Bond Street Story (42 page)

Mrs. Privett, however, was no longer listening. Either that, or not believing.

“You come in the other room where it's warm,” she said. “And for goodness' sake do your shoes up or you'll be falling down again.”

It was fortunate that they had some of the dark cherry fruit cake that Mr. Bloot liked. He ate two large slices. And ate them ravenously. As though he had been without food all day. But it was the tea that saved him. By the third cup, his naturally rather florid colour had returned. And a familiar light perspiration broke out across his forehead.

“Stoopid of me, wasn't it?” he kept saying at intervals. “Lahk er chahld. Falling dahn stairs. At mah age.”

As soon as Mr. Bloot had finished his tea, Mrs. Privett left them.
The skin on Mr. Bloot's cheek was not actually broken. And she did not press the offer of first-aid. She could tell that the two men wanted to be alone together. And the sooner she went the sooner she would be able to get Mr. Privett's full report afterwards.

“Good night, Gus,” she said.

“Good naht, Ahleen,” he replied. “Thank you for everything.”

It was getting on for eleven o'clock by now. Mr. Privett was leaning forward. Right on the edge of his chair, in fact.

“You mean this isn't the first time?” he asked. “She's actually hit you before?”

“Yurss,” Mr. Bloot admitted. “Raht from the start. In the yotel. That was the first tahm. It wasn't mah fault, either. Ah didn't know how much she mahnded.”

“Minded what?”

“Abaht mah shoes. Mah black ones. She prefers brahn on holidays.”

“Was that all?”

“It was quaht enough.” Mr. Bloot told him. “Lahk to-naht.”

“What did happen to-night?” Mr. Privett asked.

“Nothing as you maht say. Absolutely nothing. She asked if Ah'd lahk to go to er cinema and Ah said ‘no.' Then she asked if Ah'd lahk to play bezique with her and Ah said ‘no' again. Ah was sitting there quahtly reading mah bird magazine when she flew at me. But Ah controlled myself. Ah didn't even answer. Ah put mah hat on and came round. Ah didn't even wait to do up mah boots.”

Mr. Privett shook his head.

“Would you believe it,” he said.

“She's lahk that,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Sudden. And impeturous. A real woman. Not lahk mah Emmie.” Mr. Bloot let out a deep sigh in which despair, nostalgia and the fading relics of admiration were all mingled. “Ah've been black and blue, Ah tell you. Only I haven't let on. Not to a soul. Not until nahw. It's been a matter of prahd.”

“What are you going to do?” Mr. Privett asked.

Mr. Bloot sighed again.

“Injoor it, I suppose,” he said. “Just injoor it.”

There was silence between them for a moment. Mr. Privett sat back and stared gloomily downwards at his feet. His whole heart went out to Mr. Bloot in his misfortune. He wondered if he ought to offer to make him some more tea. Cut another slice of the dark cherry fruit cake. Then a faint sound made him glance up
again. For a moment Mr. Privett could not believe it. But, when the sound was repeated, there could be no mistake. Mr. Bloot had broken down. He was in tears.

“Don't take on so,” Mr. Privett said gently. “Things'll turn out all right. You see if they don't.”

But Mr. Bloot was past comforting. He was crying quite openly by now. Handkerchief up to his eyes, and everything. His voice in consequence sounded sniffly and strangulated.

“It's not me Ah'm thinking of,” he replied at last. “Ah can take care of mahself. It's Billy.”

“Billy?”

“One of mah budgies. She 'ates 'im, Ah tell you. Yurss, ackshually 'ates 'im.” Mr. Bloot paused long enough to wipe away a tear that was trickling slowly down his cheek. “Ah feel guilty leaving 'em. For fear of what might 'appen.”

Mr. Privett was leaning forward again by now.

“Such as what?” he asked.

This time, however, Mr. Bloot could not answer immediately. He was struggling with emotions that were too deep for words. He blew his nose loudly before he could even attempt to speak.

“Said she'd give 'im to the cat,” he blurted out suddenly. “Let the cat 'ave mah Billy if Ah didn't stop messin' abaht with 'im.” There was another pause. Another paroxysm. “Mah Billy,” he repeated. “Three Firsts and a Mention. It'd be murder. That's what it'd be. It's drahving me raht aht of mah mahnd.”

“She'd never do it,” Mr. Privett assured him. “Never. She's only jealous.”

“Ah know,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Jealousy's a very terrible thing. She watches me. There's er crool streak in her somewhere. Er nard, crool streak.” Mr. Bloot paused again, his shoulders heaving. “If anything 'appens to Billy,” he went on, “Ah shall do something desprit. That's what Ah'm afraid of. Something desprit.”

By now, Mr. Privett was rocking backwards and forwards in his chair in sheer misery. In the last quarter of an hour, he had grown to hate Hetty. Hate her bitterly. For being so horrible to Gus. For holding out threats to little Billy. Then, suddenly, he saw it all quite clearly. It was the voice of true friendship that was speaking.

“Why not have him here?” he said. “Bring him round cage and all. Just till it blows over.”

As he said it, he wished that there were a spare bedroom in Fewkes Road. Then he could have invited Gus to come as well.

But Mr. Bloot was too much bowed down by the sheer misery of things even to remember to be polite.

“It isn't only the cage,” he said. “It's the company. They're like little oomans. They fret if they're with strangers. Ah've 'ad Billy since the egg ...”

He broke off for a moment and looked at his watch. It showed just after eleven-thirty. A flicker of apprehension, of fear almost, passed across the face of Mr. Bloot.

“Well, back to the fray,” he said wearily. “Back to the fray. Ah'd better see what's 'appening.”

It was after midnight by now. The lights were out in the front bedroom. But Mr. and Mrs. Privett were still talking.

“I told you so,” Mrs. Privett had just said. “I knew the sort she was the first time I set eyes on her.”

But Mr. Privett's thoughts had been racing on ahead of her.

“What about over by the dresser?” he asked. “In the corner. Out of the draught. Billy'd be all right there. He'd see Gus as soon as he came in.”

The other person who was glad that Mr. Bloot had resumed his visits was Irene. It made things easier for her.

For some time now, the friend from Classical Records and her tall silent brother, Ted, had been coming round to Fewkes Road on Sundays. They were regulars. And, even when Classical Records herself couldn't make it, Ted came along without her. Mr. Privett raised no objections. He found Ted a most agreeable young man. Polite. Respectful. And obviously very much attached to Irene. Even Mrs. Privett was prepared to accept him. She liked the way he got up and opened doors for her. And it was useful having someone for Mr. Privett to talk to while she and Irene washed up together. But she did draw the line at leaving Ted and Irene alone together. She also disliked the idea of young people spending all their time in cinemas. In consequence, there had been a whole succession of Sunday evenings when Ted and Irene just sat.

It was Mr. Bloot who settled that. He filled up things so. With him in the one really comfortable arm-chair, there was no room for the young people. And no future, either. Mr. Bloot had only a limited number of topics of conversation. But he believed in going over them. There was some sort of trigger mechanism that meant that, in the same room and with the same company, he went over
them all in the same order. On the third Sunday when they had heard Mr. Bloot's views on women in the police force (against), Socialism (against), young men with beards (against) and the smaller cage birds (in favour), Mrs. Privett recognized that she would have to let Irene escape from it. The only hold that she maintained was in telling Ted that he mustn't bring her back later than ten-thirty.

As a result, Sunday evenings were now perfectly heavenly. Her good work done, Classical Records had obligingly fallen out completely. It was just Ted and Irene. And they set off for the cinema together almost as soon as tea was over.

Not that they were alone when they got there. The local Odeon was full of other Teds and Irenes all sheltering from their own homes. It was warm. Discreetly dark. Deeply upholstered. No sharp corners anywhere. And it smelt nice. There were ashtrays for smokers within arm's reach. And, for the hungry and thirsty, there was popcorn, orangeade and ice-cream brought politely to the bedside. All life's needs had been provided for. Even the route to the lavatories was indicated by illuminated signs. And on the screen in front a film of some kind was showing.

Irene sank down into the deep arm-chair that Lord Rank had provided. Ted carefully rolled up his raincoat and thrust it under the companion-piece divan alongside hers. Then he reached out his hand. And hers was ready for him. They had been holding hands for the past three Sundays now.

At first, it had been no more than a loose, lingering contact. Like a handshake that wouldn't let go. Now it was the real thing. Fingers laced. And palms pressed closely together. It was hot. It was sticky. But it was what they were there for. And it was what they wanted.

It had come as an entire surprise to both of them to find how much they wanted it. For a start, it wasn't a bit like Ted. But a most distinct change had come over him lately. He was still keeping up his bookkeeping and accountancy classes in the evenings. And in a sense they seemed more than ever important now. But his mind was no longer really on them. It kept drifting towards life insurance. And impossible house mortgages. And domestic budgets worked out on the backs of envelopes.

Irene had changed, too. She was still an actress at heart. But somehow she never managed to get to the theatre. Hadn't been to one for months, in fact. That was because of Ted's evening classes. She didn't really enjoy going anywhere without Ted nowadays.
But what was even stranger was that she didn't even read plays nowadays. Couldn't really settle down to them. When she tried, her mind kept straying off and wondering whether Ted got enough to eat on the evenings when he dashed off to the Institute. And how he would manage, supposing he felt ill. And who looked after his socks and things ... Fry and Rattigan and Priestley and Anouilh might simply have been living on pensions for all the support she was giving them.

Even on Saturdays they didn't go to theatres. It was only just lately—during the past month—that they had been seeing each other on both days during the week-ends. But after being cooped up in Rammell's all the week, Ted needed exercise. Lots and lots of it. Walking was the kind he principally fancied. And it was because it was hard to keep up with him otherwise that she had begun to take his arm.

There is something about arm-taking that is important. More important than cinema hand-holding. It is public. With hand-holding, usherettes don't see. But with arm-taking, everybody notices. Also, it is part of the training. There is nothing like arm-taking for reminding you that you can't just go on going your own way any longer.

Irene was used to it by now. Arm-in-arm, she and Ted had tramped over half London. There was one regular route that they took. It started off from Bond Street across Grosvenor Square into Hyde Park. Then over the bridge at the Serpentine. And it finished up at a small tearoom in South Kensington. By the end of it, Ted was beginning to feel nicely loosened up. All ready for the walk home again, in fact. And Irene was wondering what sort of shoes a girl could buy that would stand up to it. Something that would do for pavements. Gravel. Wet grass. Tea shops. Everything.

It was getting on for ten-forty-five when she and Ted came out of the Odeon. That in itself was promising. Mr. Bloot rarely stayed later than eleven. And it was important that Mr. Bloot shouldn't be there to-night. Ted and Irene had something that they both wanted to say to Mr. and Mrs. Privett.

But that was as far as agreement went. Left to herself, Irene would have done it the simple way. Just said: “Oh, by the way, Ted's asked me to marry him. And I've said ‘yes.' So we're engaged. And we're going to get married.”

But Ted was obstinate. Mulish. Adamant. He adopted a know-better, take-it-from-me kind of manner that she found maddening. He might have been going round getting engaged all
his life he was so absolutely certain how the thing should be done.

“I'm only doing what's right,” he told her. “After all, he is your father.”

“Well, I think it's silly,” Irene answered. “And there's no need for it. It isn't as if they didn't like you.”

Ted shook his head.

“It isn't only just a matter of liking,” he said. “This is different.”

“Oh, well, have it your own way then,” she replied. “Only don't blame me if anything goes wrong. My way it couldn't have.”

She had removed her arm from his while they were talking. They were now walking along side by side like strangers.

“You ... you don't think there will be any objections, do you?” Ted asked suddenly. “I mean about not having enough money, or anything.”

But Irene was maddened with him. Really furious. She'd no idea he could be so stupid. That he cared so little for her feelings. She had planned everything. Got it all ready for him. And he had deliberately spoilt it.

She did not turn her head as she answered.

“That's your affair,” she said. “Better ask him. Then you'll find out.”

They had reached Fewkes Road by now. The light was still burning in the front room. And Ted followed her up the path without speaking. It was not until they were inside the house that she noticed how nervous he was. He stood there, with his back to the front door, pulling at his tie and going through a kind of dry, swallowing action in his throat. He looked grim. And awkward. For no reason that she could explain, she found herself loving him again.