The Tufnell Park Road is one of the straightest highways in London. Probably the Romans made it. Or the brewers. Because, like most London thoroughfares, it runs quite simply from one pub to another. Slap down the Tufnell Park Road, in fact, is the very shortest cut there can be from the Boston Tavern at the Archway Road end to the Nag’s Head at Holloway. But for most people its straightness is also one of its defects. About half-way along, it begins to pall on the pedestrian. He becomes aware of his feet. Mr. Bloot, however, scarcely noticed anything this morning. He was walking rather fast for him, with high springy steps like a Scoutmaster. Even though there was no likelihood of rain, he was carrying his umbrella. And not merely carrying it. With his hand held loosely round the handle, he was swinging the umbrella round and round in circles. His naturally florid complexion gleamed in the sunlight because of all that shaving. And, because he had been walking quickly for the last ten minutes, his nostrils were dilated. There was an air of conquest and adventure about him. He was like a superior kind of Viking on his way to sack a nunnery. If anyone from Rammell’s had seen him they would have been amazed, incredulous. But that was only because no one had ever seen him really jubilant before.
This was Mr. Bloot in love. He was courting.
Chapter Six
1
In a sense, it was all Mr. Bloot’s fault. And, in a sense, it wasn’t. He was perfectly entitled to live his own life. Especially his love-life. No one could deny him that. On the other hand, without him Mr. Privett was left lonely and unattached. And a couple of Sundays later Mr. Privett paid the penalty for his friend’s unfaithfulness.
With no Mr. Bloot to keep him company, Mr. Privett simply stayed at home and moped. He hadn’t the heart to do anything. He just sat in the kitchen in his shirt-sleeves, reading the News of the World, and getting in Mrs. Privett’s way. The thought of going up to the Highgate Ponds crossed his mind more than once. He felt rather guilty about not going. He knew that the others up there would be expecting him. For years now a fair wind and fine sailing weather had found him there on Sunday mornings, taking his place on the bank along with the owners of the Sunbeams, Irises, Swallows and the rest of the fleet. If he didn’t go this morning it would be the third Sunday in succession that he had missed. But somehow without Mr. Bloot to keep him company he hadn’t the heart to set out.
Not that Mr. Bloot was anything of a model yachtsman. He didn’t know a spinnaker from a jib. But he liked to take the fresh air. And he made an impressive figure simply standing there, waiting for the winner to come in.
This morning there wasn’t even Irene for Mr. Privett to talk to. She had plunged out of the house just after nine-thirty as though on the way to an emergency. At one moment she was still in bed, obviously over-sleeping. At the next, she was downstairs, dressed all in her tennis things and gulping down a cup of tea that was too hot for her. Then, just as Mrs. Privett caught up with her and asked if she would like something proper—a rasher of bacon or a grilled sausage—Irene had gone again. The one-gun salute from the front door was all that was left of her.
Her departure saddened Mr. Privett more than it did his wife. Mrs. Privett merely winced a little as the door shut, and then began clearing away the breakfast things. But Mr. Privett was left staring into space. It was this morning that he had set aside for a special talk with Irene. He had promised himself that he would reason with her, gently and lovingly, about the Rammell’s vacancy. Admittedly, the Staff Department hadn’t actually written to Irene yet. But Mr. Privett had a strong psychic presentiment that there would be a letter in the morning. Then it would be necessary to strike. And strike instantly. So long as Irene was merely being difficult within the family, it didn’t really matter very much. But suppose she persisted in her attitude, and wrote back a snubbing off-hand kind of note to the Staff Supervisor? That was what really alarmed Mr. Privett.
For once, the News of the World was not much consolation to him. It told him that Tuesday was a poor day for engaging in financial transactions, and warned him vaguely of domestic troubles later in the week. Journeys also, he learned, were better avoided. The whole paragraph was vaguely alarming. Even with no financial transactions in prospect and no journeys that he could possibly want to make, the bit about domestic troubles was obviously addressed to him. He put down the paper and called through to Mrs. Privett who was washing-up in the scullery.
“You don’t think we’ve done anything to upset Gus, do you?” he asked. “He didn’t use to keep away like this.”
But Mrs. Privett was busy.
“Why don’t you go and sail your boat?” was all she said.
2
As it turned out, Mrs. Privett could hardly forgive herself. It seemed that only by a last-minute whim of Providence had she been saved from being her own husband’s murderess. Because when she spoke to him, Mr. Privett was so thoroughly dispirited that without a word he went upstairs to get ready.
Not that the matter of getting dressed for model-yachting was ever simple. There was so much to be remembered. First there was the pair of old grey trousers, the warm ones. Then the pair of long rubber Wellingtons into which they fitted. They were practically compulsory, the Wellingtons. Part of the uniform. And finally there was the blue, faintly nautical-looking jacket. The only thing that Mr. Privett drew a line at was the peaked cap.
Because Mrs. Privett was still washing up the breakfast things, Mr. Privett was left helpless and unaided in the difficult task of getting trailer and bicycle backwards out of the narrow hall. Today it proved even more difficult than usual. The pedal of the bicycle was in the upright position and kept catching on things. It was one of the legs of the hat-stand that it finally got hold of. And having got hold it would not let go. In trying to shake it off, Mr. Privett very nearly brought the hat-stand down on top of himself.
It was the noise that brought Mrs. Privett out of the scullery.
“It’s no good losing your temper like that,” she said as she came forward. “You’ll only smash something.”
But she had spoken too late. The last jerk that Mr. Privett had given the bicycle dislodged the small potted palm that stood on the centre shelf of the hat-stand. It rolled along the floor, its leaves swishing.
Mrs. Privett did not move. She stood there surveying the mess, and drew the corners of her mouth down as she looked.
“I’m sorry ...” Mr. Privett began, and bent down to begin picking up the pieces.
But Mrs. Privett would have none of it.
“Don’t you start trying to tidy up,” she said, “or we’ll have everything else smashed. I’ll attend to this.”
She pushed past while she was speaking, and held the front door open for him. Mr. Privett sidled carefully through, drawing the long awkward trailer after him. Then when he had got safely over the doorstep he paused and looked back.
“If Gus should turn up, tell him I’ve gone on, will you?” he asked.
But there was no answer. Mrs. Privett simply slammed the door in his face.
That was at 10.35.
And less than half an hour later—at 10.57 to be precise—Mr. Privett had returned. He was on foot. He was torn. He was dusty. He was bloodstained. Beside him he supported a buckled bicycle. And in the partially demolished trailer behind rode the wrecked remains of Daisy II.
3
At the sight of her husband, so badly damaged and so woebegone, Mrs. Privett’s anger vanished instantly. She became wife, nurse and mother. And Mr. Privett surrendered himself. Seated in the arm-chair in the kitchen and with his feet up on the fender he allowed her to bathe his poor bruised forehead, and tried manfully to tell her what had happened.
The facts were certainly terrifying enough. Death, it was clear, had been avoided by inches. Possibly by as little as one inch. As far as the end of Fewkes Road, everything had been quiet and normal. Admittedly, Mr. Privett may have been pedalling a shade too fast, because all the way from No. 23 he had been haunted by fears of lateness, of missing the first heats
. The road, however, had been empty and deserted. But there is a world of difference between the inner-suburban quietness of Fewkes Road and the arterial throb of the main thoroughfare that joins Camden Town to Highgate. The Kentish Town Road, though narrow, is important. The traffic in it is fast-flowing and imperious. Even on Sunday mornings there are motor cycles, cars, lorries, buses, trolley-buses, coaches. And it was a coach that had been Mr. Privett’s undoing.
Enormous, stream-lined, decorated in white and chromium like an ice-cream parlour, it had borne down upon him from the King’s Cross direction, bound importantly north for Bradford. Mr. Privett had seen it coming. He had observed the lighthouse-like headlamps, the bizarre savagery of the frontal design, the driver perched high in his glass cubicle. Mr. Privett had seen all that. And there had still been time, he reckoned, to cut across. Nippiness, in his view was what had been demanded of him. Nothing more ... Indeed, as he had explained to the policeman, was it likely that anyone in his senses would risk putting up a bicycle and trailer against something that looked as if it could successfully have rammed the Queen Elizabeth?
It was merely the near-side mudguard that had touched him. A mere nip. But it was enough. With a single flick it had ripped up the trailer, and sent Mr. Privett flying into the gutter, his bicycle on top of him.
The crowd that collected magically, as though by bush telegraph, had been visibly edified. It was agreed that it was a miracle that Mr. Privett had not been killed. But by the time the driver of the coach had come back and someone had found a policeman, the entire perspective of the episode had begun to alter. Mr. Privett was still in the principal role. But the role itself had changed disturbingly. He was no longer the object of misery and compassion, the tragic victim of circumstances. He had become someone who was sinister and malign, a saboteur of immense coaches. The policeman had stationed himself close beside Mr. Privett as if to forestall lynching ...
But Mrs. Privett could bear to hear no more. She told him not to exhaust himself further with conversation and helped him upstairs to the bedroom. Then, swift and masterful, she took off the nautical-type jacket. Stripped him right down. Popped him into bed. He was to stay there, she said, until she had fetched the doctor.
Mr. Privett felt better already. The anguish, the sense of shame, the pain even, had all ebbed out of him. In their place flowed in warmth, love, security. He felt at peace with the world.
Then suddenly he remembered something. He jerked himself up in bed.
“Do you think somebody ought to go along and tell Gus?” he asked. “If he’s up there waiting, he’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”
Chapter Seven
1
Monday, of course, was entirely out of the question. Mrs. Privett had to ring up Rammell’s and explain. Nor was it easy. The last thing that she wanted was to get caught up in a long rigmarole about toy boats. A cycling accident was how she described it.
The doctor was dubious about the rest of the week as well. No man of Mr. Privett’s age, he said, can run slap into a motor-coach and expect to feel the same afterwards. It was a wonder, he added, that no bones had been broken.
But even if Mr. Privett’s skeleton was still intact, the rest of him soon began to show the effects of that header into the gutter. What revealed itself at first merely as a mild brownish discoloration developed rapidly into a whole pattern of bruises shot through with vivid colours like a sunset. They became magnificent. Sensational. Gratifying.
Whenever Mrs. Privett slipped out of the room for a moment, Mr. Privett would slide back the bedclothes and, going over to the long mirror in the wardrobe, would stand with his pyjama jacket held open admiring himself.
2
The accident brought out everything that was best in Irene. The sight of Mr. Privett lying there, pathetically small among the pillows, made her want to cry. She felt sorry that she had ever been beastly to her father.
And that was just as well. Because it was on that same Monday that Rammell’s wrote to Irene. The letter was there on the doormat, along with a postcard from the M.R.Y.O.A.—the Model Racing Yacht Owners’ Association—reminding Mr. Privett that next week’s rally was at the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens.
Naturally, Mrs. Privett recognized the Rammell letter the instant she saw it. It was the embossed “R” on the back of the envelope that gave it away. And even before she had turned it over she was certain that it would be for Irene.
But it wasn’t to Irene that she took it. Not immediately, that is. First she showed it to Mr. Privett.
“There!” she said triumphantly. “It’s come.”
Mr. Privett, however, was only half awake.
“Give it to me,” he said. “Let’s have it.”
And then, having inspected it carefully, he looked up at her.
“That’s it,” he said. “It’s from Rammell’s all right.”
The back of Mr. Privett’s hand bore a large criss-cross of sticking plaster. And, at the sight of it, Mrs. Privett’s heart leapt. She realized suddenly that Mr. Privett’s accident was a blessing. Downright providential. It could not have been timed more perfectly. Because up to that moment she hadn’t quite known how Irene was going to take the letter. As it was, everything would be simple.
“ ... and with your father in that state,” she told her, “we can’t do anything to upset him. He knows it’s come because he’s seen it. Just you open it. I want to know what it says.”
But Irene was only half-awake, too. She was still flushed with sleep. And a bit sulky.
“Oh, you open it, Mum,” she said. “I can’t be bothered.”
Using one of Irene’s own nail files, Mrs. Privett ripped it open. And having read it through once, she read it over again just to make sure that she hadn’t missed anything.
It told Irene to present herself at the staff entrance in Hurst Place at three o’clock next Friday. There was even a little map at the top right-hand corner of the notepaper with an arrow pointing to the staff entrance so that she couldn’t go wrong.
In addition to the appointment letter itself, Irene was asked to bring along her school-leaving certificate and a copy of the same certificate made out in her own handwriting for the Rammell files. The bit about the files was, however, only a half truth. It was the handwriting rather than the copy that Rammell’s wanted. Rammell’s had been caught out before by young ladies who couldn’t for the life of them make out a bill that anyone in the counting house was able to decipher.
Mrs. Privett suddenly stiffened. Friday at three the letter said. That in itself was a challenge. It gave Mrs. Privett precisely three and a half days in which to get things ready. And it would be touch and go. She had just remembered that Irene hadn’t got anything that was suitable for a staff interview.
There was the plain blue dress that she had worn for the Eleanor Atkinson school-leaving party. But that was too simple. Too plainly cut. It would make Rammell’s underrate Irene. Regard her as no more than some sort of infant apprentice. Then there was her flowered one with the short sleeves. But that was completely wrong. It would give the Staff Supervisor the impression that Irene wasn’t really serious. Only a sort of socialite play-girl from Kentish Town. Of course, there was always Irene’s brown. But Irene, heaven knows why, had never really liked it. And in any case it was old. That settled it. Because the one thing for which Mrs. Privett would never have forgiven herself would have been to send Irene along looking as if she actually needed the job.
There was clearly nothing for it, therefore, but to run up something. Nothing was ever made, or sewn, or stitched together in the Privett household. It was always run up. And Mrs. Privett was taking no chances. She went herself to the newsagents. In the result, copies of Woman, Woman’s Own and little paper envelopes stamped with the names of Butterick, Simplicity and McCall were mingled with sheets of magenta-coloured note-paper bearing Irene’s own idea of what a dress ought to look like. It was getting on for evening before a compromise was reached.
The dress that Mrs. Privett finally made for Irene was from an American pattern called Miss Manhattan. Mrs. Privett was secretly very pleased with it. It had a certain discreet flair. Irene, however, disliked every single thing about it. In her view it was all too young-looking. It was distinctly teen-age. But it was late on Thursday by now. There wasn’t time to do anything about it. And in any case mother and daughter were scarcely speaking to each other. Mrs. Privett had said twice already that next time Irene found herself in need of a new dress she had better try running one up for herself. And Irene had replied that every other girl she knew got hers ready-made.
That was the last straw. It was one of Mrs. Privett’s proudest boasts that up to now nothing ready-made except winter overcoats had ever come into her house.
Bond Street Story Page 6
