Bond Street Story (41 page)

“You're old enough to be his mother,” Mr. Rammell reminded her.

For a moment Marcia raised one hand to her cheek as though for protection.

“That's what I tell him,” she answered, even more softly this time. “But he doesn't realize. He'll ... he'll need all your help.”

Mr. Rammell took out his handkerchief and began running it across his forehead. He was aware that at last Marcia was actually looking at him. And not merely looking. She was staring. Those remarkable violet eyes of hers were fixed full on him. She was devouring and consuming him. Mr. Rammell looked hurriedly away.

But still Marcia's gaze did not waver. It had absorbed him completely by now.

“The poor darling thing,” she was thinking. “How awful! He's embarrassed! So strong and powerful, too, if he only knew. But so unsure of himself. So painfully unsure. And so ill looking. So haggard. And all because of me. Oh, why can't I do something. How can I ever make him understand?”

Mr. Rammell had pulled out his cigar-case and was carefully removing a cigar. He fingered it gently. Lovingly. When he applied the cutter, he was delicate. Precise. It might have been surgery, not mere smoking, in which he was engaged.

Marcia's whole heart went out to him.

“Now he's just playing for time,” she reflected. “He doesn't know what to say. That's because he doesn't really trust me.”

Mr. Rammell lit the cigar and blew out a cloud of blue smoke.

“I think you're taking the whole thing very sensibly,” he said. “Very.”

“I'm ... I'm glad you do.”

“Must mean quite a wrench,” he went on. “I see that.”

Marcia raised her right hand again for an instant. But this time it was merely to run the back of her fingers across her lashes. She gave the tiniest of little sniffs.

“Oh, God,” thought Mr. Rammell. “I hope she isn't going to start crying.”

He decided that he had better say something. And say it quickly.

“I can tell you one thing,” he said briskly. “I shan't forget about this. You can rely on me.”

Marcia looked up again. Her eyes seemed even darker violet now.

“Don't,” she said. “Please, please, don't.”

Because it was so late, the adjoining offices were all in darkness. Only Miss Winters's light was still burning. The corridor ahead of them looked empty and deserted. Marcia experienced that strange mountains-of-the-moon sensation again. It seemed that she and Mr. Rammell were the only two people left alive. Survivors, as it were. In a world that had died around them while they had still been talking.

“Better use this lift,” she dimly heard Mr. Rammell say to her. “Staff entrance'll be closed by now.”

And again in the lift she had it. This extraordinary feeling of twoness. Of twoness that was somehow oneness. It was as though
she and Mr. Rammell had been on terms of intimate confidences all their lives. When the lift reached the ground floor Mr. Rammell had to nudge her before she even noticed.

Outside the Downe Street entrance, however, Marcia drew back. It was raining. Real heavy stuff. As though Covent Garden had moved up on Bond Street.

Marcia looked hard at the big Rolls-Royce parked opposite the doorway.

“Do ... do you think someone could possibly get me a taxi?” she asked helplessly.

Mr. Rammell did not attempt any resistance. He did the simple, manly thing.

“Get in,” he said. “I'll drop you.”

They drove round the Park in silence. Marcia was sitting back, the rug drawn round her and her eyes half-closed. Her hand, her long pale hand with the blue veins faintly showing, lay on the broad arm-rest between them.

“I ... I feel terribly guilty,” she said, “dragging you out of your way like this. Do ... do let me offer you a drink when we get there.”

But this time Mr. Rammell was prepared.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I'm late already. Must be getting along.”

The car had already reached Knightsbridge before Marcia spoke again. There was barely two minutes to go.

“It's ... it's funny it should be New York you're sending him to,” she said.

“Why, what's funny about it?” Mr. Rammell asked.

“Because I've been asked to go, too.”

Mr. Rammell started.

“You mean Tony's asked you?”

“Oh, no.”

Marcia gave a little laugh.

Her laugh was noticeably better than her speaking voice. When she laughed it was low and rather husky. “An agent. It's Adler's he wants me for. They ... they like English models over there.”

The car had stopped by now. And the chauffeur was standing out in the rain ready to open the door.

“What have you told him?” Mr. Rammell demanded.

“I ... I haven't really decided,” Marcia replied. “It's ... it's all so difficult now.”

Mr. Rammell glanced across at the small gilt clock let into the walnut woodwork of the partition. It showed six forty-five. He
was certain, absolutely certain, that he was late for something. But he couldn't let matters rest where they were.

“Just a minute,” he said. “We ought to discuss this together. Why didn't you tell me before?”

“I ... I didn't think of it,” Marcia answered truthfully.

“When have you got to let him know?”

“To ... to-morrow,” Marcia told him. “F ... first thing.” She paused. “Well, g ... good night. And thank you ag ... again.”

But Mr. Rammell had laid his hand upon her arm.

“Not so fast,” he said. “I'll come in for a moment. We've got to get this thing settled one way or the other.”

 

The astonishing thing had happened: Mr. Bloot was beginning to come round to Fewkes Road again.

And after so long, too. It was getting on for a year now since he had last dropped in alone. There had, of course, been the formal prearranged visits. Sunday evening suppers for Gus and Hetty at the Privetts'. And too much to drink, and a lot of gelatiney fancy stuff from the local
delicatessen
for the return visits to Artillery Mansions. But even these family reunions had lapsed.

Try as she might, Mrs. Privett could not help disliking Hetty. Disliking Hetty, and despising Mr. Bloot. Particularly when at Artillery Mansions. While the other three sat round, usually with a pack of cards stacked hopefully on the table in case Chick should drop in, it was impossible to be unaware of Mrs. Privett's disapproval. She remained silent and subdued in the corner, like a book-end. With her glass untouched and the ash-tray beside her empty, she loyally remembered poor Emmie.

But nowadays it was quite like old times. The unannounced ring on the door bell. The mumbled greeting. The insatiable thirst for tea.

And the difference in Mr. Privett was enormous. Having Mr. Bloot in the house again—and unaccompanied—had made a new man of him. He was like someone in the throes of a late love-affair.

Nor was Mr. Bloot's return the only reason for Mr. Privett's high spirits. He was about to become the owner of
Daisy III.
That was what really counted. Any day now he expected to receive the post-card from Lumley's saying that she was ready. Twenty-two pounds ten to pay, admittedly. But why worry? The money was there all ready in the Post Office to meet it. That was because Mrs. Privett had refused the new sewing-machine. And more than refused it. Rejected it point blank. Her old one was quite good enough for her, she had said. A pearl among machines, in fact. They didn't even make machines like it nowadays. She had been so emphatic, in fact, that there had been nothing for it but for Mr. Privett to get off at Camden Town on his way in next morning and cancel everything. Not that he had any choice in the matter. It was bad enough, Mrs. Privett had said, to have all that fruit to get through. Let alone trying to fit a convertible sofa-table-sewing-machine into the drawing-room.

And it was just as well, as it turned out. Because Mr. Hamster lost no time in sending in his bill. He did not come of the school of solicitors which allow charges to go on mounting up month after month to a final reckoning at the end of the year. Why should he? Mr. Privett's was practically the only case on his books at the moment. He spent almost every evening gloating over it. In consequence, he knew to a halfpenny where the costs stood as he came out of the Brecknock County Court. And what he knew he slammed in immediately.

The bill came as a shock to Mr. Privett. A nasty shock. When he saw how large it was he felt frightened. And disgusted. The damages, or rather four-fifths of them, amounted to forty pounds and Mr. Hamster's bill was for thirty-two ten. Apparently being knocked off a bicycle, rolled in the gutter and having a famous model racing yacht demolished in front of his eyes was worth only about seven pounds ten in the eyes of blindfold Justice.

It was Mrs. Privett who underwrote
Daisy III.
Seven pounds ten was still seven pounds ten, as she put it. And fifteen pounds could perfectly well be found from her dressmaking account. If it would help to get Mr. Privett out of the house on Sunday mornings, eager to go and with a sense of purpose, she reckoned that the price was, on any showing, remarkably reasonable.

It was the absence of a telephone in Fewkes Road that made the newly-restored visits of Mr. Bloot so exciting. Telephones are remarkably convenient. Doctors and dentists, for instance, have come to rely on them. But they are the ruination of surprise visits. Take any home that is on the telephone, and unexpected callers hardly ever occur. Take any home that isn't, and the front door bell may still mean absolutely anything.

The bell on the Privetts' door was a good loud one. And simple in construction. It was screwed straight on to the back of the panel. When you pressed the little china button outside, the whole thing sprang to life right under your finger-tip. It seemed to explode.

Not that Mr. Bloot need ever really have touched the thing at all. He had a naturally massive tread. Mr. Privett was usually aware of his approach as soon as he reached the metal drain-cover at the bottom of the front step.

It was like that this evening. A dull rumble outside like distant summer thunder, and Mr. Privett looked up from his paper.

“That'll be Gus,” he said.

There was a pause. Then came the harsh
whirr-rurrk
as the bell mechanism unwound itself.

Mrs. Privett looked up, too.

“I'll put a kettle on,” was all she said.

And it was needed. As soon as Mr. Privett saw his friend he could tell that there was something wrong. Mr. Bloot didn't look at all himself to-night. His collar had escaped altogether from the collar stud at the back. And below his right eye was a patch of angry redness as though he had bumped into something.

Mr. Privett stood there, staring.

“What's happened to your—?” he began.

But he got no further. Mr. Bloot raised his forefinger and placed it vertically across his lips.

“Ssssh!” he said. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment and added, almost in a whisper: “Later.”

It was then that Mr. Privett became seriously alarmed. Large as Mr. Bloot was, he tried to put his arm right round him.

“Better come in here, Gus,” he said. “Then we shan't be disturbed.”

It was cold in the little sitting-room. Mr. Privett shivered as they went in. But Mr. Bloot did not seem to notice. He was breathing so hard that he might have run all the way there. He sat down heavily, collapsed almost, into the arm-chair by the fireplace.

“Ah'm all raht,” he said. “Just shaken up a bit.”

Mr. Privett took a small chair opposite. Then he leaned forward to pat his friend reassuringly on the knee. As he did so, he noticed to his surprise that Mr. Bloot was even more dishevelled than he had realized. On both feet, his bootlaces were undone nearly the whole way down.

“Sit back and take it quietly,” Mr. Privett advised. “Eileen's making us some tea.”

But, for once Mr. Bloot did not respond. Not even to tea. He was too much consumed by his own secret thoughts.

“Take it quahtly,” he repeated bitterly. “Take it quahtly. How d'you lahk—?”

It was Mrs. Privett who interrupted him. She opened the door and stood there in the doorway, not attempting to come in.

“Are you two trying to catch your deaths of cold?” she demanded. “It's like an ice-box in here.”

She broke off because, now that she could see him properly, the sight of Mr. Bloot amazed her.

“What on earth have you been doing to yourself?” she asked.

Mr. Privett winced at the sheer callousness of the question. He had noticed many times before that Mrs. Privett seemed to have simply no idea how sensitive Mr. Bloot really was.

“Eileen!” Mr. Privett said sharply.

But he need not have bothered. Mr. Bloot had risen to his feet.

“Ah'm all raht. Ah'm all raht,” he repeated.

He went across and stood in front of the small oval mirror that hung above the bamboo side-table. The light always had been bad there. Mr. Bloot had to crane right forward in order to see anything. And even he seemed to be surprised by what he saw. He refixed his collar. Flattened down his hair. Rubbed the back of his hand reflectively across the sore patch beneath his eye.

But that was not all. From where Mr. Privett was standing he could see that Mr. Bloot's lips were moving all the time. He seemed to be rehearsing something.

Then he turned round.

“Ah'm sorry if Ah upset you, Ahleen,” he said. “Ah've 'ad er naccident. That's all it is. Just er naccident.”

Mrs. Privett came forward. She was peering closely.

“You'd better have something on that cheek,” she said. “When did it happen?”

The question obviously caught Mr. Bloot by surprise. The period of silent rehearsal started up again.

“On the bus,” he said at last. “Coming dahn the stairs. Ah slipped.” He paused and gave a not very convincing little laugh. “Maht have been really nahsty. Maht have been fatal.” He paused again and added, unnecessarily: “Yes, that's raht. On the bus. Coming dahn the stairs. Er 27 bus.”