Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  The sticking plaster was a mistake. It lent a strangely school playground-like air to Mr. Bloot’s appearance. But that was not all that was wrong about him. His collar was not clean. And his clothes had a crumpled, almost slept-in look. This in itself was remarkable. Because usually Mr. Bloot’s linen and the crease in his trousers were both irreproachable. Even his eyes—usually pale, glassy and expressionless—were different, too. They were noticeably bloodshot. And he had shaved abominably. That was hardly Mr. Bloot’s fault. Arriving at Artillery Mansions entirely unprepared for a night’s stay, he had been forced to shave next morning with the best that Hetty could produce in the way of a razor. It was very small. Practically pygmy-size. Straight out of Hetty’s week-end beauty case, in fact.

  There were two schools of thought on the matter of Mr. Bloot’s appearance. Young Mr. Burton (Household Enamel and Aluminium Ware) winked knowingly across at Mr. Rufford (Electric Cookers, Refrigerators and Washing-machines) and whispered something about nights on the tiles and a bit of stray. But that was characteristic of Mr. Burton. He was low by nature. He wore a gold wrist watch with an all-metal bracelet. Mr. Rufford, married, with three children and an invalid mother-in-law, was a different cast of man altogether. He simply didn’t believe that the things that young Mr. Burton was always talking about ever went on at all. But he was careful to conceal that he didn’t believe in them. So he winked back just as knowingly in Mr. Burton’s direction and pulled the corners of his mouth down just as Mr. Burton had done. Miss Hambridge (Detergents and Stain Removers) took the opposite view. It was wonderful, she contended, that Mr. Bloot should have turned up at all after his injury. But Miss Hambridge had always admired men. Not any one man in particular. Just men.

  And it must be admitted, the story that Mr. Bloot concocted was an unsatisfactory one. It was a window that had inflicted the wound. That much was constant. But he was his own worst enemy when he attempted to elaborate. In one version, he had been leaning out when the whole thing had come down on him. In another, it was he who had jerked up too suddenly. The window became sash and casement by turns. It was a front window. And a back window. It had occurred when he was going to bed. And again apparently when he was getting up. It had knocked him nearly unconscious. He had scarcely noticed it until he felt the blood running down.

  Either it was the effect of the blow. Or it was the effect of trying to live up to an untruth. Whichever way it was, Mr. Bloot felt poorly. And at lunchtime he went out to buy some aspirins because his head was hurting. It was, indeed, a great tribute to his sense of responsibility that he should have taken the trouble to go outside at all. There was a perfectly good pharmaceutical section on the ground floor that sold aspirins by the hundredweight. But it would have savoured too much of weakness to be seen going there. Also, there would have been all that fiddling business about number and department. Because the assistant would be sure to think that Mr. Bloot was trying to get them at a staff discount.

  Not that leaving the premises was entirely without its compensations. It meant that he could phone Tufnell 3246, and talk to Hetty. Even this was not easy, however. Because it was a call from her wholesalers that Hetty was expecting, and before Mr. Bloot could do more than ask if it was the number he had been accused of deliberately keeping back two thousand Players, the same number of Gold Flake, and what sounded to him like a whole lorry load of Top Score, Weights and Woodbines. That being so, there was nothing for it but to wait until she had finished. And then explain who he was. Hetty couldn’t have been nicer about it. She told Mr. Bloot that he must have been teasing to allow her to go on like that. At the end of the call she even made kissing sounds into the mouthpiece of the receiver. But the whole incident left Mr. Bloot jangly and perturbed. He had not known that Hetty could get such an edge on to her voice. And her language! It was a revelation that such words were apparently part of the daily to-and-fro of the smoke trade.

  And he was still as much in doubt as ever about his future. And hers. After last night, he assumed that they were going to get married, straightaway within a matter of months. Even weeks possibly. But he still didn’t know exactly when.

  Somehow amid all that laughter he had never got round to asking her.

  2

  The only thing that saved Mr. Bloot was the problem of young Tony. If it hadn’t been for him someone from management would have been bound to notice the sticking plaster. The shagginess.

  As it was, Tony was absorbing the whole attention of Management. The office that he now occupied was second from the end on the corridor marked “MANAGEMENT PRIVATE”. There was a plain frosted-glass door. On one side of the door it was all bustle and strip-lighting and card-index cabinets. And on the other, the Management side, it was blue Wilton pile and mahogany panelling and small Doulton ash-trays.

  More than once, Tony had applied his mind to the matter of the Management décor. If only the blue Wilton could have been ripped up and the mahogany panelling torn down, then there would be distinct possibilities. It had occurred to him that walls of blue mirrors with a ceiling of pale silver might prove rather attractive. Or daffodil yellow, with chromium doors. Or, no doors or inner walls at all. Just one wide-open living and breathing space. Anyhow, he intended sometime to have a real good go at re-doing it.

  For the time being, however, there was nothing to do but lump it. Sit back. And be grateful that even in the office he still had the leisure to do a little serious thinking. Take to-day, for instance. Compared with his father who had been as hard at it as ever from about 8.55, Tony had not done very much so far. He wouldn’t, in fact, have minded doing a bit more. Indeed, in a vague, indeterminate fashion, he would rather have like to have something to do. Either buying. Or selling. He didn’t very much mind which. But the place was so confoundedly well organized already that he couldn’t quite see how to butt in. Not that he really minded. So long as he didn’t get in other people’s way and remembered the names of the assistants and paid cash if he bought any cigarettes at the tobacco counter, everybody seemed pretty well content to let him lead his own life. He was still leading it when Miss Underbill came in.

  She seemed whiter-faced and more tense than usual this morning. She was clutching her shorthand note-book to her bosom as though she expected someone at any moment to try and snatch it from her. Three pencils, already sharpened, were fastened to the note-book in a kind of rubber band quiver. She looked harassed. And gloom-bearing.

  “The Chairman would like to see you,” she said breathlessly. “He’s ... he’s in the Board Room.”

  She gave another quick little intake of breath. And showed the whites of her eyes as she said it. Then she whisked away again, note-book and pencils and all, as rapidly as she had come in. Even if he had wanted to say anything he would have been too late.

  When Tony reached the Board Room he found his father there as well as Sir Harry. Mr. Rammell was seated in businesslike fashion at the table. But Sir Harry was standing at the window see-sawing up and down on his heels. He appeared to be in high animal spirits, and was wearing a new lavender-coloured waistcoat.

  “Dam’ fine woman,” he was saying as Tony came in. “Married a planter fellow. Ruined him though, just like I said. Don’t see many of her sort around these days.”

  Mr. Rammell looked up. He made little signalling movements in Sir Harry’s direction, warning him to stop.

  “Come in, Tony,” he said. “We want to have a word with you.”

  Sir Harry turned and faced him. He seemed to be scrutinizing him very closely, Tony thought.

  “Y’look a bit washed out,” he said at last. “What’s the matter with you? Get to bed too late?”

  “No. No. I feel fine, thank you,” Tony told him.

  Mr. Rammell took out a soda-mint tablet. Then he put it thoughtfully into his mouth.

  “We’ve just been talking about you,” he said.

  The tone of voice was the one that Tony disliked intensely. It sounded ominously reasonable. He raised his eyeb
rows a little.

  “Really?” he asked.

  It was Sir Harry who answered. The old man had just lit another of his before-luncheon cigars and seemed to be in a brusque, rather truculent mood.

  “Can’t ’ave you mucking about all your life,” he said.

  “Mucking about?”

  “That’s about it,” Sir Harry told him. “Asked y’father how you’d been settlin’ down. An’ he told me. How long you been here?”

  “About four months.”

  “An’ you haven’t done a damn’ thing, ’ave you?”

  Tony paused for a moment.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said.

  Sir Harry gave a little chuckle.

  “Well, we do,” he replied. “Time we faced up to things. You’re no bloody good, are you?”

  Tony thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. He deprecated the sordidness of all family rows. And this promised to be even more distasteful than most.

  “I didn’t ask to come into the firm,” he said.

  Sir Harry spat out a piece of cigar leaf and then swung round on him.

  “You didn’t have no choice,” he pointed out. “You belong ’ere. Same as your father does.”

  While Sir Harry was speaking, he continued to see-saw up and down on his heels rather as if he were enjoying himself.

  But Tony noticed that there had been a most extraordinary transformation. Sir Harry had suddenly ceased to be a pinkish, rather benevolent old gentleman. He had become coarse. And fierce. And wolfish. It occurred to Tony that he was getting a glimpse of half a century ago. At last, he was seeing the original Mr. Rammell, founder of the firm.

  “Suppose I walk out?” he asked.

  “You won’t,” Sir Harry answered. “Or I wouldn’t have given you the chance. If I was dead, it’d all be different. But I’m not. And I don’t intend to die just to please any of you. If I see you walking out, then it’s y’father who suffers. Not me. If he’s got no one to carry on where is he?”

  Mr. Rammell’s soda-mint tablet had now dissolved completely. He poured out a little sip of water from the vacuum jug beside him. Then he turned to Tony.

  “It’s for your own good, we’re saying all this,” he explained.

  But Sir Harry contradicted him. He turned on Tony.

  “No it isn’t,” he said. “I’m thinkin’ of m’self. After what I did buildin’ up this firm, d’you think I’m going to chuck it all away again? That’s where you come in. You’re goin’ to start in at the bottom the same as your father did. Then you’ll be ready when the time comes.”

  Tony felt the sickness of real alarm.

  “Start in at the bottom?” he asked.

  Sir Harry nodded.

  “That’s what I said,” he told him. “Get behind the counter. Meet the customers. I did. So did y’father. Start in on the ground floor. Shirts. We’ve told Mr. Rawle. ’E’s expectin’ you.”

  Tony pursed his lips up for a moment.

  “I bloody well won’t,” he said at last.

  Sir Harry’s cigar had gone out. He took some time in re-lighting it. Then he looked across at Tony.

  “Then that about finishes y’father,” he said. “He’s just sent off a note. Make ’im a bloody laughing stock if it gets round that ’e can’t even control ’is own son. I tell you if that ’appened I’d rather see that fool Preece sittin’ there than him.”

  Mr. Rammell took another sip of water.

  “Certainly make things very difficult,” he said. “Make them very difficult indeed.”

  For the first time during the whole interview Tony spoke direct to his own father.

  “Oh, God,” he said. “Haven’t you got any mind of your own?”

  Naturally, Mrs. Rammell took Tony’s side. It was fantastic—utterly fantastic—she said, that any son of hers should be expected to serve behind a counter. But for goodness’ sake leave her out of it. Even if her feelings counted for nothing, at least remember poor Tony’s. It would be martyrdom, she contended. Absolute martyrdom for anyone of his talents to be forced to sell shirts whether they had his own family name on the neckband or not.

  Altogether it was one of the worst evenings of Mr. Rammell’s life. That was because he had to take full responsibility for everything. It would have been as much as his life was worth to confess for a single instant that the whole idea had been Sir Harry’s.

  3

  Because Tony disliked emotional scenes intensely, he decided to go out to dinner. Moreover, he felt in need of good sober advice. That was why he went along to see a friend. He chose Derek in his small flatlet over the dress shop in Sloane Street.

  “And now if you please the idea is,” he finished up, “that I should start selling shirts for them behind the counter. So I bloody well told them where they both get off.”

  Derek filled Tony’s glass and then his own.

  “What d’you propose to do if you leave?”

  Tony paused for a moment, twirling the stem of the wineglass round in his fingers.

  “After all you must have some plans,” Derek went on.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Tony replied. “Get back to ballet some how. Do something worthwhile. I suppose you wouldn’t like to have me in with you, would you?”

  Derek shook his head. His line was interior decoration.

  “No scope,” he said. “You have to keep this game personal. It’s such a racket.” He stared for a moment into the space between the two gilt Cupids and the Venetian chandeliers somewhere in the direction of the mantelpiece. Then he resumed.

  “In any case,” he said. “I think you’re making entirely the wrong decision.”

  “You mean about selling shirts?”

  Derek smiled. It was his best feature, his smile. And certainly he had practised it often enough. It was superior. Engaging. Enigmatic. And now seemed to be exactly the right opportunity for using it.

  “If necessary,” he replied. “Not for always of course. Only for the time being. But think of the copy if you ever wanted to write a book. Blow the gaff completely. They could never hold up their heads again. It could be rather wonderful.”

  Tony shook his head.

  “Not for me, thank you,” he said.

  Derek smiled again.

  “It’s absolutely the chance of a lifetime,” he went on. “If you accept, you’ve got them exactly where you want them. And think of the publicity. They’d be terrified. Positively terrified. One word from you, and they’d be finished.”

  Tony stood staring at him.

  “Can you imagine me behind a counter?”

  This time Derek did not even bother to look in his direction.

  “Can you imagine me on top of a step-ladder?” he asked. “But it has to be done, you know. If I were in your position I wouldn’t hesitate. If you went about it in the right way you might even get them to stock a few decent patterns.”

  He shot out his own shirt cuffs as he was speaking.

  “Look at these,” he said. “Could I get anything like this at Rammell’s, I ask you? Pure silk. And mauve. I get them from a little man in Knightsbridge.”

  Tony finished his drink and got up.

  “Oh, go to hell,” he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1

  It was all Mr. Preece’s idea that there should be any such thing as a Staff get-together.

  Not that it was in any sense original. On the contrary he had first learned of the scheme in an American publication called Sales Efficiency. The magazine had just published a special supplement on department merchandising, and there was one section devoted entirely to staff relations. Mr. Preece had read the supplement on the way down from Victoria in the electric train. And by the time he reached Carshalton he had come to dislike everything about it. But it was there that his natural conscientiousness took over. Just because it was so American was that any reason why it shouldn’t be tried in Britain? Even if he personally disliked meeting people, shouldn’t he steel himself to
overcome that dislike? And if it was really true that errors in stock delivery had declined by 7.2 per cent after social contact had been established between the stockroom and other departments, wasn’t it his duty to make the experiment?

  The only thing that he drew the line at was the drinks. Sales Efficiency had made rather a special point of the drinks. “After the closure of the store, introduce a sunny home atmosphere,” was what the editor had said. “Give your cashier a high-ball. Two if necessary. Breakdown the inhibitions born of long routine. Concentrate on contacts. Make people mingle. Be one of them. The part that the intelligent General Manager has to play at a good Staff get-together is to listen. Listen and learn ...” Not knowing—scarcely daring to imagine—what he was going to learn, Mr. Preece called the first Staff get-together for the 17th.

  Naturally, Irene Privett was there. She had no alternative. Miss Hallett told her that it would be expected. Indeed, from the whole department it was only Miss Kent who was absent. But what could she do? It was only at the week-end that she had met her own dreamy American. And, as he was going back on Friday—all of 6,000 miles he had reminded her—she felt that she owed him the last few hours of her company for which apparently he was now craving. Besides with twenty-three other girls at the party she felt sure she wouldn’t be missed. Not unless Mr. Preece began nosing round and checking up, that is.

  And Tony Rammell was there because there seemed to be no obvious way of avoiding it. Miss Underhill had given him the invitation personally. She had silently slid the card on to his blotter as though it were an ice-pack that she was delivering. Then Mr. Preece himself had rung up on the internal telephone. It was the first time since Tony had been there that anyone had actually used the instrument. And it was therefore rather flattering.