Bond Street Story (60 page)

Tony nodded.

“Uhu,” he said, using one of those maddening Americanisations that he had acquired since he had gone away. “We're behind the times. Archaic. We used not to be. The Old Man had all the right ideas. Before he went ga-ga, that is. Dad never really got to grips with it. They shouldn't have put him there. It isn't really his life.”

There was a pause. An angry, hostile pause.

“I don't know what you're saying,” Mrs. Rammell heard her own voice declaring. “I don't really. Your father's nearly killed himself”—her voice almost broke for a moment as she said the words—“working, working, working all the time. He's never spared himself for a single moment.”

“But no new ideas,” Tony told her. “Not one. They all come from the Old Man. They're barmy most of them. But he's right, you know. What a business like ours needs is some fresh thinking.”

It was no use. Mrs. Rammell was crying quite openly by now. Not so that Tony could see, of course. She had turned her head away again. The lamp-posts remained. But the little villas had disappeared. And the Great West Road had gone on. They had reached the factories. Big ones. Fancy ones. Factories that looked
as though they had been turned out of ice-cream moulds. Industrial Neapolitan specialities. With chrome and neon decorations. They were swimming past her, looking bigger through the tears.

“What do you intend to do?” she said at last.

She spoke slowly, carefully, separating the words to make sure that she would be able to say them.

“Talk to 'em about it, of course,” he said. “Make 'em see sense. Get Dad to go to America. Brighten them up a bit. Think big.”

It was the second time already he had used that vulgar word. And it made her forgive him everything. As she glanced down at him she could see how ridiculously young he really was. Of course, a clever, impressionable boy was bound to have been affected by America. She had heard that the influence of New York on otherwise quite mature and steady people was really quite remarkable. It was one of the reasons why she hadn't wanted him to go there in the first place.

And they were holding hands by now. He had reached out and found hers. That showed how much of a grown man he was. It showed that he still needed her. Felt the want of security that she alone could give. She clasped her fingers on his and sat there saying nothing.

As they drew up at the house, Mrs. Rammell felt quite different. Like herself again. It was wonderful. After the anxiety, the waiting, of the last twenty-four hours, she really could relax. Nothing was going to happen to Mr. Rammell. She felt sure of that now. And Tony really belonged to her again. She hadn't lost him as she had begun to fear she had.

“Now you go straight up and get into bed,” she told him. “I've said you're not to be called. I want you to have your sleep out.”

But Tony wouldn't hear of it.

“Not till I've been round to the nursing home,” he said. “He may be wanting something. You know what those places are.”

Mr. Privett's homecoming was a bit of an anti-climax. It seemed so normal, so ordinary, to be walking up Fewkes Road with Mr. Bloot there beside him. But Mrs. Privett seemed to think that the whole thing was a put-up job between the two of them.

“Good evening, Gus,” she said coldly. “So he found you, did he?”

Mrs. Privett was so offhand, in fact, that Mr. Privett had to take her to one side and explain matters.

“ ... and because of the shock, he's had a sort of breakdown,” he said carefully. “He ... he needs nursing and looking after.”

“And you expect me to do it, I suppose.”

“There's no one else,” Mr. Privett told her. “Not now. Only me. I'll help, of course.”

Mrs. Privett drew her mouth down.

“I never heard anything so ridiculous,” she said. “All because of a few budgies.” She paused. “Oh, well, I suppose I'd better put a kettle on. You'll both be needing something.”

“Thank you, Mother ...” Mr. Privett began.

But Mrs. Privett turned on him.

“And now you both go round to the Police Station,” she said. “He's caused quite enough trouble already. It's not fair letting them go on looking for him when he's just sitting here. They've got more important things to do.”

By the time they got back from the Police Station, Mrs. Privett had got a meal ready. And Mr. Bloot brightened up at the sight of it. Considering his ordeal, his appetite seemed remarkably healthy. He even recovered sufficiently to take an interest in other than his own affairs. Mr. Rammell's illness in particular distressed him.

“Mah mah,” he said. “To think of it. Him and me. Both away together. Ah can't believe it.”

The gravity of Rammell's predicament continued to impress him.

“If only Ah'd known,” he kept saying. “Ah could have trahd to oblahje.” He paused. “Ah wonder how they managed.”

“
He
looked after it,” Mrs. Privett told him pointedly.

“Ah know, Ah know,” Mr. Bloot replied. “Ah'm sure they all did their best. But Ah'm all raht again now. Ah'll be able to take over on Monday.” There was a pause. Then he resumed. “Ah can just see Mr. Preece's face when Ah walk in. The look of relief on it.”

Mr. Bloot asked Mrs. Privett's permission, and poured himself another cup of tea.

“Of course,” he said. “There's more to it than Mr. Preece. There's 'Etty. That's going to be unpleasant. 'Er begging me to go back, Ah mean.”

Mr. Privett started to say something and then stopped himself. Mr. Bloot, however, was ready to speak again.

“Mahnd you,” he said. “Ah don't regret it. Marrying 'Etty,
Ah mean. She had something. Ah was very prahd of 'Etty when we went aht anywhere. Before she cooled off, that is.”

But Mr. Bloot was tired by now. Tired, and obviously relaxed. He gave a long, luxurious sigh.

“Quaht lahk old tahms,” he said to nobody in particular. “Rahnd the fah. Just the three of us.”

 

Nowadays they never even mention Mr. Bloot. Not any longer. Too many other things have been happening. Too much going on in all departments. After all, three years is quite a time. There are some assistants in Rammell's, with their probation period and two annual increments both behind them, who have never so much as heard of Mr. Bloot. Simply do not know that he ever existed. Sounds incredible. But it's true.

You see, the management didn't feel that they could have Mr. Bloot back. Not after those newspaper paragraphs. His unexplained absence, his scarpering, was too unsatisfactory. When Mr. Bloot did turn up in Bond Street on the next day, Mr. Preece sent him away again. Told him to take extended sick leave. Said that he would be hearing from them.

Mr. Bloot heard all right. The letter said that the firm had decided to retire him. And, in recognition of his long service, they were going to pay him a pension of three pounds a week. It was Mr. Bloot's day of gloom when he received the letter. And the gloom came a good forty-eight hours too late. He had failed to notify the Staff Supervisor that he was staying with the Privetts. And Hetty in her present mood wasn't forwarding anything.

Naturally, Mr. Privett wanted Mr. Bloot to go on living with them. Make Fewkes Road his headquarters. Look on it as home. But here some latent instinct of reserve asserted itself. He refused. And he was adamant. Less than six weeks after he had moved in, he moved out again.

Just in time, too, for his presence to be remembered as a tender incident. And not as a major imposition. Another fortnight—another week, even another twenty-four hours—and so far as Mrs. Privett was concerned, the charm of Mr. Bloot's presence might easily have evaporated. Sorry as she was for him and deliberately making herself remember poor Emmie, she still didn't see why she should be expected to spend the rest of her life boiling kettles, cutting cake, spreading bread and butter, making pastry, peeling things, washing up so that their visitor would feel strong enough to take a little stroll with Mr. Privett in the evenings.

The only surprise came with Mr. Bloot's choice of residence. Not that it was really surprising when you came to remember the
long quiet history of his domestic background before Hetty came into the picture. He was not a man with an army of friends posted strategically all over London. Not someone given to dropping in and being dropped in on. There was, in fact, only one address that he knew. And, when he finally decided that he needed a place of his own so that any budgies he might have could get indoor exercise, he went to the only address that he knew. Back to Tetsbury Road. To the Gurneys.

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.