All in all, the case—which might have been merely one of the undefended kind—is developing very interestingly. Mr. Hamster is pleased. He’s putting his best into it. In some ways, it promises to be about the biggest divorce case he has ever handled.
Meanwhile Hetty and Chick were really getting along very well together. Rather too much to drink, perhaps. And thoroughly slack in their habits. Slopping around in dressing-gowns until midday on Sundays. Eating everything out of tins. Not tidying up the mess of ash-trays and glasses after the weekly card parties. But obviously made for each other. And it has to be admitted that the flat is a happier place since Gus left it. He did tend to spoil the fun rather whenever she had her friends in. “That old wet blanket” is how nowadays she generally refers to him.
Chapter Fourty-eight
2
But there’s too much going on to waste our sympathy on anyone like Hetty.
Take to-day, for instance. Mrs. Privett didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. But she was up again at six-thirty. Up, and boiling things. The porridge was simmering in its double saucepan. The milk with an asbestos mat under it, stood ready to be brought over the flame as soon as it was needed. And there was an extra kettle on. Everything was ready in fact a good half-hour earlier than usual. The clock on the kitchen mantelshelf even now showed only two minutes past seven.
Mrs. Privett had laid the table the night before. And it was obvious that it was not by any means an ordinary Monday morning breakfast. Someone extra had been invited. Rather a special guest, too, from the look of things. One of the upright chairs, the one with arms, had been brought through from the drawing-room. And, as though that in itself were not enough, two of the best cushions, also from the drawing-room, had been wedged into it. If it had been a Pasha they were entertaining, things could not have taken on a more deeply-upholstered look.
Mrs. Privett herself seemed clearly keyed up. Her lips were drawn down more tightly than ever. And she was humming. Not any time, in particular. Merely a faint, buzzing noise that indicated happiness, preoccupation and a sense of inner urgency. When she went over to the gas-stove and removed the larger of the two kettles, she gave one of those little signs that indicate that things are planning out the way they have been intended.
Then, kettle in hand, she went quickly upstairs to the bathroom. Filling the basin, she added just the right amount of cold water, spread out the clean towel, saw that all the odds and ends—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, comb, skin ointment—were there ready in the little toilet bag, and went through on tiptoe into Irene’s old room.
The door was already open. Had been open all night, in fact. Carefully wedged by a folded-up piece of newspaper. The curtains were drawn. But the sash-window behind them was down a good foot. And a screen had been placed in between the window and the bed so that a direct draught was impossible even with the open door. Still on tiptoe, Mrs. Privett pulled back the curtains, folded up the screen, closed the window and went over to the bed. Only then did she allow herself to come down on to her heels and set about waking up the occupant.
He was certainly asleep all right. Flat out. And blissful. A bit pallid perhaps after more than twelve hours without food. Even dissipated looking. With a tremendous sweep of eyelashes across the pale cheek. But still alive. And protected from everything. It seemed a sin to wake him up at all, she reflected. Better to let him go drifting along as he was until he woke up on his own account. But Irene had been emphatic on that point. Just because he was spending his first night away from home, she didn’t want his regular habits, his routine, upset. She hadn’t really wanted Mrs. Privett to have him at all. It was only because of Rammell’s that she had even considered it. And it was all so sudden, too. Other Sale times Irene had got it all worked out. Ted’s sister knew someone who could come over to be with Junior. But she required proper warning. Two or three weeks’ notice at least. And this time she had let them down by going into hospital. Without her, it was impossible. So clearly impossible that Irene hadn’t even bothered to fill up the Staff (Temporary) form that the Supervisor had sent her. Simply put it out of her mind. Told herself that Junior must come first. And tried hard to forget about the extra money.
Then, just when everything was settled, the Supervisor phoned up personally. It was nothing less than an emergency, it seemed. The ’flu epidemic had seen to that. Half the assistants away. And the Sales already started. Rammell’s would take it as a special favour, she said, if Airene could possibly mennege it just to hailp them out for a day or two until their other gairls were beck with them again.
There’s always something flattering about being rung up personally. It’s nice to think that something enormous like Rammell’s can’t get along without you. Irene said at once that she didn’t see how she could, but she’d try. And she knew perfectly well as she said it that she would.
Less than an hour after the Supervisor had telephoned, Irene was on her way by bus with Junior over to Mrs. Privett’s to make all the arrangements. Not that she was ready to do the sensible thing and leave him then and there. She would bring him back later, she said, with all his things. He had possessions, it seemed, from which separation was unthinkable.
But it had all worked out perfectly. Even though she felt strangely callous and childless, as though she had just had Junior adopted and was never going to see him again, she was able to leave Wembley with Ted next morning, catching the eight-ten that he always took. And it was certainly like being home again to find herself in Rammell’s. There was a warm, pleasant familiarity about everything. Same smell of the grey Wilton on the floor. Same dust-sheets to be whisked off and put away. Same murmur as the shop began to fill up and come to life. Same little treble ting as the elevator doors opened. Same rustle of packing paper. Same hum from the street outside. Same well-oiled whirring sound of the sliding doors to the stock cabinets. Same assistants, most of them. And so pleased to see her, too.
It was Gowns that she was sent up to. And just as well. There were two assistants away and the beginner, a Miss Hammans, was already complaining of a headache and a sore throat. In desperation, the Supervisor had even brought Miss Sulgrave over from Staff Stores. She was more motherly and affectionate than ever. Nearly wept when she saw Irene looking so young and pretty after the ordeal of motherhood. But Miss Sulgrave had always been a bit emotional and over-demonstrative with the youngsters. And Irene didn’t consider herself a youngster any longer. Besides, all those years in Staff Stores had rubbed some of the gloss off Miss Sulgrave’s technique. She wasn’t really main-building class any longer. Still full of smiles and endlessly patient, she was nevertheless liable to lapses. Try as she would, “dear” kept slipping out, instead of “madam”. And even at Sale time, that was hardly a thing that could be overlooked.
In consequence, Irene might have been in charge of the place. It wasn’t easy because she didn’t know what stock they were carrying. But it wasn’t really difficult because she was trained to it. And more than trained. It was something that was in the blood. She was in her element.
Not that Irene would even have considered it if it had been any other store that had asked her. She wasn’t hireable. Not just like that. Loyalty came into it, too. And sentiment. And a bit of snobbery as well. After all, Rammell’s was Rammell’s. Though at Sale time you’d hardly know it. For a start, there was a different class of customer altogether. Different clothes. Different accents. Different manners. They weren’t Bond Street regulars at all. Didn’t come near the place in the ordinary way. They were invaders. Barbarian women from the hills around London. Female suburban Goths who swept in just for a day, intent on a little pillage in the plain.
Rammell’s knew how to cope with them, however. Had been preparing for months, in fact. These Annual Sales were an institution. And there isn’t much to choose when you get down to the morality of the market-place. There has to be a good deal of give and take on both sides. After all, it was the label as much as the dress that most of the hu
ntresses were after. Anything to show that it had really come from Rammell’s. And, in the circumstances, Rammell’s was clearly to be excused for having done a little special buying so as to be ready for the rush. Simple little afternoon frocks, and even rather gorgeous evening-gowns, from workshops that were left entirely unpatronized during the rest of the year. Two-piece woollens and cocktail dresses, that you wouldn’t find again on any of the hangers for another twelve months. Irene even felt rather ashamed of one or two of the models that had been brought in. Would have passed them by herself without giving them a second thought. Couldn’t quite reconcile the way the seams had been turned in and the zip-fasteners sewn on with what Rammell’s really stood for. But she had learnt her lesson when she first came there. In any big store, even the best of them, it is only the newcomer who ever questions the buyer about where all the fresh stock at Sales time has suddenly come from.
And there was no question of its not being wanted. By ten o’clock she had got thirty-four pounds’ worth of business down on the check sheet in her book. But that’s always the way it is at Sale time. There’s a belief that only the dawn marauders get what they really come for. The others have to take the left-overs, the rubbish. It isn’t true, of course. There’s more coming up from the Stock Room practically all the time. But it’s more than a mere fiction. It’s part of the true faith about all Sales. It’s what keeps up the spirit of the thing. Gets middle-aged housewives camping out on little stools with Thermos flasks beside them, just to be first at the counters in the morning.
It wasn’t only the assistants who suffered. It was tough on Mr. Privett, too. They took some handling, these customers. After all, he was the one who had to face them. He was the one who actually had to open the doors. And, having opened them, he was the one who had to step back smartly. Otherwise they would just have overwhelmed him. Because they weren’t the kind to waste time by asking. They dashed. Straight through the departments as though they owned the place. By five past nine the sacking had begun. And Millinery was usually the worst. There were some hats that had been crammed on and snatched off again upwards of a dozen times before Mr. Privett had been able to take up his proper position again in the main foyer.
Because of the rush, Irene hadn’t seen Ted since she had left him that morning outside the Staff Cloakrooms. Didn’t even catch sight of him at eleven when she went up to the canteen for a cup of coffee. But it was quite understandable. He had his own world up there to look after. A world of catgut and rubber and stainless steel shafts and pale willow. All marked down. And all being pawed and swung and taken out of their stands by a separate race of male invaders. Only with a difference. There were more of the Rammell regulars among them. Steady, sensible chaps who had put off buying another dozen golf balls or a new tennis racket until they had seen what the Sale had to offer.
It was at lunch-time when Irene went up to see him. And it gave her a real pang of sudden happiness to be reminded of how important he was. If you’re in the trade, you can tell at a glance when something’s a success. And there was achievement written large over the whole department. And that wasn’t just the opinion of an over-loving wife. If things hadn’t been pretty good, the management would never have knocked down the partition in the Downe Street corner to enlarge the floor space. As it was, Ted now had cycles and motor scooters too. It was a garage as well as sports pavilion up there on the fifth floor.
Because it was the Sale, there was no time for the sort of lunch that husband and wife might have been expected to eat together. Nothing leisurely. No graceful living. Just a sandwich and a cup of coffee up in the canteen. No time even to get out of the place for a breath of air. Not that Irene minded. She was thinking of Junior. She was sure that he was all right, of course. Quite sure. With Mrs. Privett in charge nothing could possibly happen. It was only that Irene couldn’t help imagining things. Like faulty fire-guards. And loose stair rods. And cupboards crashing over. And traffic accidents when Mrs. Privett took Junior out for a walk. And dog bites ... Even while serving there in Bond Street, Irene in reality was far away.
By four o’clock, she had had it. Tired. Really tired. It was worse than housework. Worse than pram-pushing. Worse than anything in the whole world except being a shop assistant at Sales time. She hadn’t sat down properly since she got there. Been on her feet since a quarter to nine. Had taken down more than a hundred dresses. Put eighty-six of them away again. Jammed her ball-point pencil because she had dropped it on the parquet flooring. Scraped her arm on one of the hangers because the dresses were jammed in so tight in the cabinets. Been rude to a large, hostile woman who had wasted her time by insisting on trying on a 38 when she could see that she needed a 42 at least. Made a mistake of ten shillings in her Cash Sheet. Had mistaken a regular for a casual, and had refused to change something because she thought it had been bought at the sales. Had breathed other people’s air for nearly seven hours. Had a headache. Felt swimmy when she reached up for things. And there was still another ninety minutes to go.
It was funny somehow to see Mr. Privett standing there waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs by the staff entrance. He was standing in exactly the place where he always used to stand. It seemed as though she had never got married at all. And there was the little smile on his face that was always there whenever he saw Irene.
“I’ve just seen Ted,” he told her. “He won’t be a moment.”
This rather relieved Irene. Not because she was worried about Ted. But because Mr. Privett himself did not seem to be worried. There had been that awkward period while she and Ted had been engaged. Then Mr. Privett had always been at pains not to get in the way. Had moved off whenever he saw Ted coming. Seemed to feel that they were just waiting for him to go. Whereas, now that they were married, things were easier. The old jumpiness had disappeared. And Mr. Privett was himself again.
But she wasn’t really thinking of her father any longer. Or even of Ted. It was Junior who still filled her mind. And all the way back in the Underground she realized that she could never be quite the perfect assistant again. Not single-minded, that is. Anyhow, not until he was older. At school all day. And by then there might be another Junior. Someone who needed her even more than Rammell’s did. She and Ted had always told themselves that they were going to have more than one. An only child can be such a problem. It isn’t fair to them to be left entirely to themselves so much. And the gap should never be too long anyway ... In the meantime, all that she wanted was to get back to Fewkes Road and have Junior to herself at last.
But this was not so easy. It had been Nancy’s day to go round there. And Mrs. Privett hadn’t liked to put her off. Nor would Nancy have been willing to be put off. Childless herself, she found babies—toddlers, especially—irresistible. As it was, she had spent from four o’clock that afternoon practically flat on the hearth-rug, piling up bricks, pushing toy motor cars, giving her playmate things that he could bang, rolling balls at him, letting him pull her hair. Mrs. Privett had felt that she was rather overdoing it. And told her so. In consequence, Nancy had sulked. Mrs. Privett had been forced to do something about it. Give way gracefully. That was why she had allowed Nancy to help in the bathroom. Sprinkle the powder, while Mrs. Privett patted it in.
But it was not Nancy’s presence that was the trouble. It was Mr. Bloot’s. He was there as well. In this re-acquired bachelor state, he tended to come round to Fewkes Road rather a lot. Usually at meal-times. But not as a burden any longer. As a rather ostentatiously generous family friend. A bottle of port, or sherry, tucked under his arm. Or, in season, a pineapple. Even, on occasion, a small bunch of flowers for Mrs. Privett.
That was because TWEETIE was doing so nicely. Fairly booming. With budgerigars thriving on it. And Mr. Bloot’s commission more than doubling. Mr. Bloot, with only himself to care for, was in the thousand-a-year class now. And he was enjoying himself.
But suddenly seeing Nancy and Irene again proved too much for him. He became reminiscent. About Nancy h
erself as a girl. And about Irene as a baby. About how Woodbines had been twopence a packet, and he and Emily had once been young. So young that from sheer happiness in living they had done silly, impulsive things, like hiring a boat on the Serpentine late one Saturday evening, and how the attendant, a rough-voiced man, had been forced to scull out to them in the gathering darkness to bring them in again. And about a hat of Emily’s with white flowers on it that a horse had attempted to eat while they were waiting arm-in-arm to cross the Edgware Road. And about some shrimps that had nearly killed them both, bringing them up in a violent, mulberry coloured rash, after having been eaten on a sunny August afternoon at a small café with an outside awning at Westcliff-on-Sea. And about Emily’s unreasoning fear of mice ...
It was Emily, not Hetty, who figured in all these stories. But quite impersonally. As someone who had apparently existed only during those few distant months of courtship. A mere snapshot-collection of memories. Like the rowing-boat attendant. And the horse. And the outside awning. And the mice.
It was Rammell’s that was continuous. Rammell’s that was the full-scale documentary. How Sir Harry, as plain Mr. Rammell in those days, had once made everyone stay all night to prepare a new window display that had been the talk of London the next day. And how Mr. Preece had started at fifteen shillings a week in dispatch—and look at him now. And how Mr. Rammell, the present one, had always been a bit afraid of his father. And what a surprise it was that young Mr. Tony looked like settling down at last. And how Mr. Bloot, not so blind as some others he could mention, had always known that Marcia was no better than she should be. And how he didn’t envy Sir Harry having to keep an eye on her out there with all those bathing-beaches and cocktail-bars and American playboys around.
Bond Street Story Page 48