Bond Street Story (50 page)

“But oughtn't you to be there?” Mr. Privett asked.

Mr. Bloot shook his head.

“'Er friends,” he said briefly. “Not mine.”

He paused for a moment as though undecided whether to continue.

“Ah reckon Ah've learnt something,” he went on at last. “Abaht marriage, Ah mean. Live and let live, I say. Works out quahter that way.”

“D'you mean you don't like her friends?” Mr. Privett asked.

Mr. Bloot blew his cheeks out.

“Just not mah kahnd,” he said. “That's all there is to it.”

He was silent again for a moment. And when he spoke it was in that intimate undertone that sets the seal on all old friendships.

“Funny thing,” he said. “Ah never 'ad any of this trouble with Emmie. No trouble, at all. But then you see she didn't 'ave any friends.”

“There was me and Eileen,” Mr. Privett corrected him.

Mr. Bloot acknowledged the rebuke. He raised his glass in Mr. Privett's direction.

“Present company,” he said, “excepted.”

Then he stretched his legs out in front of him and sat looking at his brown shoes.

“Ah've enjoyed this morning, Ah have,” he went on. “Lahk old tahms. Away-from-it-all as you maht say.”

 

Mr. Tattan (Garden Furniture) suggested it. Mr. Cuffley (Export) thought it was a good idea. Mr. Maple (Household Appliances) disliked rushing things. Mr. Langdale Senior (Restaurant and Catering) considered that the claims of Mr. Langdale Junior (Television and Radio) were somehow being overlooked. Mr. Privett naturally was delighted. Mr. Bloot said that he would drop a word in the raht quartah. And Mr. Finlay (Sports Goods) was completely opposed. Offended, even.

But that is always the way it is with staff changes. There is nothing that upsets people like promotions. They have a disturbing effect all round. People who are left entirely unaffected still resent them. And no one could pretend that Mr. Finlay wasn't affected. After all, it was
his
Sports Department. He had built it up from a few golf clubs and a cricket bat or two into something that stretched right across the fourth floor, with a Wimbledon at one end, Gleneagles over on the Downe Street side, Lord's over in the corner and even a canoe and sailing dinghy section—practically a small Hayling—over by the lift.

It was obvious, however, that something had to be done. Mr. Finlay was now sixty-four. Coming up to sixty-five in July. You couldn't have a he-ancient in charge of a Sports Department. Mr. Finlay saw that all right. But, he kept telling himself, it wasn't necessary to make things over to a mere youngster. And Ted Waters, at twenty-eight, was less than half his age. Surely somewhere in Rammell's, he kept telling himself, there was someone in the middle fifties, respected, reliable, hard-driving.

But who? Mr. Preece had asked himself the question a hundred times. The list, the short list, was lying there on the desk in front of him. Mr. Bennett (Cycles and Touring)? No initiative. Mr. Gibbs (China and Glassware)? Too specialized. Mr. Langdale Junior (Television and Radio)? Not the right type at all for Sports Goods. Too glossy: he looked like a ladies' hairdresser. Mr. Waters (Travel and Theatre Tickets)? A bit on the young side, admittedly. But did that matter? Mr. Preece liked to think of himself as a discoverer of new talent, a seer. And Mr. Waters certainly
looked
right. Tall. Clean-shaven. The open-air type. Women customers would undoubtedly respond. And he was a member of the Sports Club: Mr. Preece had established that. Subject to
Mr. Rammell's approval, Mr. Preece was prepared to appoint him.

It was not Mr. Rammell, but Sir Harry who opposed it. Not for any personal reason. Simply because he was feeling unusually skittish and alert at the Board Meeting. Why not a well-known sportsman? he asked. Get in someone from outside. A County cricketer. Like ... like Tyldesley. Dead, they told him. Or a leading jockey? But Rammell's did not sell saddlery, Mr. Preece pointed out. Or a Davis Cup player? He would lose his amateur status, Mr. Rammell snapped back. Or a woman golfer? Or a track athlete? Or a table-tennis champion? Or a rugger Blue? Or a cross-Channel swimmer? Or a ... But, unusually fertile though his mind was this morning, here Sir Harry paused for a moment. He had only just realized that there was more than management that was wrong with the sports department. It needed livening up, enlarging, re-thinking. Why not a swimming-pool? he started off again. Or a putting green with real turf? Or a rifle range? Or a ski-jump packed solid with artificial ice? Or ... It was while Sir Harry was replanning the whole department, that Mr. Preece was able to slip Mr. Waters's name quietly forward again. Perhaps only an acting appointment, he suggested tactfully. But that was his blunder. Why only acting? Sir Harry demanded. Hadn't Mr. Preece got the guts to back his own hunches? What was going to happen to morale when the staff discovered that the management didn't trust them? Planned promotion was the most important thing in any large firm, he went on. If boards of directors had to begin looking round for strangers to come in and run the business for them they might as well put the shutters up ...

Over the directors' lunch afterwards, Sir Harry was unusually silent. He merely toyed with his lamb cutlets. Left the pear flan untouched. It wasn't that he was exhausted by his performance in the board room. Simply saddened. Depressed by the sheer lack of energy and ability all round him. It didn't matter so long as he was there to step in and take charge. But he couldn't last for ever. Wasn't immortal, he reminded himself. And, after he had gone, what then? Who would there be to make decisions? How would anything ever get done? Where would the drive come from? Just waffle-waffle-waffle round the board table while the whole place went to pot downstairs ...

Mr. Preece lost no time. The board lunch—at which he was
no more than a regular, resentful guest—was over at two-thirty, and at two-forty-five he had sent for Ted Waters. Had him there standing a little awkwardly in front of him at this very moment.

“Take a seat, Mr. Waters,” he said. “Take a seat.” He paused for a moment and pushed the box of office cigarettes forward.

“Would you like to smoke?” he asked even though he was known to be a non-smoker himself. “Do by all means if you want to.”

This was one of the moments in life that Mr. Preece really enjoyed. There was the subtle delicious savour of power. Reprimands and dismissals produced something of the same sensation inside him. They made him wriggle, too. But he did not really enjoy them. Because his one defect as manager was that he liked being liked. Promotions therefore were perfect. At the mere thought of them he could feel himself becoming bland, majestic, godlike. With his pale, hairless hands clasped together beneath his chin as though he were praying, he fairly basked in himself.

“Now, Mr. Waters,” he resumed. “I wonder if you know why I've asked you to come and see me?”

He was observing his visitor very closely while he was speaking. Trying to find out whether managerial secrets really did leak out as he had always suspected.

But it was obvious that Mr. Ted Waters knew nothing. His whole expression was one of honest bewilderment.

“No, I'm afraid I don't, sir,” he said, hope and untruth mingled.

“Ah!” Mr. Preece separated his finger-tips for a moment and then brought them together again. “The board has authorized me ...” he began. That was at two-fifty. At three o'clock precisely Mr. Preece had reached his winding-up.

“Very well then,” he concluded. “You can start in next Monday morning. With Mr. Finlay, of course. He'll show you everything. You'll have one month's overlap with him. And then you're off on your own. Don't hesitate to come back to me at any time you want to. That's what I'm here for. And remember the future is up to you.”

As he spoke the last words, Mr. Preece got up from his chair. He came round to the other side of his desk with his hand stretched out all ready for the formal handshake, the accolade.

“And let me offer my own congratulations,” he said. “I'm sure you're not going to disappoint us.”

What is more, he really meant it. There was one infallible sign. The box of cigarettes had been open at Mr. Waters's elbow all
the time. And Mr. Waters had not so much as reached his hand out towards it.

As soon as Ted had left Mr. Preece's office he went straight along to the staff lavatory on the second floor. Now that the interview was over he felt shaky and slightly sick. He needed support. The tiles round the walls were too cold to lean against. And he chose the cleaners' cabinet over in the corner instead. Then, taking out a packet of ten Players, he lit a cigarette.

He didn't attempt to finish it, however. After a few puffs, he went over to the washbasin and pushed the unsmoked end out of sight down the little grating. Finally, he passed his pocket comb a couple of times through his hair and pulled the knot of his tie smartly back into position. When all that was done, he felt calm enough to tell Irene the news. She was temporarily in Gowns.

But this was not easy. Irene was in the middle of trying to serve a somnambulist. A large, middle-aged woman, she was clearly deep in the dream state. Whenever Irene brought her anything she merely smiled and shook her head sadly to show that she didn't like it. And as soon as Irene had left her, she would go across herself to the racks and run her fingers thoughtfully along the dresses as though counting them might help.

“Had you anything
particular
in mind, madam?” Ted heard Irene ask at last. She was wearing her most attentive expression, Ted noticed. Half sales assistant, half sick nurse. It might have been a thermometer and not a pencil that was tucked under the flap of her sales book.

But the direct question had somehow got through.

“Oh, just something different,” the woman explained. “Something new, you know. Like the little black one. Only different.”

This time when Irene went back towards the stock room, Ted caught up with her. He was breaking all the Rammell rules by being in the dress department at all. But somehow for the moment ordinary staff regulations didn't seem of any real importance.

“It's all right, Irene,” he said. “I've got it. I start in next Monday.”

It was then that Irene risked losing her job, too. Because, instead of concentrating on something different for the large sleepwalker, she gave Ted a kiss. Not a real kiss, admittedly. But it was enough to have got her the sack. And it was enough for Ted, too. It showed that getting married meant as much to Irene as it did to Ted himself.

“I'm going up now to tell your father,” he said.

But here Irene stopped him.

“No, don't do that,” she said. “Better leave that part to me.”

At five forty-five when they all met in the Staff Entrance the news of Ted's promotion came as no surprise to Mr. Bloot. But it was obviously immensely gratifying to him. Of late he had been looking thoroughly run down. Out of sorts. Peaky. Mr. Rammell had been worried about him. And this piece of good fortune in the family seemed exactly what he needed to revive him. He blew his lips out almost as if he were drinking tea.

“What did Ah tell you?” he said exultantly. “Ah told you Ah would and Ah did.”

“Did what?” Mr. Privett asked.

And then he learned, even though he knew it so well already, what a friend it was whom he had in Mr. Bloot.

“Ah dropped er nint or two,” he said slowly, as though Mr. Privett should have known all along that without this intervention nothing would ever have happened. “Er nint or two in the raht quartah. Ah'm normally a bit on the aloof sahd. So when Ah do come dahn it means something.”

Mr. Privett was so grateful that he could have hugged Mr. Bloot. He felt fonder than ever of him at this moment.

“I suppose there wouldn't be any chance of getting you round this evening, would there?” he asked hopefully. “Just for a cuppa and chat, you know.”

And again it seemed as though this was exactly what Mr. Bloot was needing most.

“Ah maht,” he said, not even attempting to conceal the eagerness that was in his voice. “Yurss, Ah think Ah maht. Does you good to get aht a bit in the evenings.”

“Well, if Gus's coming round here I'm going up to bed,” Mrs. Privett said firmly.

As she spoke she began gathering up the socks that she had been darning. Rolling them up into a small, tight cocoon, she thrust them abruptly down into the bottom of her work bag as though burying something.

“Won't you just stay down long enough to say good evening?” Mr. Privett inquired.

“Not to-night,” Mrs. Privett told him. “I'm tired.”

Mr. Privett gave a little sigh. He had noticed before that Mrs. Privett somehow did not share his enthusiasm for Mr. Bloot. Not fully, that is. But manners were manners. And it would have been
nicer if she could have been there to pour out the first cup of tea. Even ask after Hetty, perhaps.

“Gus only wants to congratulate us on Ted,” Mr. Privett started to explain.

But it was no use. Mrs. Privett's mind was made up.

“I've had quite enough about Ted for one evening,” she said. “Just when we'd got everything arranged, too.”

Mr. Privett looked at her in amazement.

“What's the matter, Mother?” he asked gently.

Mrs. Privett did not reply for a moment. When she did, the words came in a sudden rush.

“Ireen's still only a child,” she said. “That's what's the matter. If things had gone on as they were, we'd have had her here for another couple of years. As it is, they'll think they can get married to-morrow. And if Gus wants to talk about that, I don't.”

She gave a little sniff as she finished speaking and began to move off towards the door.

“We ... we don't know about that, Mother,” he said. “Not for certain. Not till we ask them.”