Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  And they simply couldn’t have been nicer. The sight of Mr. Bloot, fresh and pink from the effort of walking, standing there in her own porchway was enough for Mrs. Gurney. She took it as a vast, unspoken apology. Forgave him instantly. Asked him in. Reunited him with Mr. Gurney. Gave him tea.

  Of course, it required a bit of arranging to fit him in again. It wasn’t his old rooms that he got back. That would have been too much to hope for. But Mr. Bloot was philosophical about it. He recognized that life is all change. Transformation. Metamorphosis. That nothing on earth remains the same for ever. And that it is a brave man who is ready to accept the unknown. So when the Gurneys offered him the first floor back instead of the second floor front, Mr. Bloot accepted.

  What’s more, it was a turning point. With good luck waiting round the corner. He got his old dining-table back—the big one with the casters—and the small bamboo piece on which he had always put his watch at night. But that wasn’t all. Discarded by Rammell’s, he suddenly found himself sought after elsewhere. There was a new bird food—TWEETIE, BUDGIES LOVE IT—that had just come on to the market. And the manufacturers asked Mr. Bloot if he would like to represent it. Asked him very tactfully, too. Explained that they needed someone of his standing, his professional record, to introduce the product. Otherwise, of course, Mr. Bloot wouldn’t have considered it. Not common, commercial traveller stuff. Not bag work.

  As it is, he is doing very nicely. A good five pounds’ commission most weeks. And there is a big future in it. More hungry little budgies being hatched out every day. More packets of TWEETIE disappearing from the shelves.

  The firm is so pleased, in fact, that they’ve offered Mr. Bloot the South of England. The whole of it. And a car. A Hillman. But only on condition that he can drive. And that looks like being a stumbling block. He’s been taking lessons at a driving school. But the instructor isn’t hopeful. Mr. Bloot isn’t by any means a natural. It’s the gears mostly. And the starting. And backing into places. And hand signals. And remembering about traffic lights. And other cars. And stopping. He’s dented one wing of the driving school car quite badly. The Privetts don’t see very much of Mr. Bloot nowadays. Except at week-ends, of course. Not with TWEETIE by day. And driving lessons in the evenings.

  And Fewkes Road tends to be a bit quiet and lifeless now that Irene is married. Mrs. Privett had the idea at one time of having Nancy Parkinson over to live with them. Nancy’s nerves had been bad lately. And it seemed the sensible thing to do.

  When it was suggested, Nancy jumped at it. Fairly jumped. It seemed everything that she could want. Company. Friendship. Love. That warm feeling of being among people who really cared. She was ready to move in on the Saturday. Then she remembered about Mrs. Rammell. And she realized at once that Mrs. Rammell wouldn’t like it. Not having her own sister in digs with one of the staff. She might think that Nancy was getting at her. So nothing came of it. And Nancy remained where she was. She still sent Mrs. Privett post-cards.

  Not that the Privetts needed the money. Not since Mr. Privett had got his promotion. He is permanently in Mr. Bloot’s shoes now. Main vestibule. New frock-coat. Cut to measure. Dress allowance to cover things like shirts and ties. And another two pounds a week. For the first few weeks Mr. Privett felt too guilty to enjoy it. As though, by accepting, he had somehow been disloyal to Gus. But he’s got over the feeling now. Too many other things on his mind. Too much responsibility. And the sense of supreme command certainly leaves its mark on a man. Mr. Privett has taken to wearing a buttonhole. And he can afford to. He no longer has to queue up with the rest of them on Fridays for his pay envelope. He’s monthly salaried now. He’s senior.

  And successful. The Dianthe has proved a real winner now that she’s been back to Mr. Lumley to have half an inch and half an ounce taken off her keel. Obviously, a desperate measure. But there was something wrong with the Dianthe, even though Mr. Privett wouldn’t admit it. As it is, she’s perfect. Almost too good. She is now the most heavily handicapped yacht up at Highgate.

  Mr. Bloot turns up regularly to see her sail. And he’s looking more imposing than ever. New hat. New overcoat. New shoes. So imposing, in fact, that the rumour has got about that Mr. Bloot is the real owner of the Dianthe, and simply allows Mr. Privett to do the sailing. Not that Mr. Privett minds. He’s happy enough just seeing Mr. Bloot and the Dianthe both up there.

  But even though Mr. Privett’s Sundays may seem full again, there is still something missing. Irene. That is because she and Ted chose Wembley of all places to live in when they got married. Why? Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Privett could possibly imagine. Nor, for that matter, could Ted and Irene. They didn’t know anyone at Wembley. Had no friends there. Weren’t particularly enthusiastic about being so near to the Stadium with all the noise and commotion of the football crowds. Had never dreamed of living in Metroland at all. It was simply that they went there one Saturday afternoon merely for the bus ride—and the nesting instinct caught them unawares. Nice little flat, though. With telephone. And constant hot water. And a very good-sounding address. The Buckingham Court bit fully makes up for its being N.W.9.

  Irene isn’t in Rammell’s any longer. Not properly, that is. You can’t look after a baby and be a career girl, too. Not at the same time. And, when it came to it, Irene put the baby first. He’s over eight months old already. Coming up for nine. There was some trouble about his feeding at first. No appetite. Wouldn’t suck properly. But, thank goodness, that’s all over. He’s simply enormous by now. Going to be an engineer. Or a scientist. Or something. You can tell that by the way he’s interested in anything moving. Especially in things that go round. And it’s a full-time job just coping with him.

  Even so Irene hasn’t cut adrift from Rammell’s completely. She’s been at the annual staff dances. The last one wasn’t so bad. But the time before was terrible. She was expecting Junior practically at any moment. And, of course, she goes along to the Sports Club. Because Ted is secretary now. There is his position to be kept up. Fortunately, the sports ground isn’t far away. Neasden is one of the few places that Wembley is really near to. And quite a lot of Rammell wives live out somewhere in that direction. And on fine Saturdays there are almost as many prams as players.

  Of course, Irene is missing Bond Street. No good pretending she isn’t. Even though she knows she’s doing the right thing staying by Junior she feels out of it somehow. She’s stood over by the sink in the little kitchenette washing up bottles and things after Ted has left in the morning, with the flat suddenly silent and empty-feeling behind her, and envied the other girls, complete strangers, that she can see in the road outside all going in the direction of the station.

  And it is worst of all in the evening when Ted begins talking about Rammell’s. Mere minor gossip. Like who’s ill. Or about a row over a sale’s slip with the date left off. Or the surprise love-affair between Office Stationery and Children’s Hairdressing—just when everyone thought that Office Stationery was interested only in Electric Mixers, and Children’s Hairdressing seemed all set for Travel Goods. Then she really feels an outsider. As though she’d been expelled, or something.

  That’s why she looks forward so much to Christmas. She’s on Rammell’s temporary list, of course. One of the permanent temporaries, so to speak. Good assistants aren’t three a penny. And she can go back whenever she wants to. Last Christmas, for example, was heavenly. The same rush in the morning. Standing up in the train. Worked off her feet as soon as she got there. Only half an hour for lunch because there were all the things to put straight again. Ten minutes for tea. A splitting headache by five-thirty. And the glorious sense of being in the swim again.

  It was during one of the Christmas periods that she saw Tony. Irene was back in Gowns and young Tony—Mr. Rammell by now to the staff—came through the department. Their eyes met. And he came over and talked to her. Asked about the baby. And about where she was living. And how she liked life in general. Stayed there beside her for a good two or three minut
es. And it didn’t mean a thing to either of them. Funny when you come to think of it. At one time he couldn’t get that gleaming, dark head of Irene’s out of his mind. And she had felt strangely disturbed, as though all her bones had turned to jelly, if she even caught sight of him. And now there was just nothing there. No flame at all. Not even a flicker.

  On Tony’s part it wasn’t simply that he’d known rather a lot of other girls since Irene. Not counting Marcia, that is. There’d been Mary-Lou and Brenda and, ultimately, Desta over in New York. And there’d been Pamela and Imogen over here since he’d come back. All—with the exception of Marcia—small, dark ones. With distinctly upturned noses. Evidently his biologic type. His fate. But he was too busy for any of them now. Was living a practically girl-less existence. Coming into Rammell’s before nine and not getting away again much before seven. It’s because of the long hours that he’s moved into Albany. Only two rooms. And a bath. And distinctly dark in winter. But the best address in London. And so close to Bond Street.

  Some of Tony’s American ideas have caught on. Not all. But some. Particularly on the accounting side. There’s been nothing less than a revolution up there. Calculators, microfilm records, photostat machines, electronic computers. The whole works. There was an article on Rammell’s in “Business Efficiency” only the other month. And all Tony’s doing. Not that he has become managing director in the meantime. Nothing like that. You can’t expect to spend a few months in the States enjoying yourself and then shoot up like a rocket the moment you return. He’s on the board all right. But that’s as far as it goes.

  It is Mr. Preece who is managing director. But he has only just moved into Mr. Rammell’s old room. Still feels a bit awkward about being there. Rather self-conscious amid so much solid splendour. Even looks wrong. He’s paler than ever. And thinner. So neatly dressed, too, that there seems to be nothing of him. Whenever he sits back for a moment it is obvious that he ought to get himself a smaller chair. But he’s happy all right. Oh, so happy. He’s got where he meant to be.

  And, in consequence, Mrs. Preece is happy, too. They’ve just moved into a larger house. Farther from the station. Not because the old one wasn’t big enough. Simply because they both felt that, with Mr. Preece’s position, they ought to have something a bit more secluded. Gates and a drive, you know. Well, they’ve got it. And, as a result, Mrs. Preece is nearly dead with fatigue. She’s having servant trouble. And local labour won’t come out so far. But it’s worth it, seeing her husband go sweeping off in the morning in his new Sapphire.

  As for Mr. Rammell himself, he’s given up caring. After the operation he made a thoroughly good recovery. Even a lightning one. He was back on the job again inside six weeks. Six weeks too soon, as it turned out. Because all the old trouble started up again. More pains. More doctors. More nursing homes. For the next twelve months he was hanging over the office rather than actually a part of it. And, after the last bout, Mr. Huntley Cary advised him to throw his hand in for good. Cut clear and go off somewhere. Put Rammell’s right behind him. Regard himself as having had it. Said that, otherwise, he wouldn’t accept any further responsibility.

  Pretty cool, when you come to think of it. After all those fees. And pooh-poohing everything. All the professional soft talk, in fact. But just like Mr. Huntley Cary. And very good advice all the same.

  Because Mr. Rammell is much better now. He’s put on weight. And cut down his smoking. And he’s sleeping eight hours every night. With a cat-nap in the afternoons as well most days. But that’s probably the sea air. He spends most of his time on cruises nowadays. He’s been to all the places he ever wanted to visit. Romantic places, too. He’s seen coral fish over the side. He’s smelt the scent of cinnamon coming in on the shore breeze. He’s seen palm trees apparently rising from the surface of the ocean. And frigate birds overhead. And flying-fish. And dolphins playing. Even a whale. Everything he could have imagined.

  And one thing that he didn’t ever imagine. Mrs. Rammell. Because she insisted on coming, too. At the first hint, she dropped everything. Resigned from her committees right, left and centre. Closed the house up. And moved into the double state room alongside her husband.

  Just so that she could be there to look after him, she said. Not that it worked out quite that way. She was a terrible sailor. Even the gentlest of swells upset her. The stewardess alone could not cope. Mr. Rammell had to act as sick-nurse as well. It was a bit of a strain naturally, coming so soon on top of his own illness. But it certainly helped to keep his mind occupied.

  They’re off Cape Town at the moment. On their way to the Far East. And it is working out better on this trip. Mrs. Rammell has engaged her own companion. And Mr. Rammell has a separate cabin. He’s comparatively undisturbed. Almost a bachelor. And, as he drops off to sleep at night, he’s started playing an old, childhood game again. It’s his ship. And they’re sailing on a secret mission. There’s danger in the air. Mutiny among the crew. The glass is falling. Fuel’s low. And his wound is worse than he’s admitted. It’s going to be all right, of course. But not yet. Not till he’s revealed his secret weapon ... Five or ten minutes of delightful half-waking dream-drivel every evening. Real nursery stuff. Only better. Because now he can actually feel a ship under him. Hear the long creakings, as he dreams.

  Mrs. Rammell’s own night thoughts are not so restful. But then they never were. And there is one thing in particular that keeps coming back into her mind just when she thinks that she really is going off to sleep. She will never be Lady Rammell now. Doesn’t see how she can be. Not now that poor dear Eric, bless him, of course, is so much of a back number.

  There is another reason, too. But Mrs. Rammell has taught herself not to think of that one. Has closed her mind to it entirely. It’s connected with Marcia, you see.

  Marcia was too much dazed when she first arrived in Bermuda to do anything very much. Just sat about in the sun, reminding herself that this was where she had always wanted to be, and wondering vaguely about the future. Not worrying. Just wondering.

  It was certainly a delightful hotel. She had noticed the names of two peers in the register when she signed in. And Sir Harry could not have been more generous. Everything paid for. And he’d opened an account for her just as he said he would. She’d never had more money in her life. More money. Or less to spend it on.

  Naturally, she was grateful. That was why she sent him a postcard of the place. A colour postcard, addressed in that rather strange, backward-sloping handwriting of hers. But Sir Harry was not interested in the handwriting. Didn’t even notice it. It was the colour that hit him. Fierce Prussian-blue sky. Indigo sea. Mustard-yellow sand. Veridian palm trees. He realized instantly that red omnibuses here in London were no substitute. And B.O.A.C. did the rest. Forty-eight hours later he was out there beside her.

  They’re Sir Harry and Lady Rammell now. Special licence. Just like that. All on the spur of the moment. Entirely Sir Harry’s idea. And, when he put it to her, she found it beyond herself to say “No.” In the circumstances, it would have seemed so ungrateful. So unfeeling. She’s learning Scrabble and Canasta. Or, rather, trying to. Scrabble is way beyond her, because of the spelling. And Canasta is almost as difficult. Naturally, it’s simply heavenly being Lady Rammell. It’s all she ever dreamed of. And so rich, too. Nor does the difference in their ages matter. Not in a place like Bermuda. The whole island is a love-nest for improbables. But she’s finding it a strain. Make no mistake about that. She’s out on her heels already. Can’t keep up with him. The late hours. And so much loving attention. And the drink. And the photography. In all that sun she’s stood up against balconies for hours, literally hours, while Sir Harry’s been getting the stop right. Because he likes to have her in all the pictures. And she’s only beginning to realize how much in the old days the professional in charge really helped. But life for Marcia nowadays is both so tranquil and, at the same time, such a rush that she never remembers the other men who once shared it. Not even Mr. Bulping.
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  And that’s fair enough. Mr. Bulping doesn’t remember her. There’s a marvellous little hostess, a widow, at a country club outside Wolverhampton. She’s taking up all Mr. Bulping’s spare time. She’s under thirty. And 34—21—34. He’s crazy over her. Must be. He’s just given her his Bentley. Lent it, rather. Anyhow, it’s all hers. And he’s got one of the new ones with a downswept tail. Still, if Mrs. B. will only do the decent thing and divorce him, he’s reckoning on getting the old one back. He can take it. Wouldn’t look at any house that hadn’t got a double garage.

  And that about accounts for all of them.

  Except for Hetty, of course. But she was never really one of the Rammell family. Simply married into it. And, when she broke with Mr. Bloot, she broke with Rammell’s too. Mr. Bloot himself never so much as saw her again. He went round to Artillery Mansions the second night he was back. Made a regular evening pilgrimage. But either there was no answer at all or it was Chick who opened the door and merely closed it again. And even when he wrote to her, she did not answer. Not that there were any charges or recriminations in the letter. Nothing emotional. Simply straightforward appeals for what were indubitably his. His other suit. His black boots. His umbrella. His linen. The empty birdcages ... in the end, still in the absence of any reply, it was Mr. Privett who had to go round to collect most of them.

  When letters did begin to arrive, they were from her solicitor. All about desertion. And cruelty. And instituting divorce proceedings. They shook him up badly, those letters. Mr. Bloot had always strongly disapproved of divorce. It was, in his opinion, one of the signs that the country was going to the dogs. He didn’t want to play any part in a divorce case. Least of all as the guilty party.

  That was why, on Mr. Privett’s advice, he went round and consulted Mr. Hamster. Naturally, Mr. Hamster was delighted. He saw the point immediately. As soon as he heard about Chick, he said that they would defend the case. And more than defend it. Petition themselves. He spoke of having the flat watched. Of tipping off the Queen’s Proctor. Of getting Hetty turned out of the flat because it was being used for immoral purposes. Of having a quiet word with a policeman he knew, to see if they could get Chick run in for anything. Of suing for the return of the balance of his personal property.