He leant forward.
“What’s the matter, girlie?” he asked. “Don’t like the bubbles, eh?”
Champagne was exactly in his line, anyway. And he had just the thing for it. It was a dainty little toy that opened up like a flower as soon as the end was pressed down. He bent over and started twirling it in her glass in a bland, proprietorial manner as though anything that was hers belonged to him already.
“Drink it up and say ta-ta to everybody,” he whispered as soon as his head was down close to hers. “You’ve made your number. Let’s be getting back to your place.”
Marcia smiled. But she seemed scarcely to have heard him. And it was in any case purely her professional smile that she gave him. The one that had been photographed so often. It didn’t mean a thing. She was far too depressed to do any real smiling. But she couldn’t possibly explain. Didn’t even know herself what it was that was depressing her so much. It wasn’t anything in particular. It was everything. The staff dance. Mrs. Preece’s fidgets. The boy-scout expression on the face of the Aberdonian doctor. The state of her bank balance. The way she wasn’t sleeping. The fact that Woman and Beauty had just brought out a picture supplement for the under-twenty-fives. The sudden realization that she still hadn’t been to see her mother. The knowledge that she ought to go to the dentist. The pressure of Mr. Bulping’s knee up against hers beneath the table. The size of his hands. The way he kept mopping his forehead after every dance. His breathing. Everything about him, in fact.
It was Tony who interrupted her thoughts. Sent over by his father, he came obediently across and asked Marcia for a dance.
For a moment it seemed to Mr. Bulping as though she were hesitating. So, cupping her pale white hand with his hot red one, he gave a little squeeze.
“O.K.,” he said. “Have this one. Then we’ll be getting along.”
But it was not really hesitation on Marcia’s part. It was simply her natural daze-state. She had hardly even noticed that anyone had spoken to her. Instead of replying, she rose slowly and gracefully and started to go on to the dance floor.
It was usually at this moment that she felt happiest. Most sure of herself. Out there in the centre of the room people would be watching. Admiring. Other women would simply cease to exist as she came near them. But to-night it was different. It was this terrible despondency. This despair. At the sight of Tony, standing there waiting for her, she very nearly began weeping.
“Oh, God,” the thought formed itself inside her. “How young he looks. I’m beginning to notice things like that nowadays. It shows what’s happening to me. I must be growing ...”
Just in time she managed to suppress the forbidden word. She even continued to brighten up enough to give Tony one of her really sweetest smiles. Smiled, while inside her there continued the same gnawing, the same heartache. Through a thick mist she heard Tony asking what she thought of the band. And, through the same mist, came back the answer in her own voice that it was marvellous, simply marvellous.
It may have been because of her thoughts that Marcia looked so beautiful. All that emotion going on inside had definitely helped. Even Tony noticed the difference. In a sad, elemental fashion Marcia seemed suddenly to have come to life. She kept reminding Tony of something. Someone. Somewhere. He couldn’t remember what. Who. Where.
Then it all came back to him.
“D’you ever go to the ballet?” he asked.
Marcia’s eyes were half-closed already. She opened them, just for a moment.
“Of course,” she replied dreamily.
What else could she say? It would have sounded too silly to explain that her kind of men somehow hadn’t turned out to be the ballet-going sort. And she never went anywhere alone.
“Like to come to Giselle sometime?”
“Adore it.”
“Next Tuesday?”
She began thinking round desperately in her mind. Was there anything on? Had she promised anything? Would Mr. Bulping be in town? Would ... would he mind?
“I’ll have to look at my book,” she said safely.
“Let me know in the morning.”
“Promise.”
They were up at the quiet end of the room by now. Away from the band. And their heads were close together. Marcia’s last words were almost whispered.
And as she danced, she could feel a change coming over her. She no longer felt sad. Merely ethereal. The way saints must feel. It was a kind of rapture that she hadn’t known since she was first engaged. Only this was sweeter. Sharper.
“But how young he is,” the thought kept coming back to her. “How inexperienced. I know that he’ll be hurt sometime. Wounded. If only I could help him somehow. Shield him. Look after him. Show him that ...”
The band had banged itself noisily to a close. Everyone started back towards the tables. But Marcia did not move. The trance-state had come over her again. She wanted the band to go on playing for ever. So that she and Tony could just dance. Just dance. And dance. And dance.
Anything, in fact, to postpone the moment when it was all over and, back at the flat, Mr. Bulping started to say good night in his own peculiarly enthusiastic fashion.
But this time the band had done more than simply stop playing. The boys had pushed their chairs back, and the saxophonist was wiping his mouthpiece. Up in the ceiling heights, the big gold and silver chandeliers were coming on. The moment had come for Mr. Bloot to take charge of things.
He had already reached the Rammells’ table. And at the sight of him Mrs. Rammell nervously drew back a little. But it was not Mrs. Rammell whom Mr. Bloot wanted. It was Sir Harry. And this was difficult. Because Sir Harry was still too much engrossed in Hetty to notice anyone else. It was her ear-rings that seemed to fascinate him. He had already adjusted one of them. And he was now at work on the other. Because it was on the far side of her, he had his arm right round her neck. Mr. Bloot had to cough twice quite loudly before Sir Harry even noticed that he was there.
“Pud’n me, sir,” he said, slowly and as distinctly as he could manage through the enormous smile that he was wearing. “The prahzes. The nuffelty and speshiulity prahzes. Would you be so kahnd as to excort our lady patron on to the plahtform?”
Already on the other side of the table Mrs. Rammell was gathering herself together, smoothing out invisible wrinkles in her long black gloves. But for Sir Harry there was only one woman in the whole roomful of nearly six hundred of them. And his mouth was close against her ear at this moment.
“What about my little kitten presentin’ ’em?” he asked.
The words that Sir Harry had intended to be whispered had reached Mrs. Rammell quite distinctly. She immediately put her bag back down on the table again, and folded her hands in her lap in the attitude of a woman who has not been listening. Motionless, she sat there waiting for the impossibly big woman opposite to refuse.
But it was not left to Hetty. Already Sir Harry was hauling her up on to her feet. If she attempted to resist now there would be a struggle.
“Up’s a daisy,” he said. “Give ’em something worth looking at for a change.”
Chapter Thirty
1
The wedding-day had come round at last.
Mr. Bloot, naturally, was feeling a bit keyed-up. Edgy. And it wasn’t merely the solemn fact of matrimony that was worrying him. He was worried about Rammell’s as well. Because, even though things were usually pretty quiet on a Saturday morning, he still didn’t like the idea of no proper direction in the main vestibule.
To-day, moreover, Rammell’s wouldn’t have Mr. Privett either. That was because Mr. Privett had agreed to act as best man.
Mrs. Privett herself hadn’t been any too sure about it. There was so much connected with the wedding of which she disapproved. In particular, register offices. Second marriages. Husbands who moved in on their wives. Wives in business on their own. Hetty herself. And Mr. Bloot for wanting to marry her.
And in the end, Mr. Privett had been forced to appeal un
ashamedly to pure sentiment.
“Think of Emmie,” he had said. “She’d rather you were there. It ... it’ll be a link somehow.”
Mrs. Privett had been thinking a lot about poor Emmie during the past few weeks. It was as though it had been yesterday she had last seen her.
“All right,” she had finally said. “Just this once. But only for her sake. Not for theirs.”
Even though the ceremony was not until ten o’clock, Mr. Privett insisted on setting out shortly after nine. Kentish Town to Finsbury Park via Tetsbury Road is rather a tricky little journey. And Mr. Privett guessed that Mr. Bloot would be in the need of company.
As it turned out, their early visit was just as well. They found a morose and disconsolate bridegroom, sitting in a practically empty apartment. The second-hand furniture dealer from the Archway Road had two jobs on hand that day. And he had made the collection from Tetsbury Road his first.
“Mah favourite chair,” Mr. Bloot told them. “Raht from underneath me. And mah table. Before Ah’d even finished.”
To keep him from brooding, Mr. Privett suggested that they should leave straightaway. Mrs. Privett, however, insisted that she should stay long enough to wash up. There was Mr. Bloot’s cup and teapot that had been left standing on the mantelpiece. It was the only place that he could find when the table had been whisked away from him.
“It won’t take a moment,” Mrs. Privett said. “And it’ll look better.”
Mr. Bloot watched her go.
“There was another cupper tea there,” he observed. “Ah’d only had one.” He paused. “Seems funny to think Ah shan’t never see Tetsbury Road again,” he went on. “Ah could find mah way here with mah eyes shut.”
The thought of permanent departure visibly saddened him. Even though Mr. Privett tried hard to cheer him up, it was plain that Mr. Bloot was drooping. And by the time they had left the house his spirits were even lower.
“Did you notice?” he asked. “Nothing from the Gurneys. Not even er nandshake. Ah wouldn’t treater dog that way.”
As much as anything else to take Mr. Bloot’s mind off his last bitterness, Mr. Privett suggested that they should hurry. And he was so insistent on speed, that Mr. Bloot panicked. He began striding out. Disregarding his two smaller companions, he forged remorselessly ahead until Mr. and Mrs. Privett were almost running.
In the result, it was 9.30 sharp when they reached the Register Office at the Town Hall. The porter seemed surprised to see them. And slightly resentful. He had the air of a man who dislikes being caught unawares with mop and bucket. But the waiting-room was at their disposal, he said. They could make themselves comfortable in there if they liked.
Not that this was easy. The oilcloth was still damp under foot from its morning wash down. And the hard chairs and dark green dado round the walls might have come out of an infirmary. The only decoration in the room was a framed notice advertising local vaccination facilities.
“Well,” said Mr. Privett brightly. “We’ve got here before the bride. That’s all that matters.”
But Mr. Bloot did not seem in any mood for brightness. He was still noticeably depressed about something.
“It’ser pity abaht that other cuppertea,” he said broodingly. “Ah could ’ave done with it now.”
Because Mr. Privett realized that it would be entirely up to him to keep things going, he crossed over and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Cheer up,” he said. “It’s only for life.”
Mrs. Privett winced at the sight. So long as she could remember she had always been irritated by the way her husband kept fussing over Mr. Bloot. He treated him as though he were some kind of gigantic toddler. And she felt suddenly that she could stand no more of it.
“Go and open the door,” she said. “Otherwise they may miss us.”
After that, they all three sat there in a draught as well. But at least they could see what was going on. And at ten minutes to ten when a tall, important-looking man went into the room opposite with his arms full of papers they knew that they had seen what they were waiting for.
“That’s him all right,” Mr. Privett observed over his shoulder. “Won’t be long now.”
But Mr. Bloot was past consolation. He might have been a condemned man having his own executioner pointed out to him.
“Not if the lady’s on time, that is,” he replied. “Not if she is.”
But he need not have worried. It was still two minutes to ten when the glass doors at the end of the corridor opened and Hetty began to come towards them. At the sight of her, Mr. Bloot’s heart gave a great bump. She was wearing a bright, peach-coloured coat, with a fox fur slung over one shoulder. But it was the little hat with a veil that did it. It added just that note of demureness that might otherwise have been missing. Mr. Bloot wanted to rush up and embrace her.
And, to Mr. Privett’s relief, she was obviously in top spirits. She came straight in as though she were thoroughly accustomed to being married.
“Hadn’t any of you got a shilling for the gas?” she asked. “This place is freezing.”
It was not until she was actually inside the room with them that they noticed that she was being followed. Hidden somewhere behind the peachiness came her escort. He, too, was dressed for the occasion. He was wearing a light, rather large check suit that showed beneath his brown overcoat. And his tie, all circles and lightning flashes, seemed to have come straight from California.
Mr. Bloot recognized him gloomily as one of Hetty’s poker companions. And could not help wondering why he had been invited.
Not that there was any time for introductions. The porter had put away his broom and bucket and now presented a brisk, civic appearance. He asked if they would mind stepping into the next room, please.
It was the tall, important-looking man all right. A registrar of nearly thirty years’ standing, he was doing holiday relief work for the resident Registrar. He exuded professionalism and efficiency. And he was quick in sizing up things. One glance at the little company and he knew that it was the light check that was marrying the pale peach.
“Here in the middle if you please,” he said to Hetty and her companion. “And”—he turned to Mr. Bloot and the Privetts— “at the side if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Bloot was obediently making his way towards the fireplace when Hetty stopped him.
“Oh, no you don’t,” she said. “You can’t slip out of it like that.” She turned to the man beside him. “Hop it. Chick,” she added. “You don’t want to get mixed up in this.”
The Registrar sat back in silence while the game of musical chairs went on before him. He was not taking any further chances. There is nothing that more easily makes a laughing stock of a good Registrar than for him inadvertently to marry the wrong couple.
“Are we all settled?” he asked finally.
But Mr. Bloot was too much on edge to reassure him. Now that the moment had actually come, he was feeling distinctly faint and swimmy. He hoped only that he would be able to sit through the ceremony without fainting. The premature arrival of the furniture dealer, the wastage of his second cup of tea, the pace of the road race through Tufnell Park had all been too much for him. He was sweating.
That was why he made such a seemingly reluctant bridegroom. Whereas Hetty each time answered up loudly and cheerfully, Mr. Bloot might have been having second thoughts. He kept wiping his face and gulping audibly. Twice Hetty had to nudge him. And the second time the Registrar asked her quite sharply to let Mr. Bloot speak up for himself.
It was in the same mood of vacancy and dreamlike remoteness that Mr. Bloot signed the register and put out his hand for the certificate. “Aaah!” he said when he got hold of it. “Ut lahst.” And he began to read. “Augustus Archibald Bloot, widower, of 17 Tetsbury Road ...” that was him all right. And there in the next line his loved one. “Amy Henrietta Florence, divorced, of 23b Artillery Mansions ...”
Divorced! Mr. Bloot’s heart missed a beat. Thank goodn
ess that he had come to in time to save Hetty’s good name.
He leant over and addressed the Registrar.
“Wot’s the meaning of this Ah’d lakh to know?” he demanded, pointing at the offending word. “Oooze responsible?”
The Registrar bent anxiously forward over the sheet of paper, and even Chick came round and peered across his shoulder. Only Hetty herself and the two Privetts were temporarily out of the discussion. That was because Mr. Privett, to Mrs. Privett’s great astonishment, had suddenly become remarkably skittish and had announced that he was about to kiss the bride.
It was not much of a kiss, however. For no sooner had Hetty pushed up her veil than she heard the one word, “divorced,” being indignantly repeated by Mr. Bloot. And she immediately thrust Mr. Privett away from her.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, going up to the table and snatching the certificate clean out of the Registrar’s hands. “It’s my marriage so I suppose I’m entitled to it, aren’t I?”
Then folding it up as though it were a circular she prepared to thrust it into her handbag.
“But it says you’re ...” Mr. Bloot began.
He got no further, however. For Hetty kissed him. And it was a real kiss, this time. The little man in the check suit looked on, aghast and incredulous. He had merely read about such kisses. Never actually seen one. When she released him, Mr. Bloot was too exhausted to speak.
“Why don’t you stop worrying?” Hetty asked. “You’ve got me, haven’t you?”
2
It was early for a wedding breakfast. But after the cold of the November day outside, the interior of the flat seemed unusually warm and welcoming. And Hetty had thought of everything. She’d even got the daily woman to come in two hours before her usual time so that it should all be ready.
Bond Street Story Page 27
