Bond Street Story (32 page)

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 talking. 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.

 

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.

But he had left it too late to get in counter-offers. He had already given notice. And if he left the stuff there, he would have to go on paying rent.

In the end, the little man tilted back his bowler and agreed on forty-two-ten if the china and glass were thrown in as well. And as a kind of makeweight he offered to deliver the bits and pieces to Artillery Mansions free of charge next time he was sending over in that direction.

Not that Mr. Bloot was entirely downcast. For with the quixotic generosity which was so peculiarly a part of her nature, Hetty had relented over the budgies. They could come with him, she agreed. There were terms, of course. She still wouldn't have them actually in the flat. But they could go in the little, cupboardlike room beyond the kitchen, the one that had been a coal cellar before the gas fires had been fitted.

It had brought a tear into Mr. Bloot's eye when she told him. He saw immediately how foolish—unfaithful almost—he had been to allow himself to worry when he was dealing with anyone as kind and loving as Hetty.

But he couldn't simply shove the birds in there on the floor along with the empty bottles and the carpet-sweeper. He would have to put up some strong hooks for the cages. And make sure that the shelving was safe, because, even though the budgies were mere pigmies, their food weighed a terrible lot. The last thing he wanted was for them to see their lunch, tea and dinner go crashing to the floor while they, caged and helpless, were powerless even to raise the alarm.

Besides, he knew from experience how difficult it was to sweep up millet seed. He didn't want Hetty to have any cause for complaint. Least of all about mice.

Originally, it had been Mr. Privett's idea that the staff should give Mr. Bloot a wedding-present. But it caught on so fast that it was soon everybody's idea. There was a house rule that Mr. Preece had to give his permission before the collection box could actually go round. But naturally in a case like this Mr. Preece raised no objection. He even said that he thought that some of the directors might like to give a little something themselves. And it was the same everywhere. There wasn't a soul in the store who did not know Mr. Bloot. He was practically part of the fixtures. The only odd thing was that he should be getting married. In its way it was as astonishing as if one of the caryatids on the Bond Street frontage had suddenly announced that she was going to have a baby.

Odd or not, the money certainly flowed in. When Mr. Chilvers in Accounts came to empty the boxes and add in the directors' personal donations, the total stood at twenty-eight-ten already. And that wasn't counting the fifty pounds—minus P.A.Y.E. of course—that the Board voted.

Because of the Board's generosity towards him, Mr. Bloot was naturally in a very bland and complacent frame of mind. He had known about the collection, of course. But he hadn't known how much. And, when he heard, he gave a great sigh. A sigh of sheer happiness. Life, after all, had not always been kind to him. He had known what it was to walk down long avenues of steadily darkening depression. And now, suddenly, everything was radiant again.

“Ah suppose Ah cahn't be such a bad sorter chap affter all,” he confided in Mr. Privett. “Or they'd neverer done it, would they?”

“Well, that's how much it is,” Mr. Privett told him. “So
you'd better make up your mind, and tell me what you'd like.”

For a moment Mr. Bloot's face clouded over. All decisions presented difficulties. It was the making-up-his-mind part that he found so trying. And obviously this decision was a vital one. No one had ever before suggested giving him a great enormous present like this.

“Ah'll have to think,” he said cautiously. “That's what Ah'll have to do. Ah'll have to think.”

“There isn't much time,” Mr. Privett warned him. “Only another week.”

But Mr. Bloot was in no mood to be rushed.

“Ah know. Ah know,” was all he said.

He took out his watch while he was speaking and glanced down at it. The watch, which was rather thick and slightly lemon-coloured round the rim, showed 10.32. Whereas the restaurant clock plainly showed 11.16. Mr. Bloot shook the watch for a moment and began playing with the winding key. But there was nothing wrong with the winder: he knew that. It was simply that the watch itself was old. Old. And overworked. And exhausted. He began shaking it again.

Then his face cleared.

“Woterbouter watch?” he asked eagerly. “Er watchun chain. Something good. Er reel
gole
watch.”

Mr. Privett hesitated.

“Don't you think that perhaps it ought to be something for both of you?” he asked cautiously. “Cutlery, for instance.”

Mr. Bloot looked astonished.

“Wot would 'etty want with cutlery?” he asked. “She's gotter 'ole canteen of it.”

“I was only suggesting cutlery,” Mr. Privett explained. “Perhaps ...”

But Mr. Bloot shook his head.

“It's no use,” he said. “She's got everything. Everything er woman could want.”

Mr. Privett was silent for a moment.

“Why not ask her?” he inquired. “There may be just some little thing. Something she's never actually got round to.”

The smile had gone entirely from Mr. Bloot's face by now. But so had the anxious look.

“Ah see watcher mean,” he said. “Something personal perhaps. Joolery, for instance.”

And by next morning Mr. Bloot had the answer all ready.
For again Hetty had shown the warm side of her nature. It was not anything for herself that she had chosen. It was something for both of them. She had decided on a television set.

“Only do be careful,” she had warned him. “Don't let them give you one without doors. They look terrible. And make sure it's walnut, not mahogany. I can't bear the dark kind.”

Mr. Bloot would have liked Hetty herself to come along and choose it. But with the shop on her hands, there was no chance of that. And, finally, he went down himself to Rammell's Radio Salon. It was lunch-time. And he had Mr. Privett with him. But because he hadn't given any warning, Mr. Gore, the real electronics chief, was out. Mr. Asplett, his second in command, was there. Programmes rather than engineering was Mr. Asplett's forte. And naturally with Mr. Bloot for audience he showed off everything he knew. He went reeling through lists of celebrities and famous artists of whom Mr. Bloot had never heard. And he described sporting events—ice hockey, table tennis, badminton, swimming galas and the rest—that Mr. Bloot had never thought of attending. The TV had them all, Mr. Asplett assured him, as well as guessing games and classical plays and weather reports and visits to big engineering works and Church Services and political discussions and variety programmes from Forces' canteens.

Mr. Bloot listened in amazement. And he suddenly realized how right his clever Hetty had been to ask for television instead of joolery. Without television, a man was only half-alive, it seemed.

In the end, it was a light walnut table model, so highly polished that the case might have been made of satin, that he selected. It had white Bakelite knobs with a narrow gold ring round them that he felt sure that Hetty would appreciate. But what really decided him was the picture in the glass front. Instead of being empty and staring like the rest of them there was a view of a cathedral or something pasted into the frame. It was almost as though the thing had somehow started working before the man had even connected it and switched it on.

Mr. Bloot was excited all day thinking about the television set. And, even though Hetty had begged to be left alone so that she could do what she referred to mysteriously as getting herself ready, he went across that same evening to tell her all about it.

“It's worlnut just like you said,” he began breathlessly. “And it gets table tennis and visits to engineering works and swimming galas and weather reports and everything. It's mahrvellous.
That's what it is. Mahrvellous. Mr. Asplett says so. He looks in every night. Every single night.”

“What's it called?” Hetty asked.

Mr. Bloot looked up in astonishment.

“Television,” he told her.

“No, silly. The make.”

Mr. Bloot paused.

“Ah don't rightly remember,” he had to confess.

“Has it got a guarantee?” Hetty demanded

“Oh, yurss,” he replied. “It's gotter guarantee. If anything goes wrong ...”

“It will,” Hetty interrupted him.

The remark seemed to Mr. Bloot to be querulous and in bad taste. But it only showed how much on edge she must be.

“If anythink goes wrong,” he repeated, “we'll 'avver nother one 'ere the same day. Ah give you mah word.”

“Oh, it's not that,” Hetty answered. “It's just that I couldn't bear to think of you being diddled.”

Mr. Bloot was aghast. He saw the golden gates that were ajar already about to close on him again. Visits to big engineering works had sounded very interesting.

“Give me the pictures every time,” Hetty went on. “I like to go out to enjoy myself.”

Mr. Bloot's voice began to tremble.

“Then ... then why did you ask me to buy it for you?”

Hetty got up and came over to him.

“Because we'd look such fools not having one,” she said. “It doesn't follow you've got to use it. Besides, I shall have you, shan't I? There won't be time for anything once we've got each other.”

And before Mr. Bloot could uncross his legs she had sat herself upon his lap.

“Aaah!” he exclaimed in a gasp in which pain and delight were mingled. “That's more lahk it. That's more mah girlie.”

 

The Staff Ball was really on them at last. And there is nothing like a Staff Ball for upsetting the normal smoothness of life. By six-thirty that evening some four hundred and fifty homes in all parts of London were seriously affected. There was a tense, keyed-up, D-day sort of atmosphere in every one of them.

Not that Rammell's could be blamed for that. Most marriages proceed smoothly from one week's end to another until they are put to the supreme test of husband and wife going out together. It is the common bedroom, the shared dressing-room, that is at the root of the trouble. By the time they are ready to set out for the evening, most wives have the feeling that they have been responsible for dressing two entirely different people.

For a start, things weren't going any too well inside the Rammell household. Tempers were badly frayed already, in fact. That was because Mrs. Rammell had a headache and didn't want to go to the dance at all. It had been like that last year, Mr. Rammell reminded her. And, in the end, in sheer exasperation he mixed her up one of his own magic draughts—two aspirins in a half a tumbler of warm liver salts—and told her brutally to drink it. As he did so, he let slip the remark that for once she knew how he felt when she had one of her blasted musical evenings. That was why the Rammells weren't even speaking to each other when they set out.

And it didn't help to raise their spirits that Tony was with them. He had made a mix-up with the dates. And right up until he had left the office he had imagined that he was going to spend the evening at Covent Garden. In consequence, he was silent and sulky.

Nor, for that matter, were Mr. Preece's arrangements any smoother. Going out anywhere was always an ordeal for the Preeces. That was because Mrs. Preece disliked setting out alone. Mr. Preece, therefore, always had to make the effort of slipping down to Carshalton by an early train, and then returning to town by a slightly later one.

He had made the effort today. And now he was sorry. Sorry that he hadn't simply gone along to the Staff Dance alone and told Mrs. Preece about it afterwards. It was his daughter, Julia, who had ruined things. A large, athletic girl, with a fondness for
horses, she had been promised the dance for a special treat. But Mrs. Preece had insisted that first she must do something about her hair. She seemed to have more hair than most girls. And there was an untameable healthiness about it which Mrs. Preece did not quite approve. What might have been all right with the wind rushing through it on the Downs would clearly have been unthinkable on the dance floor. Mrs. Preece and daughter had therefore spent nearly two hours at Isobel's Beauty Parlour in the High Street while the assistant snicked away and thinned it out and finally waved and set it.