said.

  “Oh, but Mr. Huntley Cary ...” she began, astonished to find herself actually defending the man.

  “I’m afraid they’ve got us licked over there,” Tony told her. “All the way along the line. If a second opinion’s needed we’d better get one over. No point in taking chances.”

  The suggestion that they hadn’t done everything was so hurtful—even though she knew that it was quite, quite unintentional—that she winced. And more than winced. She nearly wept. She had to keep on biting down hard on her lip so that Tony should never know that she was actually crying.

  But already the dear boy was trying to make amends. Clumsily seeking to prove how much he really loved her.

  “You poor old dear,” he said. “You certainly have had a packet.”

  There had been something in Tony’s voice that she had always loved. It was not in the least like either hers or Mr. Rammell’s. And being called a “poor old dear” moved her strangely. Just when she had thought that she would really be able to stop crying, she found herself wanting to start all over again.

  By the time they had got out of London Airport and the lampposts and the little villas of the Great West Road went sliding past them, Mrs. Rammell felt better. So much better that she felt that she could tackle him.

  “Tony, darling,” she said. “What have you done with your hair?”

  He grinned. Rather self-consciously, she thought.

  “Oh, that,” he said. “That’s because of squash. I’ve been playing rather a lot of squash. Harvard Club mostly.”

  Mrs. Rammell felt herself groping.

  “But ... but you don’t like games,” she reminded him.

  “Had to do something,” he replied. “And I’ve come on quite a lot.” He paused. “Better keep it up, I suppose. If I don’t, I’ll go off again.”

  Mrs. Rammell glanced out of the car windows. More lampposts. More little villas. More Great West Road. But she did not want to say anything for a moment. This was not the son she knew who had just been speaking.

  “What music did you hear?” she asked at last. “How was the Opera?”

  This at least was something that they could share together. It had always been one of the strongest bonds between them, their deep love of music.

  “Didn’t get there,” he told her. “Hadn’t really got the time.”

  “No time?”

  “That’s right,” Tony answered.

  Mrs. Rammell turned and faced him.

  “But what ever were you doing?” she asked bewilderedly.

  “Oh, this and that, you know,” he replied. “Seeing people mostly, I suppose.”

  “And have you made a lot of new friends?” she asked encouragingly. “You must keep in touch with them. Write to them as often as you can.”

  “Or telephone,” Tony said briefly.

  Mrs. Rammell looked away again. Same lamp-posts. Same villas. Same Great West Road. Same stranger sitting on the seat beside her. If it had been the moon and not merely Manhattan from which he had just returned he could not have seemed more foreign.

  This time it was Tony who spoke.

  “How’s the Old Man?” he asked.

  “Grandfather, you mean?”

  Mrs. Rammell tried to speak easily, casually. Only by being quiet and civilized could she hope to break down this dreadful, artificial brashness that Tony had picked up on the other side.

  “He’s just the same,” she went on. “Really wonderful. Quite wonderful. He was coming out to the airport to-night. But he changed his mind.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  Mrs. Rammell tapped Tony’s hand.

  “Now you’re not to be naughty about him,” she said. “You’re not to be rude. You know he’s very fond of you. And he only stayed behind because he had some business to do. He’s seeing Mr. Preece.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Mrs. Rammell paused. Inside her black suède gloves she drew her fingers together and pressed hard. Above all things, she and Tony mustn’t quarrel. There
mustn’t be even the smallest hint how desperately vexed she was becoming.

  “There must have been something he wanted to discuss with him,” she replied. “Because ... because your father’s away, of course.”

  “Preece is all right in his own way,” Tony said. “He’s useful. But not big enough.”

  “Big enough for what?”

  “To take over from father.”

  Mrs. Rammell jumped as he said it.

  “Take over?” she repeated. “Whatever do you mean? There’s no question of that. Nobody’s suggesting it. Mr. Preece of all people! Besides, your father’ll be back in a few weeks. If anybody takes over, it ought to be ...”

  Tony, however, had finished the sentence for her.

  “Me, I suppose,” he said.

  Mrs. Rammell started forward to deny it. Contradict him. Put his anxious, schoolboy mind at rest. But she was too late.

  “That’s what I was coming to,” he said. “Somebody’s got to do something. It’s not good enough the way it is. We don’t know it, but we’re slipping.”

  It was as much as anything else the use of the word “we” that frightened her. She had never heard Tony use it in that way before. And she had to be certain that she had understood him.

  “You ... you mean the business?” she asked.

  Tony nodded.

  “Uhu,” he said, using one of those maddening Americanisations that he had acquired since he had gone away. “We’re behind the times. Archaic. We used not to be. The Old Man had all the right ideas. Before he went ga-ga, that is. Dad never really got to grips with it. They shouldn’t have put him there. It isn’t really his life.”

  There was a pause. An angry, hostile pause.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Mrs. Rammell heard her own voice declaring. “I don’t really. Your father’s nearly killed himself”—her voice almost broke for a moment as she said the words—“working, working, working all the time. He’s never spared himself for a single moment.”

  “But no new ideas,” Tony told her. “Not one. They all come from the Old Man. They’re barmy most of them. But he’s right, you know. What a business like ours needs is some fresh thinking.”

  It was no use. Mrs. Rammell was crying quite openly by now. Not so that Tony could see, of course. She had turned her head away again. The lamp-posts remained. But the little villas had disappeared. And the Great West Road had gone on. They had reached the factories. Big ones. Fancy ones. Factories that looked as though they had been turned out of ice-cream moulds. Industrial Neapolitan specialities. With chrome and neon decorations. They were swimming past her, looking bigger through the tears.

  “What do you intend to do?” she said at last.

  She spoke slowly, carefully, separating the words to make sure that she would be able to say them.

  “Talk to ’em about it, of course,” he said. “Make ’em see sense. Get Dad to go to America. Brighten them up a bit. Think big.”

  It was the second time already he had used that vulgar word. And it made her forgive him everything. As she glanced down at him she could see how ridiculously young he really was. Of course, a clever, impressionable boy was bound to have been affected by America. She had heard that the influence of New York on otherwise quite mature and steady people was really quite remarkable. It was one of the reasons why she hadn’t wanted him to go there in the first place.

  And they were holding hands by now. He had reached out and found hers. That showed how much of a grown man he was. It showed that he still needed her. Felt the want of security that she alone could give. She clasped her fingers on his and sat there saying nothing.

  As they drew up at the house, Mrs. Rammell felt quite different. Like herself again. It was wonderful. After the anxiety, the waiting, of the last twenty-four hours, she really could relax. Nothing was going to happen to Mr. Rammell. She felt sure of that now. And Tony really belonged to her again. She hadn’t lost him as she had begun to fear she had.

  “Now you go straight up and get into bed,” she told him. “I’ve said you’re not to be called. I want you to have your sleep out.”

  But Tony wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Not till I’ve been round to the nursing home,” he said. “He may be wanting something. You know what those places are.”

  4

  Mr. Privett’s homecoming was a bit of an anti-climax. It seemed so normal, so ordinary, to be walking up Fewkes Road with Mr. Bloot there beside him. But Mrs. Privett seemed to think that the whole thing was a put-up job between the two of them.

  “Good evening, Gus,” she said coldly. “So he found you, did he?”

  Mrs. Privett was so offhand, in fact, that Mr. Privett had to take her to one side and explain matters.

  “ ... and because of the shock, he’s had a sort of breakdown,” he said carefully. “He ... he needs nursing and looking after.”

  “And you expect me to do it, I suppose.”

  “There’s no one else,” Mr. Privett told her. “Not now. Only me. I’ll help, of course.”

  Mrs. Privett drew her mouth down.

  “I never heard anything so ridiculous,” she said. “All because of a few budgies.” She paused. “Oh, well, I suppose I’d better put a kettle on. You’ll both be needing something.”

  “Thank you, Mother ...” Mr. Privett began.

  But Mrs. Privett turned on him.

  “And now you both go round to the Police Station,” she said. “He’s caused quite enough trouble already. It’s not fair letting them go on looking for him when he’s just sitting here. They’ve got more important things to do.”

  By the time they got back from the Police Station, Mrs. Privett had got a meal ready. And Mr. Bloot brightened up at the sight of it. Considering his ordeal, his appetite seemed remarkably healthy. He even recovered sufficiently to take an interest in other than his own affairs. Mr. Rammell’s illness in particular distressed him.

  “Mah mah,” he said. “To think of it. Him and me. Both away together. Ah can’t believe it.”

  The gravity of Rammell’s predicament continued to impress him.

  “If only Ah’d known,” he kept saying. “Ah could have trahd to oblahje.” He paused. “Ah wonder how they managed.”

  “He looked after it,” Mrs. Privett told him pointedly.

  “Ah know, Ah know,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Ah’m sure they all did their best. But Ah’m all raht again now. Ah’ll be able to take over on Monday.” There was a pause. Then he resumed. “Ah can just see Mr. Preece’s face when Ah walk in. The look of relief on it.”

  Mr. Bloot asked Mrs. Privett’s permission, and poured himself another cup of tea.

  “Of course,” he said. “There’s more to it than Mr. Preece. There’s ’Etty. That’s going to be unpleasant. ’Er begging me to go back, Ah mean.”

  Mr. Privett started to say something and then stopped himself. Mr. Bloot, however, was ready to speak again.

  “Mahnd you,” he said. “Ah don’t regret it. Marrying ’Etty, Ah mean. She had something. Ah was very prahd of ’Etty when we went aht anywhere. Before she cooled off, that is.”

  But Mr. Bloot was tired by now. Tired, and obviously relaxed. He gave a long, luxurious sigh.

  “Quaht lahk old tahms,” he said to nobody in particular. “Rahnd the fah. Just the three of us.”

  Book Five

  Bond Street in Retrospect

  Chapter Fourty-seven

  1

  Nowadays they never even mention Mr. Bloot. Not any longer. Too many other things have been happening. Too much going on in all departments. After all, three years is quite a time. There are some assistants in Rammell’s, with their probation period and two annual increments both behind them, who have never so much as heard of Mr. Bloot. Simply do not know that he ever existed. Sounds incredible. But it’s true.

  You see, the management didn’t feel that they could have Mr. Bloot back. Not after those newspaper paragraphs. His unexplained absence, his scarpering,
was too unsatisfactory. When Mr. Bloot did turn up in Bond Street on the next day, Mr. Preece sent him away again. Told him to take extended sick leave. Said that he would be hearing from them.

  Mr. Bloot heard all right. The letter said that the firm had decided to retire him. And, in recognition of his long service, they were going to pay him a pension of three pounds a week. It was Mr. Bloot’s day of gloom when he received the letter. And the gloom came a good forty-eight hours too late. He had failed to notify the Staff Supervisor that he was staying with the Privetts. And Hetty in her present mood wasn’t forwarding anything.

  Naturally, Mr. Privett wanted Mr. Bloot to go on living with them. Make Fewkes Road his headquarters. Look on it as home. But here some latent instinct of reserve asserted itself. He refused. And he was adamant. Less than six weeks after he had moved in, he moved out again.

  Just in time, too, for his presence to be remembered as a tender incident. And not as a major imposition. Another fortnight—another week, even another twenty-four hours—and so far as Mrs. Privett was concerned, the charm of Mr. Bloot’s presence might easily have evaporated. Sorry as she was for him and deliberately making herself remember poor Emmie, she still didn’t see why she should be expected to spend the rest of her life boiling kettles, cutting cake, spreading bread and butter, making pastry, peeling things, washing up so that their visitor would feel strong enough to take a little stroll with Mr. Privett in the evenings.

  The only surprise came with Mr. Bloot’s choice of residence. Not that it was really surprising when you came to remember the long quiet history of his domestic background before Hetty came into the picture. He was not a man with an army of friends posted strategically all over London. Not someone given to dropping in and being dropped in on. There was, in fact, only one address that he knew. And, when he finally decided that he needed a place of his own so that any budgies he might have could get indoor exercise, he went to the only address that he knew. Back to Tetsbury Road. To the Gurneys.