Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  From what Mr. Privett had told her about previous Staff Association Balls, Irene could tell that it was going to be a pretty fashionable turn-out. And the one point on which she was determined was that she wasn’t going to wear anything that her mother had made. She hadn’t forgotten the Miss Manhattan dress for the staff interview.

  In consequence, she spent all her lunch hours in looking at dresses. She had never bought a dress in the West End before. Didn’t really know how to set about it. For a start, there were all the small shops, some of them not much more than a mere window with a door let in somewhere at the side. They looked very nice in their fancy paint work. And they had pretty names like Isobelle and Jacinth and Margueretta. Sometimes, too, the note of real class, ancient and hereditary, crept in with Christian name and surname as well, like Cynthia St. Cyr, or Gloria Grosvenor.

  But the trouble with all small shops was that there was no selection. Unless they happened to have exactly what you wanted, you were stuck. Irene had peeped in through some of those discreetly frosted doors and had caught sight of the chief salesladies, a race of large, experienced-looking women like Assyrian priestesses, with sleek black hair parted in a straight white line down the middle. And she knew perfectly well that if it came to a tussle of wills with one of those Old Testament abbesses she might find herself bewitched into buying something entirely different, like a new tweed costume or a long padded house-coat or any other damn’ thing that the lady abbess happened to want to get rid of.

  There was always Oxford Street, of course. She could have got exactly what she wanted if she had gone to somewhere like Bourne’s. But that was precisely what she couldn’t do. What none of the girls in Rammell’s could do. It wasn’t actually printed in the Rammell Staff Handbook that you mustn’t buy your clothes in Oxford Street. It was simply understood. To have gone openly into anywhere at all in Oxford Street would have been sheer defiance. And to have gone secretly would have been treachery.

  That was why, in the end, Irene decided to do what she had been trying to avoid. She went along to Rammell’s own staff stores. If you were lucky you could get last year’s models—particularly if they were the sort that faded or got crushed easily—for as little as two or three pounds sometimes. They were such bargains, some of them, that the assistants were allowed to buy only one dress apiece. That was to prevent the more ingenious ones from going into the misfit gown business on their own account. To safeguard against anything like that, the girls had to take their Staff Association card along with them so that the transaction could be properly marked up.

  The only trouble was that Irene had left everything so late. While she had been hanging round the Isobelles and Jacinths, all the real bargains had been snapped up. There was now nothing left except a great trailing gown of black velvet that a prima donna might have fancied for a contralto solo at a public memorial service, and something in lace and sequins that looked as though it had come straight out of a musical comedy of the twenties.

  Miss Sulgrave, who had charge of the dresses, was broken-hearted about the poor selection. Because she knew exactly the sort of dress that Irene wanted. There had been an absolute little pet of a dress from the Débutante’s Salon. It would have suited Irene perfectly. But it had gone now. Someone from Towels and Bed-linen had positively pounced on it ...

  She was a thoroughly nice woman, Miss Sulgrave. Warm-hearted and sentimental. She spent her whole life doing little things for people. Just for the sheer pleasure of it, too. She didn’t even expect thanks. But she did like recognition. Basked in it. Became suffused and radiant whenever she heard the words: “Ask Sullie. She’ll help you.” Then she fairly glowed. And no wonder. Because hers wasn’t a very happy existence outside Bond Street. She lived with an elder sister, invalid and unmarried, somewhere in the wilderness out beyond Penge. The two of them quarrelled incessantly up till the moment when Miss Sulgrave left in the morning, and started again as soon as she got back again in the evening ...

  Irene was just going away when Miss Sulgrave called her back again.

  “Now, I’ve got your measurements, haven’t I, dear?” she said. “I’m not promising anything, mind you. But if something should turn up ...”

  It was worse, too, because Miss Kent had made arrangements to get herself all decked out in oyster satin. Irene hadn’t actually seen the dress. But she had heard a great deal about it. Had heard about nothing else for days, in fact. It was strapless with a divided skirt, and two perfectly darling little diamanté clips that looked just like the real thing. It wasn’t hers really, which was why she had got to be so hideously careful with it, and the last dance had been simply ghastly with everybody half tight towards the end. But it might have been made for her it fitted so marvellously. There was six yards of satin in the skirt alone. The girl she had borrowed it from had been able to get it only because her boyfriend was in the wholesale gown trade himself. All completely open and above board of course. But the very moment the dance was over this exclusive oyster satin dream had got to go back on to the hanger in the back of her chum’s boy-friend’s car.

  That night Irene took out her old party frock and looked at it. There was nothing really wrong with the dress. It just belonged to a different world. A world of bridge-rolls and paper-napkins and one and threepenny blocks of Wall’s ice-cream cut into slices and served up on saucers. It was lemon squash and ciderette, that dress. Whereas what Irene wanted was something that was pure champagne.

  All the same, unless Miss Sulgrave found something Irene knew perfectly well that, somehow or other, she would have to make that dress worthy of the Staff Ball.

  There were plenty of things that she could do with it. Buy a new sash, for instance. Flame colour always looked well on black. And she could always try a rather dashing vivandière effect. Or, alternatively, she might get hold of a length of tulle with sequins on it. Wear it over her head and shoulders in a mysterious Eastern manner, remembering to look downwards all the time as though she had just slipped out of a zenana in Benares and would have to get back before the eunuchs started searching for her. But she knew in her heart that every other girl would recognize it for what it was. She had seen enough of those emergency ballroom jobs to know that they deceived nobody but the very youngest of young men. And they weren’t the ones with whom she hoped she would be dancing.

  But there was nothing else for it. The Ball was less than three weeks away. And Irene simply had to do something. She had saved three pounds of her own money. The time had now come to begin spending it.

  In the end she wasn’t quite sure that she could carry off the Eastern zenana look. So she bought the scarlet sash instead. In point of fact, she went one better. She bought a scarf of the same colour, too. They weren’t cheap, the sash and the scarf together. They cost twenty-five shillings for the two of them. But at least they were effective. And, above all, they were new. They added a great vivid flash of sheer recklessness to the old black dress. And Irene was grateful for one thing. At least, the dress was black. It had been her mother’s idea entirely. There was nothing like black, Mrs. Privett had always contended. You could wear absolutely anything with it.

  And even with something over a pound gone on decoration, there was still enough left over for an evening bag. And it was rather a nice one that she found. Black, shiny plastic with a modern design stamped into it. And the clasp was striking. Also of plastic, it finished up with a large square knob practically the size of a door handle. And like the sash and the scarf, it had the supreme merit of being new-looking. Irene wouldn’t have minded going anywhere with a bag like that hanging over her arm.

  It had been a bit of a rush getting all those things in one lunch hour. It was like the last-minute arrangements before Judgment Day. And she had been forced to go as far as New Oxford Street before she could find a shoe shop with the right shoes. There hadn’t been time even for a cup of coffee. But at least she had got what she wanted. And she had overspent her three pounds by only one and ninepence. Th
at was just about the amount of overspending that she could easily put right again. For once, the personal budget of Irene Privett was nicely under control. In consequence, she felt cheerful. Courageous. Independent. A bit empty and wobbly inside. But still gloriously free. It was her own money. And she had used it well. Thanks to no one but herself she was going to be a success at the Staff Ball.

  Then, when she reached the counter, Babs Kent told her that Miss Sulgrave had been asking for her. It was surprising that Babs remembered to mention it at all. Because Babs herself had rung up at lunchtime only to find that her chum’s boy-friend had let her down. He couldn’t let her have the oyster-satin after all. There was nothing but a ghastly cerise affair that clashed with every single blasted thing she’d got. It made Babs want to scream simply thinking about it. She had practically decided not to go to the Staff Ball at all ...

  Because Irene had been a bit late getting back from lunch, she couldn’t go along and see Miss Sulgrave until tea break. And, when she got there, she found Miss Sulgrave in the last stages of agitation. She had very nearly made herself cry, she said, just imagining how Irene must be feeling.

  In the result, she had gone through everything in the Débutante’s Salon to see whether she could find even the slightest excuse for drastic marking-down. What’s more, it was just as she had expected. There was a sweet little silver grey one with distinct lipstick stains on the collar. And it is the waking nightmare of the gown saleswoman, this lipstick business. That is because all the tissue paper in the world, no matter how carefully wrapped round the inside edges of the collar, won’t save the dress if the customer is a squirmer, a wriggler. What is more, the lipstick manufacturers are distinctly on the side of the despoilers. There are whole research laboratories doing nothing but ensure that the modern lipstick is kissproof, wetproof, chemical remover-proof.

  That is not to say, of course, that a lot can’t be done with a bottle of Ronsonol and a pad of cotton-wool. Or even with a saucerful of hot water and a clean handkerchief. And the dress that Miss Sulgrave selected was very clearly on the borderline. At any other time she would have seen what could be done about it. But the memory of Irene was too strong for her. The temptation was there. And she succumbed. She rubbed the stains in a desultory smearing fashion with her forefinger, and then agreed with the Supervisor that the dress was unsaleable. Not that there is anything very astonishing in her behaviour. Dishonesty is one of the commonest by-products of compassion. The cells of prisons are full of sentimentalists.

  And, at the sight of Irene, she swooped.

  “Ah, there you are, dear,” she said, her voice rising with her excitement. “I was beginning to get so worried about you. I wondered where you were. I’ve got just the thing. Come round here and pop it on.”

  Irene felt a sudden little chill run through her.

  “Thank you ever so much,” she began, “but ...”

  Miss Sulgrave, however, was in no mood for excuses.

  “No need to thank me, dear,” she said patting Irene’s hand affectionately. “I like doing things for people.”

  Already her arm was round Irene’s shoulders, and she was leading her towards the dressing cubicle.

  Miss Sulgrave was so excited by now that she had ceased to behave like a normal woman. She didn’t merely walk any longer. She fluttered. With her head bent sideways and her little beady eyes fixed firmly on Irene, she kept up a shrill chirruping.

  And the dress that she had discovered was beautiful. Simply beautiful. Irene had to admit it. Better than anything that she had imagined. It was pale silver. “Moonbeam,” Miss Sulgrave called it. And it made all old black dresses with fancy scarves tied round them look like old black dresses with fancy scarves.

  As soon as Irene saw the dress, she knew that she was going to have it. It was paying for it that was going to be difficult. She had been along to the cashier after lunch. And had come away with her small buff envelope containing the pound notes. And the silver. And the strip of paper, that was like a robot’s rough note-book, showing all the deductions. By the time the robot had finished its homework there was only three pounds two shillings and sixpence left. And the dress that Miss Sulgrave had set aside for her was priced at a full four pounds. Miss Sulgrave would have liked to make it less, she explained. But how could she? Only twenty-four hours ago it had been standing in Rammell’s balance sheet at eighteen guineas. And there are limits beyond which even sentimentalists cannot go.

  Irene decided to borrow the extra pound from her father. The mere sight of that milky moonbeam creation had reduced her to the morals of the bankrupt and the common gambler. She was ready to pledge everything. There would be no contribution that Friday to the family house-keeping. Nothing for fares. Nothing for lunches. No weekly hair-do. Simply a new dress. And an unexpected overdraft. But at least she would be brilliantly set up for the Staff Ball.

  Not that there was any difficulty in getting the money out of Mr. Privett. A shopwalker is singularly defenceless in such matters. The one thing that he can’t risk while on duty is anything in the way of a scene. Mr. Privett paid up at once. Felt rather flattered, in fact. And he understood perfectly. Most women usually did need something when they were going out. He had known his own wife suddenly not able to show herself in public without a new pair of evening gloves.

  And that had been merely for the ladies’ night at the North London Model Yacht Club in the Archway Rooms at Highgate.

  Mr. Privett waited just inside the Hurst Place entrance so that he and Irene could go home together. And to-night he had to wait longer than usual. That was because Irene was picking up the new dress from Staff Stores.

  This was one of the things about which Rammell’s were really strict. Positively sharp, in fact. There had been an unpleasant case, only a few years back, when an assistant in Model Gowns had been discovered in the act of running what was practically her own second-hand misfit department for the benefit of a private clientèle of trusted customers. It was after this incident that Mr. Preece, with the help of the Personnel Supervisor and the Legal Department, had produced the revised Manual of Staff Instructions. Now all staff purchases had to be collected after closing time. And not brought back into the shop unless the assistant was actually wearing them.

  But everything was all right this time. The box alone was sufficient to prove it. Ivory white, it had the decorative Rammell “R” printed all over it. Mr. Privett felt proud and happy simply to see Irene carrying it. It wasn’t every night of the week that a box like that got taken by Underground all the way to Kentish Town.

  When they reached Fewkes Road, Mr. Privett guessed that there was something brewing. That was because he saw Mrs. Privett looking out from behind the lace curtains as they came in. She withdrew hurriedly at the sight of them. But it was enough that she should have been there at all. Mrs. Privett wasn’t the sort to keep a look out if she hadn’t got something pretty big on her mind.

  And when they got inside Mrs. Privett continued to behave just as mysteriously. She just stood there in the hall, staring. Not at both of them. Not even at Irene. Just stood there, staring at the Rammell dress box.

  “Hallo, Mum,” Irene said to her.

  But Mrs. Privett did not answer.

  “You never,” she exclaimed at last.

  And with that, she turned her back on both of them. Didn’t say another word. She went straight along to the kitchen, and slammed the door behind her.

  Mr. Privett and Irene stood looking at each other.

  “What’s upset your mother?” he asked.

  He felt bewildered. Completely bewildered. And Irene’s reply was just as baffling as all the rest of it.

  “She can’t have,” Irene exclaimed.

  “Can’t have what?”

  But already Irene had run along the passage and shut herself inside the kitchen with Mrs. Privett.

  They were in the kitchen together for some time. And when they came out Irene had her arm round her mother. She was busy tal
king. But, as it was the same mystery language, Mr. Privett could not make head or tail of it.

  “You shouldn’t have. Really, you shouldn’t,” he heard her say. “Why did you? You didn’t have to. Then I wouldn’t have.”

  Because they went into the sitting-room, Mr. Privett followed. Then he understood. In the centre of the room stood the dressmaker’s dummy that Mrs. Privett used for all her serious work. And on it was draped a long silver evening gown with nothing but a pair of straps at the shoulders and a great billowing skirt like a half-folded parachute.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  1

  It was the sale of the furniture that broke Mr. Bloot’s heart.

  It was one thing to think about it. But it was quite another to see it actually go. And the second-hand dealer in the Archway Road who bought the lot was so frankly disparaging. Definitely interested at first, even eager it seemed, he palpably lost interest from the moment he saw the stuff. And his manner did nothing to raise Mr. Bloot’s spirits. A small sad man in a bowler and raincoat, he cast his own gloom over Tetsbury Road. He went round the two rooms with pursed up lips, tapping doubtfully on the table top, the sideboard, the marble washstand with a small stub of pencil that he held between thumb and forefinger. The tap-tapping began to get on Mr. Bloot’s nerves. It was so hostile. From the way he behaved he might have been suspecting worm even in the marble washstand top.

  And after it was all over he offered thirty-five pounds for the lot. Mr. Bloot had been expecting a round hundred at least. He would have been prepared to close on eighty. But thirty-five! If he had been living all those years in a horse caravan the fittings alone would probably have been worth that much.