Bond Street Story (44 page)

And it only made it all the harder for her because she could tell how lonely and miserable at heart Mr. Rammell really was. Facts like that cannot be concealed from a woman. What Mr. Rammell needed more than any man whom she had ever met was someone to cherish him. Pet him. Make a fuss of him. Soothe him. Flatter him. It would have to be all one-way love, of course. She saw that. With his attitude towards life, Mr. Rammell himself could never be the lover. But did that matter? Hadn't there
always been a place in this world for the kind of woman who was selfless? Dedicated? Giving?

She glanced upwards for a moment to make sure that Mr. Rammell was still there. But it was all right. He had just taken a cigar out of his case. And he was now engaged in clipping the end off. There was a degree of absorption in the job that she found deeply moving. He was so entirely self-centred. Like a child, she told herself. And gracious what an unattractive child he was. Even though he was quite important really, he looked seedy. Downright seedy. The only thing that could put him right was a holiday. Right away from Bond Street. Away from telephones. Away from everything ... She saw herself in some unknown spot completely off the map. Like Cornwall. Or Majorca. In quite a small sort of cottage, too. Just the two of them, with her nursing him. Literally waiting on him. Hand and foot. Fetching and carrying. Day and night. Slowly, wearily, thanklessly, building him up again. Restoring him. Making a new man out of him from the infinite reserves of her own devotion.

“Well, that's that,” Mr. Rammell's voice said from a point located somewhere in space. “I just wanted to be sure that everything was all right. I've got to be going.”

These moments of snap decisions were always difficult for Marcia. She knew that unless she spoke now, at once, she would lose him. Probably for ever. Then there would be no one, simply no one, coming to her little flat at all.

It was in a flash that the words came to her.

“Won't ... won't you have another drink?” she asked.

In the matter of drinking, Mr. Rammell had frequently marvelled at himself. The weakness of his character was truly astonishing. Apparently, whether he wanted another drink or not, he simply couldn't refuse. Not that it was alcoholism. He rarely drank too much. It was merely that he automatically accepted.

Which was why he was still there. The time was now after eight-thirty. At this rate, he'd be there the whole evening. Either waiting for Marcia to say something, or wondering what to make of it when she had said it. Admittedly, it was restful. But it was also indescribably dull. “The moment I've finished this drink I must be on my way,” he told himself.

The pile of long-playing records caught his eye.

“You musical?” he asked.

Marcia raised her eyes. Her deep violet eyes. They met his for a moment.

“Definitely,” she answered.

She got up as she said it and moved slowly over to the machine. There was a record already on the turntable. She switched it on. Then she sat herself down again on the edge of the divan wearing her far-away expression. The one that Tony had always loved so much.

But this time she wasn't thinking of the tiny cottage where, for Mr. Rammell's sake, she would gladly, oh, so gladly have been wearing down her fingers to the bone. Instead she kept remembering the bleak, unhappy present. The last lot of photographs from
The Tatler,
for instance, that had come out all wrong because the studio had changed her make-up. The bill for the chair that Mr. Rammell was sitting in, and for the horrible little table beside it. What the dentist had said last time about having to crown it because ordinary stopping wouldn't work any longer. The fact that her mother's postal order was overdue again ...

“Turn it off,” Mr. Rammell's voice said quite distinctly.

Marcia moved just as slowly back to the machine. She turned the switch. The automatic arm lifted, swung clear and ingeniously stowed itself away. The room, to Mr. Rammell's relief, became entirely restful once more.

“Sure you don't mind?” he asked.

“Definitely not.” Marcia assured him.

And then, as she turned, he saw that Marcia was crying. Not openly, noisily. Nothing spectacular. It was simply that her eyes were moist. She was holding a handkerchief up to them.

“What's the matter?” Mr. Rammell demanded.

“Nothing,” Marcia told him. “Really it's nothing. Nothing that I could explain.”

Mr. Rammell, all knees and elbows, struggled up out of his chair and came across to her.

“I want you to know how much I appreciate the way you've been taking all this,” he said slowly. “If there's anything else I can do ...”

“Thank you,” Marcia replied huskily.

“Well, is there?”

Marcia raised her face again. Her lower lip was trembling. How could she explain, how could she possibly explain, that she was crying only because she had just remembered that she had put that record on for Tony? Left it in the machine so that she could simply turn the switch the moment she heard him ring. That was weeks and weeks ago by now. And she hadn't had the heart to go near the damn' thing ever since.

“Well, is there?” She heard Mr. Rammell's words again.

“N ... no, really. Please don't ask me. You wouldn't understand.”

She was crying quite openly by now. A large tear formed itself in the corner of her eye and began to trickle down her cheek. Mr. Rammell looked at it fascinated. He had never watched a tear in live close-up before. Come to that he had never watched Marcia herself in live close-up before.

And now that he did so he was startled. The leading model look had disappeared completely. She seemed such a little girl. It was like having a limp, unhappy child standing there. Instinctively he put his arms out to her. And automatically she came into them.

Marcia could tell at once how pure the embrace was. And, really, she rather loved him for it. It was so obvious that he had never properly held any other woman before. He didn't know even the elementary things, like where to put his hands, and about not breathing down her neck. It was all as impersonal as if he had been comforting a sad aunt. Merely friendly. Nothing more. But even that was something. In her present deprived state it was wonderfully reassuring to have a shoulder again. Any shoulder. Just something to lean on. Something that smelt woollen. And cigarry. And male.

Because it seemed, even to Marcia, that her head had been there for a long time, and because nothing very much seemed to be happening, she raised her face to his. Mr. Rammell kissed it just as she knew he would. It was a paternal, affectionate sort of kiss somewhere right up on the cheekbone. She started to move away from him.

“I ... I'm sorry I was so ... so silly,” she began.

But Mr. Rammell checked her. He reached out and took hold of her hands. They were slim, delicate hands. The only thing that Mr. Rammell could feel was the large costume-jewellery ring that she was wearing. And it was the simple fact of Marcia's childlikeness and fragility that moved him. She seemed so completely defenceless. Unprotected. Without any armour against life at all. And at the very moment when he was telling himself that it was his duty—yes, his duty—to provide protection, to stand between her and the world, he pulled her roughly to him. She offered simply no resistance at all. But, by now, Mr. Rammell was conscious only of the fact that if there had been any resistance he would have overcome it. Holding Marcia in a close and suffocating bear hug he started to kiss her with a sense of conquest and possession that astonished him.

When he paused for a moment—and it was purely to catch his breath—Marcia spoke. This was one of the few moments in life when Marcia had never been at a loss for words. Suddenly, it all seemed so easy. So natural.

“Darling,” she said. “Darling.”

The effect of the words, however, were greater than she had anticipated. That was scarcely her fault, however. She was not to know that she was saying them to someone who had not heard them addressed to him personally for over a quarter of a century. Mr. Rammell responded. And he responded violently. He began kissing her again.

It was wonderful, of course. Quite wonderful. To think that on their third meeting—because all the other fifteen years simply didn't count—he should have come to care so much. In the ordinary way she would have been ready to stand there in his arms for ever. But somehow it seemed so pointless. So silly, even. Because it was perfectly obvious that he didn't know what to do next. So long as he could come up for air every so often, he would probably still be kissing her by midnight.

She managed at last to break away from him. They stood there regarding each other. And she knew that this was just the moment for her smile. The slow, enigmatic one. But once again her instinct helped her through. She guessed that he would need more than a three-quarter turn away smile. Would need some definite reassurance, in fact. Something positive so that he wouldn't start saying anything ghastly like, “You really must forgive me. I'm afraid I was just carried away.”

Marcia had known what it was to have that said to her. And it was horrible. Short of being vulgar and clinging, she had never known how to be able to start things up again.

But this time, she was prepared. She raised her eyes to his and smiled straight into them.

“Darling,” she said.

And then, remembering what had happened last time, she added hurriedly: “Just ... just look what you've done to me. I ... I must go and p ... put my f ... face back on again.”

It was after eleven by now. Marcia had changed into her long house-coat—the one that Mr. Bulping had given her. And she was wearing a pair of plaited-straw mules that poor darling Tony had discovered somewhere and had insisted on lavishing. The perfume, just a trace too sophisticated for purely informal occasions, had come out of Rammell's sample stores.

“You know, Marcia, you're a strange girl,” Mr. Rammell said.

He uttered the words slowly and reflectively as if they meant something.

And to Marcia, they did. This was just the kind of conversation in which she could keep level. Even lead if it came to it.

“Am I?” she said slowly.

“Yes,” Mr. Rammell went on. “I can't make you out at all.”

This was harder. Definitely harder. For a moment nothing whatever occurred to her. Then it came back to her in a flash.

“You ... you could try,” she said.

But it was no use. She had taken Mr. Rammell out of his depths by now. He was floundering, too. But there was more to it than that. He was ill. Downright ill. If he had been at home he would have mixed himself one of his patent emergency draughts—six drops of chlorodyne in half a medicine glass of warm angostura and water. And no wonder he needed it. It had been madness, sheer madness, ever to have eaten that omelette that Marcia had insisted on making for him. Eggs were the one thing that the specialist had warned him against. And now he was paying for it.

Because of the twinges, the pangs, he forgot all about trying to understand Marcia. He was intent on trying to understand the furniture instead.

“Why on earth did you get this bloody awful chair and table?” he asked at last.

Marcia hesitated for a moment. Really meant to hesitate this time.

“You ... you won't like it if I tell you,” she said.

“Why not?”

He was getting sick of the whole thing by now. Wished that he hadn't asked. Apparently even the simplest thing he said got itself trapped into some kind of complicated reply.

“Because ... because it was Tony who made me.”

Mr. Rammell shifted his weight in sheer irritation. The chair in reply bounced back again.

“I thought it probably was,” he said.

Marcia paused. Was this the moment? Possibly not. But it had to be said some time.

“I ... I haven't paid for them yet,” she said softly.

Mr. Rammell's reply was immediate. And abrupt.

“Well, don't,” he told her.

But this was Marcia's other good subject. The one where she could keep things going for hours. The one where she really came into her own.

“That record-player over there,” she said. “That's really Tony's.”

Mr. Rammell thought for a moment.

“I'll have it collected,” he said. “Don't worry. I'll send you another one.”

Marcia raised her hands to her face. It was a quick, birdlike little gesture. Quite different from her usual slow-motion movements. And wonderfully effective if only she remembered not to use it twice in the same evening.

“Oh, but you mustn't,” she said. “Really you mustn't. They cost the earth.”

“I'll send you one,” Mr. Rammell repeated.

Marcia drew in a long, deep breath. This was obviously it. A chance like it might not present itself again for weeks. Never perhaps.

“If ... if you would like to give me something,” she said; “but ... but only if you really mean it, I mean you don't have to because ... because why should you? Then I wish you'd ... but I
can't
ask you, I just
can't
—it all sounds too awful ... but ... but you see, if you really did send me another record-player I ... I'd only have to ... sell it because I'm so ... so overdrawn or whatever it's called at the moment. And it ... it feels so horrible. I ... I lie awake thinking about it.”

Mr. Rammell sucked in his lips.

“Which bank?” he asked.

Marcia paused. Really paused this time. It seemed such an extraordinary question. She was still wondering what to answer when Mr. Rammell repeated it.

“Oh, Lloyd's,” she replied at last. “Definitely.”

But, as she said it, she realized how unfair she had been. How disloyal. Besides, she couldn't possibly afford to say anything that might upset Lloyd's Bank.

“It ... it isn't the Manager's fault,” she added hurriedly. “Really, it isn't. He's ... he's an absolute sweetie. He doesn't mind a bit. He'd be ready to wait for ever. It's ... it's something to do with the rules. It's ... head office, I think he said.”