Bond Street Story (47 page)

But he was reckoning without Miss Winters. She was behaving in a more intense fashion than ever just lately. And she had taken to a new style of hairdressing. Instead of wearing her fringe cut square across the forehead like a neat Venetian blind, she now wore it ragged and serrated. It might have been a limp black comb. In the result, she looked distraught as well as intense.

And she was obtuse, too, when Mr. Rammell spoke to her. She stood there, obviously wondering, her large frightened eyes staring out from under the saw edge of what had been her hair.

“Note to the Fur buyer, copy to Accounts,” Mr. Rammell told her. “I shall personally be buying the mink wrap worn by Marcia at the Charity Ball last Tuesday. Kindly arrange for it to be charged to my account at the bought-in price.”

Mr. Rammell paused. In the ordinary way, he would have inquired the price. Even called the buyer down to see whether between them they could have discovered a flaw, a poor skin, a pulled seam—anything that might justify knocking a hundred or two off. All Mrs. Rammell's furs had been subjected precisely to that kind of scrutiny. But this was different. The one thing that Mr. Rammell wanted was to be done with it.

He looked up. Miss Winters was still standing there. Still staring.

“That's all,” he said.

“Where do you want it sent?” she asked.

“Don't bother about that,” he told her. “I'll attend to it.”

“Will Mrs. Rammell be collecting it personally?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Do you want any special arrangements about storage?”

“No,” Mr. Rammell replied briefly. And to show that he had already had quite enough both of the mink wrap and of Miss Winters he repeated: “That's all.”

She was back again within ten minutes, however. An efficient girl with a strongly developed sense of doom, she had run down to the Fur buyer before actually typing out the memo. Just to make sure, as she put it. And thank goodness, she had! Because the wrap wasn't anywhere in the building. Marcia should have returned it yesterday and the buyer simply hadn't done a darn thing about it.

“About that wrap,” Miss Winters began, her voice taking on all the deeper voice tones of the true drama student.

“Yes, what is it?”

“It isn't there,” Miss Winters told him. “But they're getting it.”

Mr. Rammell started forward.

“What do you mean?”

“From Marcia.” Miss Winters went on. “She didn't return it. But the buyer was sure it'd be all right. So she didn't do anything. She's on to it now. She's asked for it back. They're sending round to Marcia's flat for it.”

“Then stop them,” Mr. Rammell shouted. “Stop them at once.”

Mr. Rammell paused.

“And ask Marcia to come up and see me,” he said. “Now.”

Marcia was charming about it. Absolutely charming. She was sure all the time that there must have been some horrible mistake, she said. But naturally when they had asked her for it, she couldn't refuse, could she? And what should she do now? Because unless Mr. Rammell did something it would go straight into storage. She wouldn't be allowed even to look at it. And she did love it so. Positively adored it. But above all things—and Mr. Rammell knew that, didn't he?—she didn't want to be a nuisance. Not the least little tiny bit. If Mr. Rammell himself hadn't suggested giving her the wrap the thought of it would never even have crossed her mind ...

Even with Marcia so reasonable, it still took up time. And to prevent anything else going wrong, Mr. Rammell told Miss Winters to have the wrap sent up to his own room. He would deliver it himself, he said. When all that was over, he mixed himself a glass of bismuth and water. Took one of the small, unpleasant charcoal tablets that usually seemed to do the trick. Washed his hands which somehow had become strangely sticky for so early in the morning. And got down to the routine business of the day.

On the whole, it was a rather quiet, ordinary sort of day. Sir Harry rang up twice. Once to say that he had come to the conclusion that they were wasting their time with Soft Furnishings and ought to shut the department down completely. And the second time to say that he had a scheme for enlarging it, making it something that would knock the rest of the trade for six ... There was the usual batch of letters to dictate. The quarterly accounts to go through. A long session with Mr. Preece about overtime and special pay. A telephone conversation with the auditors about stock write-off. Two or three callers. A twenty-five-year bonus to present. An interview with the architect about the new dispatch bay in Hurst Place. And then, after lunch, more
letters. A deputation from the Staff Association about a separate rest room for the Juniors. Another session with Mr. Preece. A telephone call from Sir Harry warning Mr. Rammell that they were missing all the main chances and ought to begin opening new branches at once in places like Cheltenham, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg ... A long meeting with the buyers about special discounts. Preliminary discussions with a firm of business efficiency experts about electronic computers for the counting house. An emergency call from Mr. Preece about possible Union trouble on the transport side. A message—quite a brief one this time—from Sir Harry reminding him that it was no use trying to build up an overseas business unless it was all properly researched, planned, provided for ... and what was wrong with Canada? Hadn't Mr. Rammell ever heard of Toronto? Or Melbourne for that matter? And would he please do a paper for the Board next Tuesday? ... And then finally the day's letters to sign, fresh from Miss Winters's electric typewriter all looking very black and white and impersonal as though Mr. Rammell had bought the whole batch ready-made from a printer's.

Just a normal, routine day, in fact. And now at last it was over. But not quite. Miss Winters came in. She was carrying one of Rammell's big white boxes.

“The wrap,” she said. “It's been sent up. Like you told me.”

Mr. Rammell felt more relaxed again by now.

“Thank you,” he said. “Get it sent down to the car, would you?”

Then a sudden thought crossed his mind.

“Just a moment,” he said. “Bring it here, would you?”

It was as he feared. The label on the box was addressed to Mrs. Rammell.

But already Miss Winters was speaking again. Beneath the windswept, urchin fringe, her eyes seemed wilder, more frantic than before. But it was obvious that she was doing her best to end the day on a cheerful note.

“I posted the insurance note to Mrs. Rammell,” she said. “That was right, wasn't it?”

 

It was only Irene's second day in the Fur Salon. She had been transferred there, temporarily, because the Junior assistant, Miss Anstey, had fallen sick. And suddenly at that. Pains. Shocking ones, too. Midnight call for the doctor. Appendicitis diagnosed. Ambulance at three a.m. On the operating table by nine. Off the danger-list by lunch-time. No further cause for anxiety. Nothing at all for the family to worry about. But still an awkward gap in Furs. And when a customer has screwed her courage up to the thousand-pound mark, it simply doesn't make sense to keep her hanging around until she may have cooled off.

Miss Anstey herself was tall, ash blonde, willowy. Irene, on the other hand, was small, dark, springy. There was nothing that they had in common. Except good looks. And undoubtedly of the highest order, too. Because there is no higher tribute that can be paid to an assistant in any big store than to be transferred to Furs.

Irene loved it there. It was scarcely like being in a shop at all. More like being seconded to Buckingham Palace. Holiday relief for one of the ladies-in-waiting, as it were. Thick, mossy carpet. Walnut chairs. Little, elegant tables with just the least fleck of gilt on the corners. Flowers, gladioluses mostly, in white vases on thin pedestal affairs. Mirrors that might have been doors. Discreet private rooms with still more mirrors. And silence. A plushy, expensive silence hung over everything. Even staff messages were passed on in whispers. Asking for a tape measure sounded like something out of a Shakespearian balcony scene. Only reverent, rather than romantic. All in all, the Rammell Salon might have been the inner-vestry of some well-endowed, go-ahead American cathedral.

And amid this calm, this quietness, burst the mink-wrap bomb. Fired off regardless of the consequences by Mr. Rammell, the barrage was taken up by Mr. Preece. Under the double fire, Mrs. Westlake, the buyer—fifty-five, perfectly groomed, blue hair, poised,
soignée
—went entirely to pieces. Called first to Mr. Rammell's room in the morning to be asked who had told her to make out an insurance note to anyone, and then whisked off to Mr. Preece's offices to explain why she allowed thousand-guinea wraps to drift about London, unchecked and apparently un-remembered, she became hysterical. First tears. Then laughter. And meaningless, contradictory explanations. Too many of them.
Too garbled. In the end, there was nothing for it but to send Mrs. Westlake—still breathing, but by now hair all anyhow, tottery, pink-eyed—off to Welfare Supervisor, and then on to Earl's Court in a taxi.

And then, with the assistant buyer, Miss Hanson—plump, fortyish and unrufflable—in command, the astonishing sequel occurred. Marcia herself came into the Salon. Not in a rush. Dreamier than ever, in fact. Practically sleep-walking. Ever so slowly, as though along some imaginary line. At her most ethereal looking, too. A pale, inner radiance seemed to be escaping from her. She shone. And over her arm, hanging in the soft, oceanlike folds of which only the best mink is capable, was the wrap ...

It was something to do with the collar, she explained. Heavenly, quite heavenly as it was, it still didn't seem quite right. Not ... not absolutely. She didn't know what was wrong. Just
felt
it. So would Miss Hanson look at it, please. Tell her whether there
was
anything. Even though looking wouldn't help, really. You had to wear it to know.

Even though Miss Hanson couldn't be ruffled, she could still stare. Marcia felt that she had never had such enormous, un-beautiful eyes fixed so intently upon her before. Or, for some reason, such unfriendly eyes. She couldn't understand it. Hostile, almost. Suspicious anyhow. Indeed, the whole atmosphere of the Salon seemed to have changed somehow.

Almost as though something had gone wrong, Marcia reflected. As though somewhere amidst the plush and the gilt and the silence someone had recently been unhappy about something.

It was Irene's early night. She was back at Fewkes Road at six-thirty. That was because, every Tuesday, Ted went along to his cricket practice. Love and romance, the engaged state and new responsibilities had made no difference to him. Wet or fine—even that didn't matter because the nets were under cover, anyhow—he went along to bowl, bowl, bowl against men who knew his leg-breaks quite as well as he did and to bat, bat, bat against bowling that changed only when someone was away sick or something. But it helped to keep your eye in, he contended. And it kept the fellows together. And it kept you fit. And it wasn't expensive. And it had been on B.B.C. television. All in all, in fact, chaps who didn't belong to the Rammell Cricket Club were certainly missing something.

Irene resented the Club. Nowadays, she was living in that desperate half-life condition when to be parted from Ted even for a single evening meant misery. Wretchedness. Despair. But tonight was different. She had too much on her mind. News. And hot news at that. She wanted to tell Mrs. Privett all about it.

“ ... and she went absolutely as white as a sheet, when she heard that Mr. Rammell
and
Mr. Preece both wanted to see her.” She finished up breathlessly. “And then all the fuss about getting Miss Hanson to take over. But when Marcia came in actually
wearing
it. You could have knocked us all down with a feather. You never saw anything like it. Miss Hanson just stood there, staring. I thought she was going to faint, or something.”

Mrs. Privett did not reply immediately.

“Does your father know?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Irene answered. “I suppose so. Everybody else seemed to. You can just imagine.”

“Well, until you know for certain I shouldn't say anything,” Mrs. Privett told her. “It's not right. Not from someone in your position. There are some things best forgotten.”

“Oh, this one won't be, I can tell you,” Irene answered. “It's all over Bond Street. It is reely.”

“We'll see,” was all that Mrs. Privett said. “You leave this to me.”

It was, in point of fact, by way of a victory for Irene that Mr. Privett no longer hung about the Staff Entrance waiting for her. But it was really Ted's doing. He was always there himself for certain. A couple of escorts would have been too many. And on Tuesday when net-practice night came round and Ted had to go off in the opposite direction, Mr. Privett had somehow got out of the habit of it.

They had to wait until nearly seven o'clock for Mr. Privett to arrive home. Irene had gone upstairs by then. And Mrs. Privett tackled him immediately. Not that she need have troubled. It was on the tip of his tongue, too. And it was worse than she had feared. Much worse. Apparently there had been goings-on for some time past.

“ ... and he's out with her every night,” Mr. Privett said despondently. “Dancing, you know, and all that sort of thing.”

“How d'you know?” Mrs. Privett demanded.

“Gus told me,” Mr. Privett replied, as though that were all the proof that could possibly be needed.

“Has Gus ever seen him?” Mrs. Privett persisted.

The question was a troublesome one. Mr. Privett didn't want to say “No.” Because that would be like letting down a friend. On the other hand, he couldn't possibly say “Yes.” Because, so far as he knew, Gus never went anywhere except back to Finsbury Park.