Bond Street Story (28 page)

But even then silly, impetuous Nancy couldn't take a hint.

“Well, I'm going as far as the bus with her,” she said. “Eileen and me have got such lots to talk about.”

For Mrs. Rammell that untimely reunion between Mrs. Privett and poor sister Nancy had proved the last straw. It represented humiliation. Nothing less. She could never hold up her head again.

If only Mr. Rammell would have listened to her. If only he hadn't been so brutally pig-headed about insisting that Tony should go into the shop at all. Couldn't he have foreseen the consequences? Wasn't it exactly what anybody might have expected with someone so young, so inexperienced, so fatally attractive as her Tony?

And because Mrs. Rammell was so angry, so inwardly seething, all her self-control went from her. She broke every promise of secrecy that she had made to Mrs. Privett. As soon as Mr. Rammell returned home that evening she blurted it all out to him.

“ ... and would you listen to me?” she asked. “Did you take the slightest notice of what I said? Do you ever listen to anything I say to you?” Despite her polite upbringing Mrs. Rammell had a distinctly vulgar side to her nature when disturbed. “And now see the mess that you've made,” she went on. “You and your father. I hope you're proud of yourselves, the pair of you.”

Mr. Rammell poured himself out another whisky that he didn't particularly want. Then he waited patiently for Mrs. Rammell to subside. If there was one thing that he hated it was talking to a woman who had red rims to her eyes and a catch in her voice that threatened a complete breakdown at any moment.

“All right. All right,” he said at length. “I'll ...”

Mrs. Rammell had clearly reached the danger point. Logic, reason, argument counted for nothing any longer.

“It's not all right,” she said. “It's just like you to think so. It's all wrong. As wrong as it could be.”

“I was only going to say that I'd have a word with Tony,” Mr. Rammell replied quietly.

But it was no use. He had made the mistake of using his soft reasonable voice. Mrs. Rammell had always found even the mere tone of it maddening. It was as though he were trying to treat her as no better than a silly child.

“You can't. Don't you see?” she almost screamed. “He hasn't come in. He's out somewhere
with her
.”

Mr. Rammell, however, was not unduly concerned by the delay. Unlike Mrs. Rammell he had managed to retain his composure. He wanted to make a few discreet inquiries before saying anything.

He therefore avoided Tony altogether next morning. Simply didn't appear at breakfast and sent down a message that he was not going into the office at the usual time.

When he did arrive at Bond Street, the first thing he did was to work through the shop. And in Haberdashery, he lingered. He remembered the girl perfectly. He knew for whom he was looking. And there she was. Younger and prettier than ever. Very neat, too, in the black Rammell costume with the white collar and cuffs. At the thought that she was the cause of all the trouble Mr. Rammell almost smiled. It was ridiculous. Like being blackmailed by an unusually attractive schoolgirl.

But his mind was made up. And as soon as he got upstairs to his room he sent for Mr. Privett. This was something that he wanted to handle personally. Besides, he rather liked Mr. Privett. He was so much a part of the place. When he came in, Mr. Rammell invited him to sit down as though he were an important visitor.

“Everything going all right up on your floor?” he asked.

Mr. Privett smiled contentedly.

“Oh, yes, sir, thank you. A bit on the quiet side. But very smooth, sir. Everything going very smoothly.”

Mr. Rammell paused.

“Now about that daughter of yours.”

It seemed to Mr. Rammell that Mr. Privett leant forward a little nervously.

“Yes, sir?” he asked.

“Very good girl,” Mr. Rammell told him. “Excellent reports. Does you credit, Privett.”

“I'm so glad you think so, sir.”

“Time for a transfer, you know,” Mr. Rammell went on. “Can't have a girl in Haberdashery all her life. I'll speak to Mr. Preece about it.”

“I'm sure she's very contented where she is, sir,” Mr. Privett began.

But already Mr. Rammell was speaking again.

“Oh, and there is just one other thing. She and Mr. Tony have been seeing rather a lot of each other just lately. Not a good thing. Starts people gossiping. I just thought I'd mention it to you.”

Mr. Privett swallowed for a moment.

“I ... I understand, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Privett, I felt sure you would. Good morning.”

So that was that. Mr. Rammell felt like congratulating himself. If there was one thing which he really knew it was how to handle staff. Friendly, without being familiar. Firm, but not a trace of harshness. Brief rather than curt.

And the idea of a transfer was sheer genius. If they put the girl up in Gowns, or better still, Teen-age or Children's, that would mean that she was as much separated from Shirtings as if she were working in another store.

Indeed, everything would probably have been all right if only Mrs. Rammell could have left things alone. But it was too much to ask of her. Ever since Mrs. Privett's visit, she had lain awake at night listening to the heavy sound of Mr. Rammell's breathing, and thinking of that dreadful, scheming girl lying in wait for Tony as soon as he reached Bond Street. And by day the thought was never from her.

In the result, she did the one fatal thing. She conspired to get Tony alone with her. She appealed to him.

“ ... don't you see that it would be throwing your life away?” she pleaded. “She may be pretty. She may be amusing. She may be anything you like
now.
But think of how it will be in a few years' time. Think of her, too. Cut off from anything. No friends. Not really belonging. Out of her depth socially ...”

Mrs. Rammell broke off.

“Tony, dear, put that magazine down while I'm talking to you. It's rude.” Here Mrs. Rammell screwed her two hands together until the knuckles showed white against the skin. “Can't you realize? It's your whole future I'm talking about. It's everything that matters. It's ...”

It was at this point that Mr. Rammell came in. The day, like most days, had been long. And, like most days, tiring. At the sound of voices in the room he had nearly drawn back. But it was too late now. Mrs. Rammell had seen him. She was beckoning to him. Begging him to come in.

Tony looked up to see why Mrs. Rammell had broken off so abruptly. And at the sight of his father, he gave a little smile almost of sympathy.

“Oh, God,” he asked. “Are you in this, too?”

The discussion, though long, was inconclusive. Tempers were lost. Recovered. Lost again. And this time it was Mr. Rammell who blundered.

“I've a very good mind to get rid of the girl altogether,” he said. “Just give her back her card and see the last of her.”

“I call that bloody unfair,” Tony replied. “And I tell you this now. If she goes, I go too.”

“No.”

It was Mrs. Rammell who had spoken. The word had simply been forced out of her. Because this was too dreadful. It showed how far things had really gone. Her Tony was being loyal to someone else.

Mr. Rammell took out his cigar cutter and began fiddling with it.

“I haven't said I will,” he pointed out. “I'm only reminding you.”

And then, because it wasn't a conversation that he had wanted to start in the first place, he suddenly felt his own temper rising.

“And let me remind you of something else,” he added. “It's gone quite far enough. Her father knows. The staff know. And ... and your aunt knows. If you want to have the whole of London talking about you, I don't.”

Tony got up slowly and put the magazine that he had been reading under his arm. Then he walked over and kissed Mrs. Rammell on the forehead.

“Don't let Father keep you up too late,” he said quietly.

 

Mr. Bloot had always assumed that it would be a white wedding. St. Asaph's, the large red-brick block of Victorian medievalism at the end of Artillery Row was the nearest church to the bride's home. And, in his mind's eye, he had frequently pictured the whole scene. The organ pealing. Mr. Bloot himself wearing his best tails and the practically new pair of striped cashmere that he had bought specially for the Rammell anniversary celebrations. And, above all, Hetty smiling and effulgent, with a wreath of orange-blossom in her hair and a long expensive-looking train supported by tiny local bridesmaids.

Not that his wedding to poor Emily had been in the least like that. On that occasion he had worn his blue serge with four buttons. And Emily herself had looked thoroughly sensible, but still appealing, in a plain white shirt waist and her going-away costume. But then Emily was not Hetty. And Mr. Bloot simply could not imagine Hetty bringing herself down to his own simple level.

That was why he was so astonished when she refused even to consider a church wedding at all.

“Us? In church?” she asked. “You can if you like. I'll wait outside, thank you. What's the point of advertising it?”

“I ... I just thought you'd rather,” Mr. Bloot explained weakly.

He was surprised as he said it to find how strongly he felt about church weddings. He had, in fact, not been inside a church since Emily's death. And then only to the cemetery chapel. Nevertheless he had not even considered the possibility of any other place in which to get married. Marriage at a Registrar's Office savoured too much of film stars. And run-away society couples. And divorcées. And fly-by-nights generally.

“Then if you don't want a church wedding,” he asked, “what do you want?” and his heart chilled as he put the question.

“Why a Registry Office, of course. Same as normal people,” Hetty told him. “It's just as legal.”

Mr. Bloot shook his head.

“But it's not the same thing,” he said.

“Of course, it isn't.” Hetty answered. “It's less fuss. Go along at nine o'clock, I say, and get it over quickly.”

Mr. Bloot drew in his lips. They were trembling.

“Ah can't make you out,” he said at last. “Really, Ah can't. Anybody'd think you were ashamed of marrying me.”

“Not ashamed, dear,” Hetty replied. “Just doing it the easy way.”

And when he asked her what she meant by that she did not answer. Instead she opened her arms and pursed up her lips at him.

“Oh, stop worrying,” she said. “You make me tired. Come and kiss me. You haven't given me a single decent kiss all the evening.”

The kiss, though long and rather moist, was unecstatic. Mr. Bloot had too much on his mind to give himself over freely to his own rapture.

“You're not going back on it, are you?” he asked, almost as soon as they had separated. “You still mean next month?”

“Of course I do, silly,” Hetty replied.

She was speaking now in the low throaty voice that always made Mr. Bloot feel utterly yearning and entirely helpless.

“It's just that I don't want you to fuss yourself. Don't get so worked up about me. I'm not worth it.”

“Oh, yes you are,” he told her. “Yur're everything in the world to me. Yur're mah ahdeal.” He paused. “Shall Ah put up the banns?”

“Yes, if they have 'em in Registry Offices,” Hetty replied. “They probably need a fortnight's notice or something. Better make it a Thursday. That's early-closing.”

“Early-closing?” His heart missed a whole beat. “But ... but we are to 'ave er nunneymoon, aren't we?”

“If my boy wants one.”

Hetty by now was stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. “Does he want one? With me? Is that what he wants?”

Mr. Bloot nodded helplessly.

“Ah do,” he said. “Yur can't know how ah feel or yur wouldn't even ask. It's all Ah want.”

He paused again, and seemed to be working things out in his mind.

“And there's one other little matter we ought to talk abaht,” he added. “If Ah move into your flat which of mah little bits and pieces would you lahk me to bring round?”

As it turned out, the matter of Mr. Bloot's bits and pieces had to be decided even before he went along to put up the banns. That was because he was so excited about getting remarried that he had to tell somebody. And like most naturally reticent men he made a mess of it. Instead of waiting for a proper opportunity,
he told his landlady when he happened merely to meet her accidentally on the stairs.

“Ah've got a piece of news for you,” he said, adding in the vein of jauntiness that so often conceals deep emotion, “Ah'm goin' through the 'oop again.”

“Going through the 'oop?”

Mrs. Gurney regarded him cautiously. She had been conscious for some time that a change had been coming over Mr. Bloot. For close on twenty years, an ideal lodger, either married or single, he seemed suddenly to have developed flighty tendencies that had hitherto lain unsuspected. Drink, she decided, might prove to be at the bottom of it.

“Yurss,” Mr. Bloot went on. “Gettin' married. Next month.”

“Have I met her?” Mrs. Gurney asked.

It occurred to her as she put the question that with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Privett—and Irene Privett as quite a little girl—she had never met any of Mr. Bloot's friends at all.

Mr. Bloot shook his head.

“Nevah,” he said. “That is because the lady 'as nevah been here.”

“Then when's she coming?” Mrs. Gurney asked.

There was caution in the voice. Almost alarm. What would she be like? Would she be the right sort? Would she be difficult over things like stairs? Would she be trustworthy about locking up and about electric lights? Having Mr. Bloot under her roof was one thing. But a newcomer. A woman. And a totally unknown woman at that. The natural hostility of the sex began bridling.