Bond Street Story (29 page)

And Mr. Bloot's reply left Mrs. Gurney aghast and speechless.

“She's not coming,” he told her. “Ah'm goin' there. To 'er place.”

“Is she a widow?”

Mr. Bloot nodded.

“Yurss,” he said. “Very comfortably provided. Very comfortably, indeed. Wouldn't like it 'ere at all I'm afraid. Er mansion flat. That's what she's got. Er mansion flat ...”

“Wouldn't like it here?” Mrs. Gurney repeated. “You mean we're not good enough?”

It was then that the simple honesty of Mr. Bloot's mind betrayed him. He had no diplomatic reserves whatever. It was the truth, the plain flat-footed truth, that broke from him.

“That's abaht it,” he said. “That's the way it is.”

“Well, I like that!”

This time Mrs. Gurney's voice—and until this moment it had never occurred to Mr. Bloot that Mrs. Gurney even had a voice—sounded
strangled and choking. Mr. Bloot regarded her with astonishment.

“Ah didn't mean that,” he said. “It's all raht for you and me. Very nahce in fact. Very snug. It's just that it wouldn't be raht for her.”

But he got no farther. For Mrs. Gurney, aged fifty-five, herself contentedly married and therefore in no sense jealous and unnaturally possessive of her lone lodger, had burst into tears.

At one moment she was standing on the stairs beside him; and, at the next, she had shot across the landing and gone into her and Mr. Gurney's bedroom, slamming the door after her.

Mr. Bloot stood where he was for a moment. Then slowly he resumed his climb to the second floor.

“Ah can't understand it,” he kept telling himself. “No feelings. Didn't even wish me luck.”

 

It had been a brave decision on Mrs. Privett's part to go to Mrs. Rammell's in the first place. But no matter what the consequences, she knew that she had done the right thing.

And when Mr. Privett came back and broke the news that Mr. Rammell had spoken to him about Irene, she was more than ever convinced. Convinced and gratified. Because it showed that Mrs. Rammell had kept her word. She had respected Mrs. Privett's secret.

For Mr. Privett, however, there remained all the bitterness of disappointment. Secretly, he had felt from the outset that Tony and Irene would make a lovely pair. He had boasted of it openly to Mr. Bloot. But he did not feel disposed to challenge Mr. Rammell. After all, Irene was still young. It wasn't as though Tony were her only chance.

And, in any case, things were happening. It was too late now to start protesting. Irene herself announced the news. Innocently, as though she hadn't guessed the full significance, she told her parents that very night at supper.

“I'm getting a transfer,” she said. “Right out of Haberdashery. Into Children's. Sounds awful.”

Mr. Privett caught his wife's eye as Irene said it. It proved that the wheels were turning. Showed that Mr. Rammell was tackling the problem the quiet, sensible way.

And then Irene said something that made both Mr. and Mrs. Privett suddenly sit forward.

“If I don't like it,” she said, “I shan't stay.”

“Not stay?” Mrs. Privett repeated.

“Why should I?” Irene asked. “It's not fair about that transfer. I never asked for it.”

It was there that Mr. Privett intervened. As he was speaking he wished that Mr. Rammell could have been present to hear him.

“That's not the point,” he said. “There's more than you to be considered. You couldn't run a store if everybody chose for themselves. They're only doing what they think best.”

“Well, I don't see it,” Irene replied.

She got up as she said it and went over to the door. Then she paused for a moment.

“And Tony doesn't either,” she added as she went out.

“No,” Mrs. Privett said firmly. “You leave me to handle this. I'm going to have a word with that young lady.”

That was at about seven-fifteen. At seven-thirty Mr. Privett took his raincoat and umbrella and said that he was going over to see how Mr. Bloot was getting along. He would be back again shortly after ten he said. But by then it was too late.

“That you, Ireen?” he heard his wife's voice call out as the front door closed on him.

“It's only me, Mother,” he answered.

But, as he said it, it struck him that Mrs. Privett sounded unusually strained and anxious about something. Alarmed, even.

And a moment later, Mrs. Privett came out to meet him. Then he could tell at once that there was something wrong.

“Why, what's the matter?” he began. “Is ...”

But he got no further. Mrs. Privett interrupted him.

“She's gone,” Mrs. Privett told him. “Our Ireen's gone.”

Because it was so unexpected he found some difficulty in understanding. The words simply did not make any sense to him.

“Gone where?” he asked.

“Gone away,” Mrs. Privett replied. “Packed a suitcase and gone.”

“I don't believe it,” he answered. “I just don't believe it. She'd never do a thing like that.”

“Well, she's done it, I tell you.”

But Mrs. Privett could get no further. Quiet, controlled, unemotional as she normally was, she broke down and sobbed on Mr. Privett's shoulder.

With his free arm Mr. Privett managed to get rid of his umbrella in the hall-stand. But there was nothing that he could do about his raincoat. All wet and steamy as he was he led his wife back into the living-room.

“You tell me what's happened,” he said. “You tell me all about it.”

It seemed that it had occurred almost immediately after Mr. Privett had left. That fatal reference to Tony was what had started it. Mrs. Privett had warned Irene. Spoken to her frankly as any mother should. And, thereafter, so far as Mr. Privett could judge, the fault had been all Irene's. She shouldn't have been so rude. Shouldn't have told Mrs. Privett to mind her own
business. Because that was what had made Mrs. Privett tell her that it was everybody's business by now.

Bit by bit it had all come out. Mrs. Privett's misgivings. Her fears. Her patience. Her anxiety when she saw how things were developing. Her visit to Mrs. Rammell.

And it was the last that had done it.

“You never,” Irene had said. “Not about us. You wouldn't have dared.”

“I did dare,” Mrs. Privett had assured her. “And let me tell you another thing. That's why you're being sent up to Children's. So as to separate the two of you.”

That, it seemed, was what had decided Irene. According to Mrs. Privett she had jumped to her feet, knocking over a teacup that was on the arm of her chair beside her, and and said something—Mrs. Privett couldn't remember exactly what—about not stopping there any longer. Then, some ten minutes later, when Mrs. Privett went upstairs to look for her, she had gone. And she had taken her attaché-case with her. The brown leather one that she had always used for school. She had packed pyjamas. Bedroom slippers. Tooth brush. Everything.

The whole lot. And then disappeared.

“You've got to find her. Now. Before it's too late,” Mrs. Privett wound up. “She can't stop out. Not all night. Not at her age.”

“But ... but how do we know where she's gone?” Mr. Privett asked idiotically.

“We don't,” Mrs. Privett told him. “But the police'll find her. That's where you've got to go. To the police station. I'd have gone myself only I was afraid that she might come back and find nobody here.”

At the thought of such a return to a house left silent and empty Mrs. Privett began crying again. Mr. Privett stood there, regarding her.

“The police?” he repeated doubtfully. “How'll they find her?”

But already Mrs. Privett had recovered herself. She was pushing him out of the room in front of her.

“You go straight round there,” she said. “They've got their ways. They'll find her all right. Only hurry.” She paused. “Before it's too late,” she added significantly.

Irene herself at that moment was just getting into bed. It was a small bedroom. Rather like the bedroom in a nursing home.
With white shiny walls and white painted woodwork. And the corridor outside was made of some kind of composition stuff that curved up at the sides and looked as if it would be very soft and yielding to walk on, and wasn't.

Up to now, it hadn't been so bad. Not bad at all, in fact. She had been in such a temper when she left Fewkes Road that nothing had seemed to matter. And for the last couple of hours she had been among friends. There had been two girls from Stationery, a middle-aged woman whom she didn't know from Woollens. And another girl of her own age from Classical Records. The brother of the Classical Records girl was there, too. He was a tall, rather serious young man, who didn't say very much. But he seemed to be listening all the time. And he had a nice laugh. He was something in Travel he told her.

Because there was so much chatter going on, Irene had found herself forgetting all about the trouble at home. It had been rather fun sitting there as one of a group that was ready to accept her as a grown-up person who could be talked to sensibly. Not treated as a schoolgirl the way her mother did.

But then 10.30 had come round. The young man from Travel had been forced to leave them. And the whole party had just broken up.

Now she was alone with herself in that white, clinical-looking little bedroom. Really alone. So much alone that she felt like the last person left awake in London. And immediately it all came crowding back on her. The row with her mother. The way she had dashed out of the house without even saying good-bye. The consternation that she must have left behind her. The thought—the perfectly horrible thought—of what people had been saying behind her back. The thought of what they would begin saying after this had happened.

Somewhere nearby she heard an unfamiliar church clock strike eleven. It was a thin, melancholy chime. It reminded her that in less than twelve hours' time she would have to face it all again.

She began crying. Crying very softly, with her head right down among the pillows, so that all the girls in the other white, clinical-looking little bedrooms wouldn't be able to hear.

Mr. Privett had just reached the end of Fewkes Road. The police station was a couple of hundred yards away on the right-hand side. And he was going straight towards it.

But something kept holding him back. All the way from the house he had expected to meet Irene. He was certain, in fact, when he got to the Kentish Town Road that he would see her coming back. That was why he was walking so slowly. Giving her time to catch up with him. And, because there was no sign of her, because the whole street was just so much emptiness, he felt lost. Utterly lost and bewildered. Mrs. Privett, it seemed, had not been exaggerating.

He had reached the police station at last. But even then, with his foot on the bottom step, he still hesitated. His opening sentences, “I've come about my daughter. She's run away from home,” were all ready on his lips. It wasn't even the shame of saying it that he minded. He was long past caring about that sort of thing by now. All that mattered was finding her.

And then, just as he got to the door with the blue lamp shining over it, he stopped dead. But only for a moment. Because turning round, he came back down the steps again. He was walking very quickly. And this time there was no looking over his shoulder to see if Irene were following. He just went straight along to the Underground Station and into the nearest telephone box.

It took him a long while to find the number. But that was partly because the light was bad. And partly because his hands were trembling so. Even then, after he had dialled, the pause seemed an unduly long one. He was just beginning to think that he had blundered with the noughts or something when a voice answered.

“Rammell's Staff Hostel.”

“It's Mr. Privett here,” he began. “You know, Fourth Floor. Is my daughter ...?”

When he got back to Fewkes Road, he naturally expected Mrs. Privett to go along to the Hostel with him straight away to bring Irene home. They'd be sure to get a taxi, he said, if the Underground had closed by the time they got there.

But Mrs. Privett only shook her head.

“Not if that's where she is,” she said. “She'll be all right there. Better leave her to herself.”

She paused.

“I only thought ...” Mr. Privett began.

“No,” Mrs. Privett told him. “It wouldn't be fair on her. It'd only make her more conspicuous. There's been enough talk about her as there is. I'll go along by myself in the morning. First thing.”

Mr. Privett let out a deep sigh and sat down. He suddenly felt tired. Very tired. It had all been too much for him. And he felt hurt as well. Mrs. Privett hadn't so much as congratulated him once on having thought of ringing up the Hostel in the first place. She had simply accepted the news without question. Calmly, sensibly accepted it.

“You go to bed now,” she said. “You won't be fit for anything in the morning.” She hesitated for a moment. “Don't wait for me,” she went on. “I haven't even looked at the paper. I'm going to sit up for a bit.”

Mr. Privett made no reply. He was too shocked. This was more than calmness. It was downright callous, he reckoned, sitting down to read at a time like this. How she could ...

A faint sound on the other side of the fireplace made him glance up. Then he understood. The evening paper lay beside her untouched. Mrs. Privett had got her handkerchief up to her eyes. And her shoulders were shaking.

“Oh, my little Ireen, why did you?” she was saying.

 

It was difficult nowadays for Mr. Bloot. Merely going on living in Tetsbury Road was a strain.