Bond Street Story (59 page)

“Ah've blotted mah copy book,” he said. “That's what Ah've done. Ah've blotted it.”

“Well, what about coming back home with me?” Mr. Privett asked. “To Fewkes Road? Until it blows over.”

“This won't never blow over,” Mr. Bloot told him. “This is it.”

“But you will come?”

Mr. Bloot inclined his head courteously.

“If you insist,” he said. “After Ah've paid mah bill, of course. And got mah bag.”

They walked on in silence for a moment. Then Mr. Privett reverted to the secret of their miraculous meeting.

“It was all because of the Bird Show ...” he began.

But Mr. Bloot stopped him.

“If Tiddleywinks had been there,” he said, “it would have been er walk-over. Er bloomin' walk-over. That's what Ah can't forgive.”

Mr. Huntley Cary had been right. And so had Dr. Webber. Mrs. Rammell had never seen anyone look so utterly ill as her
own husband. He was asleep when she went in to him. And more than asleep. Drugged and unconscious. Simply lying there, existing.

So small looking, too. Mrs. Rammell felt a pang pass through her as she realized what a
little
man he was. Scarcely larger than a child. And no longer young. Definitely ageing, in fact. Without his teeth, his lips were limp and sucked inwards. They revealed new lines, new hollows, in his cheeks. It was more than ageing. He looked ancient. And the nurse, in combing his hair, had chosen quite the wrong parting. She had revealed all the pure silvery white parts underneath. Whereas the way Mr. Rammell did it, there was never anything to suggest more than here and there a sober flecking of respectable middle-aged grey. It was pathetic the way, now that he was defenceless, all the secrets about him were suddenly being exposed.

And about her, too, she supposed. She was only eighteen months younger than Mr. Rammell. If he was breaking up at that rate, showing all the signs of time, so must she be underneath it all. It was only that she always took such care. Studied herself. Never allowed things to go too far. And she had been more than ever careful since the episode of that dreadful Marcia woman. She had deliberately remade herself. Spent hours in the hands of a masseuse, the hairdresser, the chiropodist. Literally hours. That was the dreadful part of it. Soon it would be very nearly a full-time job just going on being Mrs. Rammell.

The sudden rediscovery of their joint ages brought a lump into her throat. She felt closer to him than she had done for years. She saw how silly all their bickering had been. How totally unimportant Marcia really was: a mere outsider who had tried, desperately no doubt, to invade this marriage that had outlasted her. How unimportant, too—yes, that was the only word for it—her music was compared with her own husband's health and happiness. She was a woman of quick decisions. But also of immense resolution. As she came out of that drowsy, ether-laden air her mind was made up. Her one duty was to get Mr. Rammell well again. That and nothing else. She was ready to give up everything for it.

The last, long handshake with Dr. Webber was now over. But it had been
too
long this time. She had glanced at her watch during the course of it. Because it was not only her husband who was in her mind by now. It was her son. Her Tony. She had the flight number, the E.T.A., scribbled on a piece of paper in her bag. And her secretary had telephoned the Terminal before she had left.

In an hour—and she wanted to allow a full hour to make sure that she was there ready at the barrier when he arrived—she would have him in her arms again. It would set the seal on everything that she had decided about herself and Mr. Rammell.

There is a distinct flavour of wartime and prison camps about the Trans-Atlantic side of London Airport. Something to do with the huts and the wire, no doubt. And only the very simple living could be overwhelmed by the magnificence within. The basket-weave chairs, the pedestal ash-trays, the strip-lighting brackets clipped on to the ceiling struts are no more than the foundations of the jet age. Not the fullness of the age itself.

But it's a sacred meeting place, all the same. The air is thick with expectation. Little pools of hope everywhere. And it's curious the way the barrier divides emotions as well as people. There's the stupid helplessness of waiting on one side. The eager joy of coming forward on the other. Vaccination certificates and airport coffee are both forgotten as the two sides come together. Then it is Reunion United and Arrivals Unlimited. A continuous twenty-four hourly festival. The everlasting celebration party of all the travel agencies.

Mrs. Rammell sat there alone, eyes closed. She was too tired. Too utterly exhausted. She had a headache. Her hands were trembling. And she felt slightly sick. It would have been more sensible, she realized, if she had managed to fit dinner in somehow. Or at least a sandwich. And a drink. But she had forgotten all about food. Hadn't eaten properly, in fact, ever since Mr. Rammell had been rushed off. Now she was beginning to pay the price. She had just caught sight of herself in one of the B.O. A.C. mirrors. And she had been shocked by what she saw. She was pale and haggard-looking. That was what she had been most anxious to avoid. It would only alarm young Tony if he found her looking an absolute wreck, a spectre. Make him think that it was a death-bed to which he had been so suddenly called back.

And everything was going to be all right, she kept on telling herself. It was nothing serious. If it had been, they would have found out. But would they have told her? That was the point. Were they keeping something back? Mr. Huntley Cary might have been. But not nice, kind Dr. Webber. He was a friend. He couldn't be so cruel as to deceive her. It was unthinkable. She was just worrying, agonizing herself, unnecessarily. They had told her that the best thing she could do was to relax. And they were right.
It would only make things worse for Tony if he found her all nervy and on edge. She
must
relax.

She was a woman of strong character. Quietly, deliberately she sat back in the basket-weave chair with the Speedbird emblem on the wall behind her, and willed herself to relax. She made her limbs go limp. She drew deep breaths. She stopped herself thinking. Her mind became a dim, empty blank. And into it, from nowhere, came the image of Mr. Rammell, so pathetically small and still, lying there in that ether-laden bedroom in Devonshire Place. Instantly she felt her fingers begin to tighten. Her legs went rigid. The waves of sickness came back again.

The plane was on time. That was something. But the waiting was intolerable. Passports, currency exchange, Customs. How could they be so heartless? Mrs. Rammell wondered. She had been up to the policeman at the barrier three times already. And heaven knows it would have been simple enough to allow Tony through first. Just this once. It wasn't favouritism that she was asking. Only ordinary decent feeling. She wouldn't have asked at all if it hadn't been urgent.

That was what made it all the stranger that, when she did see him, she did not recognize him. His back was towards her as he stood at the Customs counter. All that she could see was one of those long, sacklike American sports coats with a camera strap slung over it and a pair of blue, non-U trousers.

It wasn't until he turned that she saw that it really was Tony. And even then she could scarcely believe it. Because his hair was so entirely different. The long lock that fell across his forehead was the last thing that she remembered about him. She had fondly pushed it back when she had kissed him good-bye. Had told him to remember to get his hair cut when he got there. But not like that. The result was appalling. Conscript stuff. He looked like some kind of awful college sportsman as he came towards her.

But it was still wonderful to have him in her arms again. It was the same Tony underneath. But was it? He seemed to have put on weight. Grown thicker all over. More muscular. She was still aching from the embrace that he had just given her.

“ ... and how is he?” she heard him asking.

This was the moment on which everything depended. She must be reassuring. Must be strong.

“Thank God, it's nothing serious,” she said, not believing a word that she was telling him. “But it's been a big operation. He's terribly weak. We must get him to go away somewhere. Just as
soon as he can be moved. He mustn't think of going back to Bond Street.”

She watched his face closely while she was speaking. It was her duty. She had to be quite sure that he really did believe her. That she had convinced him. It would have been criminal to leave him brooding, anxious, fearing the worst. His reply, however, surprised her.

“Pity it had to be an English surgeon,” was what he said.

“Oh, but Mr. Huntley Cary ...” she began, astonished to find herself actually defending the man.

“I'm afraid they've got us licked over there,” Tony told her. “All the way along the line. If a second opinion's needed we'd better get one over. No point in taking chances.”

The suggestion that they hadn't done everything was so hurtful—even though she knew that it was quite, quite unintentional—that she winced. And more than winced. She nearly wept. She had to keep on biting down hard on her lip so that Tony should never know that she was actually crying.

But already the dear boy was trying to make amends. Clumsily seeking to prove how much he really loved her.

“You poor old dear,” he said. “You certainly have had a packet.”

There had been something in Tony's voice that she had always loved. It was not in the least like either hers or Mr. Rammell's. And being called a “poor old dear” moved her strangely. Just when she had thought that she would really be able to stop crying, she found herself wanting to start all over again.

By the time they had got out of London Airport and the lampposts and the little villas of the Great West Road went sliding past them, Mrs. Rammell felt better. So much better that she felt that she could tackle him.

“Tony, darling,” she said. “What
have
you done with your hair?”

He grinned. Rather self-consciously, she thought.

“Oh, that,” he said. “That's because of squash. I've been playing rather a lot of squash. Harvard Club mostly.”

Mrs. Rammell felt herself groping.

“But ... but you don't like games,” she reminded him.

“Had to do something,” he replied. “And I've come on quite a lot.” He paused. “Better keep it up, I suppose. If I don't, I'll go off again.”

Mrs. Rammell glanced out of the car windows. More lampposts. More little villas. More Great West Road. But she did
not want to say anything for a moment. This was not the son she knew who had just been speaking.

“What music did you hear?” she asked at last. “How was the Opera?”

This at least was something that they could share together. It had always been one of the strongest bonds between them, their deep love of music.

“Didn't get there,” he told her. “Hadn't really got the time.”

“No time?”

“That's right,” Tony answered.

Mrs. Rammell turned and faced him.

“But what ever were you doing?” she asked bewilderedly.

“Oh, this and that, you know,” he replied. “Seeing people mostly, I suppose.”

“And have you made a lot of new friends?” she asked encouragingly. “You must keep in touch with them. Write to them as often as you can.”

“Or telephone,” Tony said briefly.

Mrs. Rammell looked away again. Same lamp-posts. Same villas. Same Great West Road. Same stranger sitting on the seat beside her. If it had been the moon and not merely Manhattan from which he had just returned he could not have seemed more foreign.

This time it was Tony who spoke.

“How's the Old Man?” he asked.

“Grandfather, you mean?”

Mrs. Rammell tried to speak easily, casually. Only by being quiet and civilized could she hope to break down this dreadful, artificial brashness that Tony had picked up on the other side.

“He's just the same,” she went on. “Really wonderful. Quite wonderful. He was coming out to the airport to-night. But he changed his mind.”

“Thank God for that.”

Mrs. Rammell tapped Tony's hand.

“Now you're not to be naughty about him,” she said. “You're not to be rude. You know he's very fond of you. And he only stayed behind because he had some business to do. He's seeing Mr. Preece.”

“Whatever for?”

Mrs. Rammell paused. Inside her black suède gloves she drew her fingers together and pressed hard. Above all things, she and Tony mustn't quarrel. There mustn't be even the smallest hint how desperately vexed she was becoming.

“There must have been something he wanted to discuss with
him,” she replied. “Because ... because your father's away, of course.”

“Preece is all right in his own way,” Tony said. “He's useful. But not big enough.”

“Big enough for what?”

“To take over from father.”

Mrs. Rammell jumped as he said it.

“Take over?” she repeated. “Whatever do you mean? There's no question of that. Nobody's suggesting it. Mr. Preece of all people! Besides, your father'll be back in a few weeks. If anybody takes over, it ought to be ...”

Tony, however, had finished the sentence for her.

“Me, I suppose,” he said.

Mrs. Rammell started forward to deny it. Contradict him. Put his anxious, schoolboy mind at rest. But she was too late.

“That's what I was coming to,” he said. “Somebody's got to do something. It's not good enough the way it is. We don't know it, but we're slipping.”

It was as much as anything else the use of the word “we” that frightened her. She had never heard Tony use it in that way before. And she had to be certain that she had understood him.

“You ... you mean the business?” she asked.