Bond Street Story (24 page)

Hetty herself, however, did not seem to be eating anything. And Mr. Bloot was suddenly glad after all that he had got a cigarette to offer her. Despite the number of cigarettes in the other room, it did not seem to have occurred to Mr. Privett that ladies like Hetty who went about a lot were accustomed to light up while still sitting at the table.

He beamed across at her.

“Have one of these, mah dear,” he said, producing the packet suddenly like a conjuror. “Ah know your brand.”

But Hetty only shook her head.

“Not me,” she answered. “You have one. I've got a mouth like a bird cage.”

Because of Mr. Bloot's half bottle of port, the small party lingered indolently over the supper table. And because the word “Invalid-type” appeared on the bottle, Mrs. Privett allowed herself to be persuaded. But it was a mistake. She was not accustomed to drinking. And she had already taken one glassful of Sauterne. Coming so soon on top of it, the port was too much. It immediately gave her a hot, angry flush as though someone had just said something deliberately offensive ...

Between them, the two men finished up the bottle. They even seemed surprised when they found that it had all gone. But they felt better for it. Much better. A rather aimless little smile began playing round the corners of Mr. Privett's mouth, and Mr. Bloot simply beamed. Large and pink looking, he glistened. Unable to imagine why he had ever been so anxious about the outcome of the evening, he blamed himself for having kept Hetty away from Fewkes Road for so long.

Only Hetty remained entirely abstinent. Neither drinking nor smoking, she sat back observing her companions. And she found the sight strangely consoling. More than once just lately she had
told herself that she would have to go easy, and miss every other round. And it came as a relief to discover that other people took just as much as she did. One glance at the Privetts was enough to show that they were practically pickled. And there was a smile on Gus's face that she had never even seen before.

The film that Tony and Irene were seeing was at the Curzon. It had been on for weeks already. And judging by the queues outside it would be on for ever. What was so remarkable was that it was all in French, too. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of that end of Curzon Street was so thoroughly continental that it was obvious that if an English film should have been booked by mistake, the management would have had to add French sub-titles before their patrons would have been able to follow it.

Irene was not merely happy. She was blissful. The seats in which they were sitting did not seem to have been made for ordinary cinema-goers at all. She had never before sat in anything like them. They were obviously designed for an exclusive race of luxurious, movie-loving satraps.

But it wasn't merely a matter of the upholstery. It was the fact that she was holding hands that counted. When she had felt Tony's hand come stealing up out of the semi-darkness she had thought at first that it was by accident that it had touched hers. She had expected it to go away again. But it hadn't. It had taken hold. And stayed there. At first she felt a strange electric tingle run through her at the contact. Then came the hot, rather sticky period. And finally she had reached the dumb, inert, stage.

The film itself—the wildly popular one—was rather sad, Irene thought. It was set in the Canebière district of Marseilles. And it was all about a deaf and dumb girl who murdered her illegitimate baby when it turned out to be blind like her lover. But the photography, everyone agreed was out of this world. It was shot mostly at night. Or in rain. With only the outlines of things showing. These however were enough. Rubbish bins, urinoirs, public wash-houses, sewers, horse-abattoirs—they were all there. In short, the film had Cannes Festival Award written all over it.

When it finished, everyone dutifully stood up. But it was the National Anthem that was played. For a moment, Irene had half expected that it would be the “Marseillaise.”

Tony helped her into her coat, and they made their way out into the night scene of Mayfair.

“Thank you ever so,” Irene told him. “I loved it. Really, I did.”

Tony glanced at his watch.

“Better come and get a drink,” he said. “We can just make it.”

Because it was so near to closing-time, it wasn't much of a drink. But that didn't matter, because Irene wasn't much of a drinker. She asked for gin-and-lime because it was the only thing that she could think of. And Tony himself drank only beer. Five minutes after they had gone into the pub, they were outside on the pavement again, right in the middle of Shepherd Market among the antique shops. And the poodles. And the ladies who looked as though they had somehow remained over from some previous attraction.

Tony and Irene walked round as far as Hertford Street where the car was parked.

“I'll run you home ...” he began.

But Irene stopped him.

“No, please don't bother,” she said. “I'll just pop into the Underground.”

“Get in,” Tony told her.

Irene hesitated.

“Well, only as far as Piccadilly,” she said. “It isn't really out of your way.”

“Where d'you live?” Tony asked.

“Kentish Town.”

“Where's that?”

“Oh, it's miles. Really it is. It'll take hours. You mustn't think of it.”

Tony leant across her and tried the door to make sure that it was shut properly.

“Come on,” he said. “There's no traffic at this time of night.”

It was as they were going along the Hampstead Road that Irene kept telling herself how silly she had been to get into the car at all. Because now that she was in, Tony obviously intended to drive her all the way. And she didn't want to be driven all the way. There was no use in disguising it. The Curzon and Fewkes Road just didn't belong together. And she wanted them left separate. Part of the fun of the whole evening had been the fact that she had been able to forget all about everything. What she had been enjoying was a glorious girl-from-nowhere kind of feeling.

She made one more attempt to save herself when they got to Camden Town.

“Do drop me here,” she said. “Then I can get a bus.”

But it was no use. Tony was intent on taking her. There was
nothing for it, therefore, but to tell him to go half-right and keep straight up the Kentish Town Road.

She wished more than ever by now that she hadn't allowed him to come at all. The Kentish Town Road is not on any showing a particularly pretty sort of thoroughfare at the best of times. It needs people to give life to it. And at eleven-thirty at night it was neither pretty nor lively. Compared with Curzon Street, it might have been somewhere down in the dock area.

“It's here,” she said at last. “On the right. Just past Woolworth's.”

Tony glanced up at the side of the public house on the corner.

“Fewkes Road?” he asked.

Irene nodded.

“Second lamp-post,” she told him. “Before you get to the pillar-box.”

Now that they had arrived, there was nothing for it. She certainly wasn't going to let Tony know that she was ashamed of where she lived. Moreover, now that she came to think of it, she wasn't ashamed of anything. Just happy.

“Come in for a moment,” she said. “They'll all have gone to bed.”

Tony gave her a little smile.

“Well, just for a moment,” he said. “Just to say good night.”

Irene had her own key. And Tony did not need to be reminded to be quiet. He tip-toed in. He was so quiet, indeed, that it seemed to Irene that he must be used to tip-toeing. He came up close behind Irene and put his arms around her.

“Kiss,” he said.

But quiet as he was, he had not been quiet enough. They were just outside the front room door when it suddenly opened. It was Mrs. Privett who stood there.

“Who've you got there, Irene?” she began.

Then she stopped. She could see perfectly well who it was. And she was astonished. But not nearly so much astonished as Irene. That was because over Mrs. Privett's shoulder she had an unobstructed view of her own sitting-room. And it might have been someone else's. That was because when Mr. Privett had been told to bring through the drinks, he had brought everything. There seemed to be bottles everywhere. And cigarettes. The room was littered with cigarette packets. But what was most astonishing of all was the table. There were cards spread out on it. Not that they had been played with so far. It hadn't got as far as that. The game was still merely in the tuition stage. It showed however,
that Hetty must have been feeling better. Indeed, as soon as her headache had cleared away she had begun wondering what to do. And naturally her mind had turned to the pack of cards in her handbag ...

Mrs. Privett steadied herself.

“Good evening, Mr. Rammell,” she said loud enough for the name to reach the company behind her. “Come in, won't you?”

She stood back for him to pass. And then to show how much at ease she was, she added. “I expect you'd like a drink.”

And as she said it, she fixed Irene with her eye.

The one problem in Mr. Privett's mind was that though he had got a half bottle of whisky practically untouched he had not remembered to buy any soda. His chief emotion, however, was one of warm gratification that Tony should be there at all.

“Come in, Mister Tony” he said slightly indistinctly. “Thish ish a gray pleasure frollofush.”

Naturally Hetty was delighted to see a newcomer. And in the face of such cordiality as hers it would have been impossible for Tony not to feel at home. She patted the empty chair beside her.

“Thank God you've come” she said to him. “Perhaps if we both take a hand we can show them. Don't tell me you can't play either. Or I shall scream.”

It was only Mr. Bloot who was not at ease. Hetty's headache had somehow transferred itself to him. He was feeling slightly sick. And very sleepy.

Not so sleepy, however, that he could not size up the situation. He glanced from Tony to Irene. And then back to Tony again. Finally he caught Tony's eye. And he held the glance longer than he should have done. Finding himself being stared at by a pair of fixed incredulous eyes popping out of a pink shining face, Tony winked.

And it was fatal. Mr. Bloot immediately misunderstood it. He came across to Tony and loomed respectfully over him. Then he dropped his voice.

“Yur can rahly entahly on mah discretion, sir,” he told him. “Sahlence Ah assure you.”

 

Sir Harry had been on about it again. On and on. Incessantly.

How much longer was young Tony going to be allowed to waste his time up there in the Management Suite? Was it Mrs. Rammell who was standing in the way? Why not put him in the Stock rooms for a spell? Or Dispatch? Or attach him to one of the buyers? Or better still, like he'd said, get him down into the shop so that he could meet his first customer?

Sir Harry had been on the phone three times already this morning. And practically all day yesterday.

It was Mr. Preece who agreed with him. There was something extraordinarily unattractive in the whole idea of having the young man messing about in Stock. Or Dispatch, for that matter. Anything could go wrong there. And probably would. But no harm at all that Mr. Preece could see in letting him have a go on the Sales side. Provided that he was properly supervised, of course. And that was where Mr. Rawle of Shirtings would come in so useful.

Mr. Rawle was flattered. But unimpressed. He had been the Napoleon of shirts for nearly twenty-seven years. And an entire pageant of shirt history had passed across the counter over which he presided. First he had seen stiff shirts for day wear succeeded by soft ones. Some even with collar attached. And then, since revolutions run always to extremes, he had watched gentlemen buying themselves soft shirts for evening wear as well. Then substitute fabrics, home-washable and self-ironing, had become popular. There was, he had often felt, not much more that could possibly happen to the downfall of shirtings during his lifetime.

In a sense it was a personal tribute to him that, of all the hundred and seven other departments, the managing director should have chosen his. But no Napoleon likes the feeling of being patronized. And after a brief spell of elation to think that he, Mr. Rawle, would now have the privilege of ordering a Rammell of the blood royal to perform the various little menial duties—spreading out dustcloths, picking up bits of string, re-stacking boxes and so forth—that go with all retail shopkeeping, he was feeling resentful.

Nor when it happened, did it make things any easier that young Mr. Rammell should be confoundedly civil. Not ordinary
straightforward civility either. It was a kind of jaunty humility which left Mr. Rawle powerless.

“Now I'm entirely in your hands, Mr. Rawle,” he began. “Entirely and absolutely. Remember I know nothing. And you know everything. I want you to teach me. And I'm here to learn. I shall make mistakes at first. All beginners do that. But I shall expect you to jump on me as soon as you see things going wrong. No half measures, mind. No making allowances. And above all no favouritism, please ...”

He had gone round to Mr. Rawle's side of the counter while he was speaking. And he was already brushing imaginary specks of dust off the plate glass counter.

“Well,” he continued in the same staccato fashion that Mr. Rawle found so unnerving, “I'm sure there's plenty of work to be done. You show me what it is. And I'd better make a start with it.”

Because it was only 9.10, the store at the moment was still entirely empty. The long blue-carpeted aisles had a bare and lonely look, as though they were set for a play that had not yet started. Only the figure of Mr. Bloot at the far end of one of the aisles gave even a hint that the audience might soon be there.

Mr. Rawle turned towards the glass-fronted shelves behind the counter.