Bond Street Story (34 page)

Mr. Bulping did not seem so far even to have noticed Julia. Or the three young men. Or Mr. Preece, for that matter. He leant right across and addressed Mrs. Preece.

“Nice of you to invite me,” he said. “Marcia said you'd be short of men.”

In Sir Harry's suite in the Royal Park Hotel, dinner was just being cleared away. It had been a good meal, and Sir Harry and
his companion had a warm, comfortably full, slightly flushed kind of feeling.

“Eshtrornary woman, m'daughter-in-law,” Sir Harry remarked suddenly. “Really most eshtrornary.” He came up close to Major Cuzzens and tapped his forehead significantly. “Up there,” he added. “Mental.”

Major Cuzzens pursed up his lips, and took a long slow pull at his cigar before replying.

“Bad show,” he said. “Very.”

“Always been that way,” Sir Harry went on. “If it isn't one thing, it's another. Like a kitten. Never know what'll be next. Can't tell for twenty-four hours. Remember that snake dancer?”

“Indian fellow, y'mean?”

Sir Harry nodded.

“Probably been murdered by now,” he continued. “Got his throat cut or something. Happens to most of 'em in the long run. Wanted me to go over to dinner.”

Major Cuzzens swung round in his chair.

“Who did? That snake dancer johnny?”

“No, m'daughter-in-law.”

The ash from Major Cuzzens's cigar had fallen on to his waistcoat and he had to brush himself clean.

“Asked us, too. Remember now. Judith told me.”

“What d'you say?”

“Said I'd got a prior engagement.”

“Me, too.”

There was so much natural good fellowship and understanding in the situation that both men instinctively raised their glasses. Then Sir Harry started nervously.

“Didn't mention my name, did you?”

Major Cuzzens considered.

“Don't think so,” he replied. “Just said ‘a chap'.”

Sir Harry looked relieved.

“Better that way,” he explained. “Might have led to un-pleashantness. No point in dragging the two of us in.” Sir Harry paused. “Mad as a tiger if she could see us now,” he added. “Don't like it if two men get along together. Makes 'em feel left out of it. Shows we can do without 'em.”

That remark struck Major Cuzzens as penetrating and profound. He was frequently amazed by the sheer wisdom that Sir Harry kept displaying. That was what made Sir Harry's company such a tonic.

But already Sir Harry was speaking again.

“Shouldn't have been having a little dinner party at all,” he
said. “Not to-night. Firm's got a dance on. Ought to have been there. Both of 'em. Can't neglect the business like that. Always used to go when I was a bit younger.”

“No use taking chances,” Major Cuzzens agreed with him. “Got to look after ourselves.”

“Never did like those modern dances,” Sir Harry remarked. “Not my line of country. Give me the old-fashioned waltz every time. That's what I call dancin'.” He leant back and hummed a few bars under his breath while his feet moved idly on the hearthrug. “‘Blue Danube.' That was a good one,” he said at length. “And
The Merry Widow.
Better than those blasted foxtrots.”

“Can't stand 'em,” Major Cuzzens agreed again. “Not like proper dancin' at all.”

Sir Harry glanced at the clock. It showed ten-fifteen.

“What about lookin' in for half an hour? Just to cheer 'em up. Can't offend the Staff Association y'know.”

“I'm ready,” Major Cuzzens agreed for the last time. “Does y'good to get out for a bit.”

Sir Harry poured out another drink.

“Better have this first,” he said. “Nothing much to drink when we get there.”

Because it was the big night of the year, Mr. Rammell had ordered champagne for everyone at his table. It was so much sheer poison for him. He knew that. But there was nothing that he could do about it. It was just one of those things that were expected of him. Like inviting senior members of the staff over to the table to share a glass. Mr. Bloot's turn, in fact, was just coming up.

Only this year, there was a difference. Hetty had asked for champagne at the table, too. And, when he arrived, Mr. Bloot showed an unusual degree of self-assurance.

Raising his glass, he toasted Mrs. Rammell as though she had been an ambassadress.

“Maht Ah say, ma'am,” he observed, with a wide, shiny smile, “on beharf of the whole starf what pleashah it gives us all to have Mr. Rammell and his lady here to-naht.”

Mrs. Rammell smiled back at him without rising. She was still in a thoroughly bad temper about having been made to come at all. And, above all things, she wanted to see what Tony was up to. Was he, or was he not, still fussing around that Privett girl? What made it so particularly maddening was that at the moment she couldn't see either of them ... Then, hurriedly, she recovered
herself. Turning to Mr. Bloot, she assured him that this was an evening that she and Mr. Rammell had been looking forward to all the year. Ever since the same time last year, in fact.

It was with something of a flourish that Mr. Bloot drained back his glass and returned it to the table. He was, however, just a shade impetuous. The base of his glass caught the edge of an ash-tray that was already standing there, and there was a little tinkle of glass falling on the gilt table top.

Mr. Bloot drew his breath in sharply.

“Pud'n me, ma'am,” he said. “Pud'n me.”

And to show that he wasn't the kind of man who would allow broken glass to litter up the tables, he took out his handkerchief and began flicking at the chips. But table-flicking is an art. Only waiters can perform it with impunity. On the upward sweep of the handkerchief Mr. Bloot caught one of the red carnations in the tall vase in the centre of the table. At one moment, there was Mrs. Rammell, smiling up politely at a tall florid man whose name she had forgotten and, at the next, she was frantically backing away from a cascade of water and red carnations ...

Mr. Bloot was still saying “Pud'n me. Pud'n me,” long after Mrs. Rammell had gone across to the Powder Room to dry herself. But he was not really thinking of Mrs. Rammell at all. He was thinking about Hetty. Something told him that she wouldn't like being left so long. And he was right. Hetty was sitting at a table with the Privetts. At that moment, Mr. Privett was retelling the story of his accident. And Hetty, with her shoes half-kicked off beneath the table, was wondering how in God's name she was ever going to be able to stick her future husband's friends.

But Mr. Bloot himself was behaving magnificently. He had overcome his embarrassment. And, in a mood of arch gallantry, he was now leaning over Mr. Rammell.

“Maht Ah presume to introdooce mah brahd-to-be?” he asked. “It's what you maht call her first public appearance.”

Considering how much he disliked staff dances, young Tony Rammell was diligently doing his stuff. Under his father's directions he had already danced with a thin, hawk-faced creature who looked like minor European Royalty and really came from Handbags. With a pale, rather frightened-looking Elliot-Fisher clerk out of Invoicing—that was because his father had said that the behind-the-scenes girls never got any proper notice taken of them. With Miss Sulgrave who had fitted up Irene Privett with the new party dress that she wasn't wearing. And with a big motherly creature who turned out to be Corsets. On his own
account he had managed to slip in a couple of dances with the tall, Cleopatra-like Miss Anson from Hairdressing, and two more with a small, pretty, nameless one who worked in Cosmetics.

So far he hadn't danced even once with Irene. That was partly because he had been kept working so hard by his father. And partly because the Privetts' table was so far away. Irene herself didn't seem to be missing him. She had danced the last two dances with the young man from Travel whom she had met that night at the Staff Hostel. And, Mrs. Privett was pleased to notice, she was looking her absolute prettiest.

Not that there was anything exceptional in that. There were pretty girls practically everywhere you looked. But that is the way it is with all staff dances. The transformation is sudden and complete. Generations of employers have been amazed because of it. It is always hard to believe that even the plainest girls can leave the office at five-thirty, dim and colourless and with hair all anyhow, and re-emerge two hours later looking like sleek professional beauties who would faint clean away at the mere thought of having to earn their own living.

And Rammell's, remember, had at least more than averagely presentable ones to start with.

Hetty's arrival at the Rammells' table coincided almost exactly with that of Sir Harry and Major Cuzzens. And altogether it was very nearly too much for Mrs. Rammell.

In the first place, Sir Harry wasn't expected at all. Nor, for that matter, was Major Cuzzens. And the big flamboyantly-dressed woman whom Mr. Bloot had brought over was a complete stranger to her. But it was not merely the matter of overcrowding that was worrying her. It was Sir Harry. She had detected a glint in his eye that seriously alarmed her. Apparently, at the mere sight of Mr. Bloot's lady friend, he had been bowled clean over. He stood there simply gaping at her. And, as soon as she had been introduced, he insisted on having her sit next to him.

“So you're a new girl, are you?” he said. “Don't expect you know a soul. But don't worry. I'll look after you.”

A moment later, when Mrs. Rammell looked across, Hetty and Sir Harry were holding hands.

Over at the Preeces' table things were quieter. A great deal quieter. Altogether too quiet, in fact. Even Mr. Bulping's champagne had done nothing to raise Marcia's spirits. She sat there pale and spiritualised. Like a despondent lady-angel. Mr. Bulping felt more than a bit despondent himself. He didn't see what more he
could have done for her. It had been all her idea to come to this god-awful dance in the first place. And it had been left to him to make more of an evening of it by buying the champagne.

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?”