Bond Street Story

by Norman Collins

  Over the directors’ lunch afterwards, Sir Harry was unusually silent. He merely toyed with his lamb cutlets. Left the pear flan untouched. It wasn’t that he was exhausted by his performance in the board room. Simply saddened. Depressed by the sheer lack of energy and ability all round him. It didn’t matter so long as he was there to step in and take charge. But he couldn’t last for ever. Wasn’t immortal, he reminded himself. And, after he had gone, what then? Who would there be to make decisions? How would anything ever get done? Where would the drive come from? Just waffle-waffle-waffle round the board table while the whole place went to pot downstairs ...

  2

  Mr. Preece lost no time. The board lunch—at which he was no more than a regular, resentful guest—was over at two-thirty, and at two-forty-five he had sent for Ted Waters. Had him there standing a little awkwardly in front of him at this very moment.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Waters,” he said. “Take a seat.” He paused for a moment and pushed the box of office cigarettes forward.

  “Would you like to smoke?” he asked even though he was known to be a non-smoker himself. “Do by all means if you want to.”

  This was one of the moments in life that Mr. Preece really enjoyed. There was the subtle delicious savour of power. Reprimands and dismissals produced something of the same sensation inside him. They made him wriggle, too. But he did not really enjoy them. Because his one defect as manager was that he liked being liked. Promotions therefore were perfect. At the mere thought of them he could feel himself becoming bland, majestic, godlike. With his pale, hairless hands clasped together beneath his chin as though he were praying, he fairly basked in himself.

  “Now, Mr. Waters,” he resumed. “I wonder if you know why I’ve asked you to come and see me?”

  He was observing his visitor very closely while he was speaking. Trying to find out whether managerial secrets really did leak out as he had always suspected.

  But it was obvious that Mr. Ted Waters knew nothing. His whole expression was one of honest bewilderment.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” he said, hope and untruth mingled.

  “Ah!” Mr. Preece separated his finger-tips for a moment and then brought them together again. “The board has authorized me ...” he began. That was at two-fifty. At three o’clock precisely Mr. Preece had reached his winding-up.

  “Very well then,” he concluded. “You can start in next Monday morning. With Mr. Finlay, of course. He’ll show you everything. You’ll have one month’s overlap with him. And then you’re off on your own. Don’t hesitate to come back to me at any time you want to. That’s what I’m here for. And remember the future is up to you.”

  As he spoke the last words, Mr. Preece got up from his chair. He came round to the other side of his desk with his hand stretched out all ready for the formal handshake, the accolade.

  “And let me offer my own congratulations,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not going to disappoint us.”

  What is more, he really meant it. There was one infallible sign. The box of cigarettes had been open at Mr. Waters’s elbow all the time. And Mr. Waters had not so much as reached his hand out towards it.

  As soon as Ted had left Mr. Preece’s office he went straight along to the staff lavatory on the second floor. Now that the interview was over he felt shaky and slightly sick. He needed support. The tiles round the walls were too cold to lean against. And he chose the cleaners’ cabinet over in the corner instead. Then, taking out a packet of ten Players, he lit a cigarette.

  He didn’t attempt to finish it, however. After a few puffs, he went over to the washbasin and pushed the unsmoked end out of sight down the little grating. Finally, he passed his pocket comb a couple of times through his hair and pulled the knot of his tie smartly back into position. When all that was done, he felt calm enough to tell Irene the news. She was temporarily in Gowns.

  But this was not easy. Irene was in the middle of trying to serve a somnambulist. A large, middle-aged woman, she was clearly deep in the dream state. Whenever Irene brought her anything she merely smiled and shook her head sadly to show that she didn’t like it. And as soon as Irene had left her, she would go across herself to the racks and run her fingers thoughtfully along the dresses as though counting them might help.

  “Had you anything particular in mind, madam?” Ted heard Irene ask at last. She was wearing her most attentive expression, Ted noticed. Half sales assistant, half sick nurse. It might have been a thermometer and not a pencil that was tucked under the flap of her sales book.

  But the direct question had somehow got through.

  “Oh, just something different,” the woman explained. “Something new, you know. Like the little black one. Only different.”

  This time when Irene went back towards the stock room, Ted caught up with her. He was breaking all the Rammell rules by being in the dress department at all. But somehow for the moment ordinary staff regulations didn’t seem of any real importance.

  “It’s all right, Irene,” he said. “I’ve got it. I start in next Monday.”

  It was then that Irene risked losing her job, too. Because, instead of concentrating on something different for the large sleepwalker, she gave Ted a kiss. Not a real kiss, admittedly. But it was enough to have got her the sack. And it was enough for Ted, too. It showed that getting married meant as much to Irene as it did to Ted himself.

  “I’m going up now to tell your father,” he said.

  But here Irene stopped him.

  “No, don’t do that,” she said. “Better leave that part to me.”

  At five forty-five when they all met in the Staff Entrance the news of Ted’s promotion came as no surprise to Mr. Bloot. But it was obviously immensely gratifying to him. Of late he had been looking thoroughly run down. Out of sorts. Peaky. Mr. Rammell had been worried about him. And this piece of good fortune in the family seemed exactly what he needed to revive him. He blew his lips out almost as if he were drinking tea.

  “What did Ah tell you?” he said exultantly. “Ah told you Ah would and Ah did.”

  “Did what?” Mr. Privett asked.

  And then he learned, even though he knew it so well already, what a friend it was whom he had in Mr. Bloot.

  “Ah dropped er nint or two,” he said slowly, as though Mr. Privett should have known all along that without this intervention nothing would ever have happened. “Er nint or two in the raht quartah. Ah’m normally a bit on the aloof sahd. So when Ah do come dahn it means something.”

  Mr. Privett was so grateful that he could have hugged Mr. Bloot. He felt fonder than ever of him at this moment.

  “I suppose there wouldn’t be any chance of getting you round this evening, would there?” he asked hopefully. “Just for a cuppa and chat, you know.”

  And again it seemed as though this was exactly what Mr. Bloot was needing most.

  “Ah maht,” he said, not even attempting to conceal the eagerness that was in his voice. “Yurss, Ah think Ah maht. Does you good to get aht a bit in the evenings.”

  3

  “Well, if Gus’s coming round here I’m going up to bed,” Mrs. Privett said firmly.

  As she spoke she began gathering up the socks that she had been darning. Rolling them up into a small, tight cocoon, she thrust them abruptly down into the bottom of her work bag as though burying something.

  “Won’t you just stay down long enough to say good evening?” Mr. Privett inquired.

  “Not to-night,” Mrs. Privett told him. “I’m tired.”

  Mr. Privett gave a little sigh. He had noticed before that Mrs. Privett somehow did not share his enthusiasm for Mr. Bloot. Not fully, that is. But manners were manners. And it would have been nicer if she could have been there to pour out the first cup of tea. Even ask after Hetty, perhaps.

  “Gus only wants to congratulate us on Ted,” Mr. Privett started to explain.

  But it was no use. Mrs. Privett’s mind was made up.

  “I’ve had quite enough abo
ut Ted for one evening,” she said. “Just when we’d got everything arranged, too.”

  Mr. Privett looked at her in amazement.

  “What’s the matter, Mother?” he asked gently.

  Mrs. Privett did not reply for a moment. When she did, the words came in a sudden rush.

  “Ireen’s still only a child,” she said. “That’s what’s the matter. If things had gone on as they were, we’d have had her here for another couple of years. As it is, they’ll think they can get married to-morrow. And if Gus wants to talk about that, I don’t.”

  She gave a little sniff as she finished speaking and began to move off towards the door.

  “We ... we don’t know about that, Mother,” he said. “Not for certain. Not till we ask them.”

  “And where are they now?” Mrs. Privett demanded, her hand already on the door knob. “Out somewhere. Planning. If Ireen hadn’t been concealing something she’d have come straight home and told me.”

  Mrs. Privett paused for a moment. Then she spoke again.

  “You can take it from me,” she said. “We’ve as good as lost her already. I only wish Ted had been turned down. I do really.”

  The room seemed suddenly to have grown very quiet. Quiet and cheerless. Mr. Privett went round tidying up for Mr. Bloot’s arrival, pulling the chair covers straight and folding up the evening paper into its original creases. This, in itself, was an indication of Mrs. Privett’s distress. Usually she insisted in doing the tidying up herself. Regarded men as incapable of the necessary thoroughness.

  As soon as the room was to rights again, Mr. Privett went through into the scullery and put on the kettle. Then he arranged the tea tray with the cups and saucers. And going over to the cupboard he took out the large circular cake tin with the portrait of Queen Mary on the lid. It was the remains of a chocolate cake that was inside. Thick chocolate on top. Then broad veins of brown sponge with white cream running thickly across it. It looked rich and geologic. Mr. Privett cut two generous slices and put them on a plate beside the empty teapot. Even so he was sorry that it was chocolate. Fruit cake, he knew, was what Mr. Bloot preferred. Cut from the solid block. The dark kind with preserved cherries in it. Marzipan icing on the top if you like. Even shredded coconut. But definitely fruit. And preferably cherry.

  By nine-fifteen everything was ready. And by nine-thirty Mr. Privett had turned off the gas and refilled the kettle. Nine forty-five. Ten o’clock. Ten-fifteen. And still no Mr. Bloot. Mr. Privett began to wonder if he was coming. There was something queer about his non-appearance. Unaccountable. Because when Mr. Privett had invited him Mr. Bloot had seemed so eager. Had fairly jumped at it, in fact. Mr. Privett could not help being vaguely anxious.

  And then a strange feeling came over him. It was as though Mr. Bloot were already beside him. If not actually in the room, at least in the passageway just outside. And needing him. Urgently. Requiring help and assistance. Bodily and spiritual. Desperately crying out for it. The feeling was so strong, so suddenly overwhelming, that Mr. Privett got up and reached out instinctively for his jacket.

  “Perhaps I ought to go round to him,” he told himself. “Perhaps something’s happened. Perhaps he’s ill, or something.”

  It was only when he was actually standing up that he realized how foolish it was. Mr. Bloot had behaved this way before. It wasn’t the first time that Mr. Privett had arranged the cake, the tea things, the extra jug for the hot water—only to have to put them all away again. And at ten-thirty it was obviously too late to expect him now.

  The sensible thing, of course, would have been for Mr. Privett to make himself a cup of tea. Just sit there, quietly sipping it on the off chance that Mr. Bloot might after all pop in if only to say good night. In the ordinary way a cup of tea would have been just what Mr. Privett would have liked. But he was too dispirited to go to the trouble of making it. Even if it had been there ready on the table in front of him, he doubted if he could have brought himself to drink it. That funny feeling about Mr. Bloot being there when he wasn’t, had upset him. Left him feeling faintly sick. Twingey. Out of sorts.

  He started nervously when he heard a sound outside. And at the front door, too. But it was only Irene. She had her own key. And compared with Mr. Bloot’s movements this was nothing. Just a light tap of a heel on the top step. The thin slither of the key sliding into the lock. The door closing almost silently behind her. It was only since her engagement had become official that Mrs. Privett had allowed her to stay out like this. And Irene had responded wonderfully. Her old schoolgirl banginess had disappeared overnight. She was now so quiet that Mrs. Privett had to leave her bedroom door open to make sure of hearing her.

  Irene did not come through to him. She ran straight upstairs. Down below in the kitchen, Mr. Privett caught the sound of voices, Irene’s and Mrs. Privett’s. Then there was the faint noise of Irene’s door shutting. And, after that, silence. Mr. Privett himself had not called out. This was strange because in the ordinary way he always looked forward to kissing Irene good night. The day did not seem complete somehow without. But to-night he was too much preoccupied by thoughts of Mr. Bloot. He didn’t feel like kissing anybody.

  By ten-forty everything was put away again. Mr. Privett switched out the light and went along to the front door to lock up. It was the same every evening. He opened the front door. Took a deep breath or two of the fresh air that blew straight in down the Kentish Town Road from the north. Peered out to make sure that the ornamental iron gate was closed properly. Then shut and bolted the front door top and bottom as though border raiders might have been expected. Put the chain up as an extra precaution. Kicked the mat straight. And went up to bed.

  But to-night when he opened the front door he let out a little cry of sheer surprise. That was because Mr. Bloot was standing there. Simply standing. Entirely stationary. Half-way between the gate and the front door. Massive and motionless, he was staring up at the Privetts’ bedroom window.

  At the sight of Mr. Privett he started. It was the first time that Mr. Privett had ever seen his friend give a little nervous jump like that. And it showed how much on edge poor Gus’s nerves must be. But what was more remarkable still was the fact that he made no attempt to come forward. Instead of moving, he was standing there. Beckoning.

  Mr. Privett went along the little path to greet him.

  “Ah hoped Ah’d see you,” Mr. Bloot said in a hoarse, half-whisper. “Ah was afraid you’d gone to bed.”

  “Where’ve you been?” Mr. Privett demanded.

  “Aht here,” Mr. Bloot told him. “Aht here. Waiting. Ah was just going to ring when Ahreen and Ted came along. So Ah moved off. They’ve been saying good naht to each other. Ah thought they’d never stop. Ah’m cold.”

  Mr. Bloot shivered a little as he said it and pulled at his fawn overcoat with the black velvet collar.

  “Well, come on in,” Mr. Privett replied. “I’ll make you a ...”

  But Mr. Bloot stopped him. He laid his large, soft hand on Mr. Privett’s arm.

  “Ah couldn’t,” he said. “Not to-naht. Ah’m too upset. That’s why Ah couldn’t face Ahreen.”

  Mr. Bloot turned slightly, and the light of the street lamp fell on his face. Mr. Privett could see then that his friend had been crying. Either that, or drinking. But his words sounded distinct enough. And between sentences he kept giving little telltale sniffs. They were tears all right, Mr. Privett decided. Big, wet ones. They meant that something really dreadful must have happened. And whatever it was had knocked Mr. Bloot out completely. He had the appearance of a man who had been drained. Usually slightly flushed, rather mulberryish in complexion, his face in the lamplight showed up chalk-white and sunken.

  “Not come in?” Mr. Privett asked incredulously.

  Mr. Bloot shook his head.

  “Not to-naht,” he repeated. “Ah’m not stopping. Ah couldn’t face it. It’s just that Ah had to tell someone. Had to get it off mah chest.”

  “Is ... it Hetty?” Mr. Privet
t inquired.

  Mr. Bloot nodded.

  “Has she left you?”

  The reply was slow in coming. Mr. Bloot was on the verge of tears again. And he could speak only with difficulty.

  “It’s worse,” he said at last. “Much worse.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “She’s let mah budgies aht,” he said. “Deliberate. Cold and deliberate. Opened the cages. Let ’em flah away.”

  But the reminder of his loss had been too painful for him. He had reached for his handkerchief while he was still speaking and was now mopping damply at his face.

  Mr. Privett felt ashamed at himself for feeling so relieved. In the face of bird-love such as this, he was no better than an outsider.

  “They’ll come back,” he told him. “You’re always reading about it in the papers. They’ll come back. You see if they don’t.”

  But Mr. Bloot was beyond comforting.

  “Not with her there,” he said, still from behind his handkerchief. “And not with Billy’s chest. Think of him. Aht there”—Mr. Bloot raised his face for a moment and gazed upwards into the empty sky—“aht there on a naht lahk this.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Mr. Privett asked him. “You’ve got to do something.”

  “Do?” Mr. Bloot repeated. “Ah’m going to leave her. Ah’ve had enough. If Ah lay mah ahs on her again Ah may do something desprit.”