Bond Street Story (15 page)

What's more, even though the man didn't look very much, he was a real fighter. Behind the striped shirt, that had been patched on both sides where the points of the stiff collar cut into it, beat the heart of a Haldane. Practically single-handed as he was in his small back office, he was fully prepared to defy even the largest of insurance companies. It was the Federated Equitable that he was up against. And every letter that he sent contained the authentic note of challenge. It was as though Mr. Hamster had not merely written but had called personally and slapped the recipient across the face with his glove.

The only disturbing thing from Mr. Privett's point of view was that the Federated Equitable was equally prepared to defy Mr. Hamster. It might have been Mr. Hamster's own twin brother who wrote back to him.

Already Mr. Privett had been accused of cycling to the public danger, negligence, endangering the safety of the motor-coach and making an impudent claim. He was half sick from the sheer misery of thinking about it, and dearly wished that he had never made a claim at all.

In consequence, he was having a perfectly wretched Sunday.

Not so Mr. Bloot. He was made for Sundays. And Sundays were made for him.

He had just set out from the house, wearing his mysterious Viking expression. And as he walked his lips were moving. It was not, however, the name of Hetty Florence that he was repeating. It was her address. The words “23b Artillery Mansions, Tregunter Road, N.12” had penetrated into his brain like a charm. The inexpressible beauty of the address overwhelmed him. But what was more bewitching still, he had actually been invited there.

When he reached The Nag's Head a happy thought came to him. On the opposite corner was a man selling flowers. And Mr. Bloot realized immediately that flowers would give just the right note to the occasion. Moreover, he felt in a lavish and spending mood. Hovering about the stall like a huge enthusiastic bee, he chose sweet-peas and gladioli. Six shillings' worth altogether. But it was not the price he minded. It was the size. Instead of the neat little bouquet that he had intended, it was enormous. And down at the thin end of the bundle, the stalks dripped obstinately. It was the sort of load that would have been better delivered on a barrow.

As soon as he had mounted the number 18 bus, however, a strange, dare-devil feeling came over him. There he was, with his ticket in one hand and a harvest festival sheaf of flowers in the other, cruising across London in pursuit of a woman with black midnight hair.

He was so deep in thought, marvelling at the sheer magic of the morning, that he nearly missed it when the conductor called out the name “Tregunter Road”. And the shock of the discovery startled him. He got mixed up with his own flowers. From inside the huge white paper parcel there came the sound of stalks snapping.
But if he had left it a moment longer he would have been carried on. In the result, he came down the stairs so fast that he missed his footing. If it had not been for the conductor, Mr. Bloot would have fallen. The conductor, who was a good deal smaller than Mr. Bloot, resented the whole incident. Any more of that, he said, and he would report him.

But Mr. Bloot was safe. And past caring. The bus with its rude conductor was already receding. And Mr. Bloot took his bearings. He was able to identify Artillery Mansions immediately. It was a large, square block of red brick with a battlemented coping of fancy stone running along the top, for mortars and cannon to fire through. A short tiled walk led up to the front door. And there was a row of polished brass “IN” and “OUT” plates just inside the entrance hall. Altogether, it was definitely upper-class. Even classy.

But Mr. Bloot need not have bothered. Dressed as he was, he looked more like the landlord than a casual visitor. He would have adorned anywhere. Artillery Mansions was mostly show anyway. The stairs, which had metal treads on the front of each step, were dark and steep. And the walls were of an unpleasant dark green colour. Nevertheless, they were definitely mansion-flats. And, remembering his own unself-contained state in Tufnell Park, Mr. Bloot felt a sudden qualm. Was he worthy of her? he wondered.

When he reached the doorway of number 23b, however, he saw to his astonishment that the milk bottle had not yet been taken in. This was surprising. Because it was already after midday. And when he rang there was no answer. Behind the panelled front door with its little diamond panes of frosted glass there was silence. Complete silence. The suspense was terrible. His palms went wet and sticky. After a moment, Mr. Bloot rang again.

Then somewhere inside the flat a door opened. And a moment later he heard the soft
swish-swish
of slippers. It took longer to open the front door than he had expected because it was apparently bolted at the top and bottom, and the chain was up. But, in a sense, this relieved him. He was glad to think that Hetty took such good care of herself. It must simply have been that she must have overslept.

And when, finally, she sprang the catch back he could see immediately that everything was all right. For there she was, wearing a pale blue dressing-gown with a lot of swansdown round the neck and cuffs. And—delightful touch of intimacy—her hair, her glistening raven hair, was not yet wound across her head.
Instead, gleaming and hawser-like it hung, schoolgirlishly over one shoulder, tied up with a piece of baby ribbon.

“My, you're early, aren't you?” she said.

Her voice sounded warmer and more vibrating than ever in the confines of the tiny hall.

Mr. Bloot started to reply. He tried to explain. Apologize. Excuse himself. But it was no use. He felt confused suddenly. Sheepish. That rich plait of hair resting on the swansdown had knocked him temporarily off-balance.

“Just lakh Ah said,” was the best that he could manage.

But Hetty saved him.

“Was he looking forward all that much?” she asked softly.

As she said it, she reached out her arms. Mr. Bloot removed his hat and took hold of it in his left hand along with his umbrella. But there were still the flowers. These were particularly difficult. The bunch really was too large. Or the florist had not secured the stems tightly enough. Whatever the reason, as soon as Mr. Bloot loosened his hold for a single moment they began to undo themselves. Unless he were careful, instead of offering a neat bouquet, he would find himself simply thrusting a bundle of mere garden refuse upon her. So, in the end, he thrust the whole sodden parcel under his arm, and came towards her. But as soon as she touched him, she drew back.

“Good gracious, you're sopping,” she said. “Whatever's happened?”

By now, however, Mr. Bloot had recovered himself. He produced the flowers from behind his back like a conjuror and, with a little bow, presented them to her.

“A few flahs, m'dear,” he said gallantly. “Jurst something smawl to go into a vawse.”

Hetty Florence might never have received a gift before she was so pleased with it. And, despite the wetness of Mr. Bloot's hand, she took hold of it again. This time, moreover, she did not withdraw it. She clung on. And more than clung. She drew him near her.

“They deserve a little kiss,” was what she said. “That's what flowers are for, aren't they?”

Remembering his disastrous impetuosity in the shop, Mr. Bloot was careful. But again because of his inexperience he bungled things. He did not know whether it was her cheek or her lips that she was offering. And finally it was on the side of her nose that he kissed her. Moreover, he kissed her wetly. When he brought his mouth away again he could taste the strange, wicked flavour of her face cream.

“Pord'n me,” he said.

He was about to try again, properly this time, when Hetty Florence stopped him.

“Now, now,” she said. “Be a good boy, Gussie. Just you go into the room at the end and wait for me. I shan't be long. I'm only going to slip something on.”

The room in which Mr. Bloot found himself was in partial darkness. That was because the curtains were still drawn. Even though it was brilliant midday outside it was no better than late evening in the drawing-room. But he didn't imagine that Hetty could really intend him to sit there in the dusk. And, after a moment's pause to get his bearings, he began to move over to the window. It was not so easy, however, as it had seemed while he was still standing by the door. There were so many things about. First he stumbled over a cushion, lying unaccountably upon the carpet. Then, in avoiding a tumbler which was beside the cushion, his heel came down hard upon an ash-tray. It must have been made of something quite thin. Glass or china by the sound of it. And the scraping sound that his foot now made as it moved across the carpet showed that some of the pieces must still be sticking into the quarter-rubber of his heel.

When he had finally pulled back the curtain, he saw at once that one more breakage in such a room would pass entirely unnoticed. As it was, a tumbler with a half-moon snicked out of the rim stood on the piano. And with the light that now came pouring in through the window he saw several other things as well. There was a green baize table, heavily ringed where glasses had been standing. And left scattered across it as though the play had broken up rather suddenly was a pack of playing cards. Two more packs, one still in its paper cover, were piled neatly at one corner. There was a whisky bottle amid a lot of empty beer bottles on an occasional table over by the couch. And there were unemptied ash-trays everywhere.

What Mr. Boot could not understand was that the ash-tray nearest to him contained the fat butt of a half-smoked cigar. Then he understood. It must have been some friends in the trade that Hetty had been entertaining. And it struck him then that they must have been rather a jolly, carefree set of chaps.

He was still wondering whether he would have liked her friends, when Hetty returned. She had changed into a pale blue dress with rather a lot of open lace-work about the bodice. The shoes that she was wearing were white and toeless.

“Oh, my,” she began saying. “It smells terrible in here. Why ever didn't you open a window?”

Mr. Bloot, however, did not reply. He was standing there, silently admiring her.

Hetty meanwhile was going rapidly round the room. She picked up cushions. Emptied ash-trays into the fancy waste-paper basket. Collected the bottles, holding them one by one up against the light.

“All empties,” she said at last, almost as though talking to herself. “I guess that's why they went.”

By now she had crossed over to a very highly polished walnut cabinet that stood in the corner. When she opened the doors a little light came on inside. Mr. Bloot could see that the interior was filled with every kind of wine-glass, as well as with an ingenious sliding tray that held the bottles. Outside Rammell's furniture showrooms, he had never seen such a cabinet. It had certainly never occurred to him that one day he might actually know the kind of woman to possess one.

Hetty turned and faced him. She held an unopened bottle of Haig in her hand, and she had deftly detached two heavily-cut glass tumblers from the side rack.

“What about a short one?” she asked. “There's no point in eating anything yet. That is unless you're hungry. I've only just had breakfast.”

A short one! Mr. Bloot's heart stood still. How was he going to explain that he didn't ever drink? That he was teetotal? Remembering the state of the room in which he was standing, he decided that he
couldn't
explain it. It just wouldn't be possible. She would think him queer. A crank of some kind. Besides, he felt in a reckless, playboyish sort of mood to-day. It was the kiss that had done it. He couldn't very well go back on that.

So reaching out to take the bottle from her he smiled back blandly.

“That's the ticket,” he said, surprised and incredulous at the sound of his own voice uttering such words. “Let's 'ave er nappitizer. That's what we both need—er nappitizer.”

And as he said it, Emmie's ghost—pale, anaemic-looking, slightly catarrhal as in life—rose from the clay of Highgate Cemetery, and stood confronting him. Mr. Bloot tried to ignore the spectre. But it was impossible. He knew what was behind the visit. Because Emmie had always been a solid non-drinker like himself, a pledged total abstainer. The present moment was the nearest that he had ever come to being unfaithful to her memory.

 

More than once as the weeks passed Irene told herself that Rammell's must have forgotten. Either that, or had second thoughts. She saw herself an actress again. The house lights had long since gone down. The last bars of the overture—admittedly recorded, but who cares?—had just died away. The tabs were parting ...

But it was no use. Rammell's had remembered all right. The familiar envelope with the heavy embossed “R” on the back, was there waiting by her place when she came down to breakfast. And Mr. Privett, already half-way through his corn flakes and his
News Chronicle,
was wearing the sort of happy birthday expression that Irene recollected from her childhood.

It was, indeed, largely because of the expression on her father's face that Irene pretended that she was pleased, too. Ever since his accident Mr. Privett had not been looking at all well. He seemed suddenly to have grown older. Older. And shakier. And more hurtable. She noticed for the first time in her life that his eyebrows were shaggy. And there was a little tell-tale quiver at the corners of his mouth when he was drinking. Not that any of this was surprising. The accident alone would have been enough. But coming on top of it, the strain of all this legal trouble had only made things worse. Nowadays, even the sight of any letter lying there on the breakfast table was sufficient to upset Mr. Privett.

And it wasn't easy for Irene. You can't chuck away a vocation just to keep a parent happy. She had it all worked out, too. Her life belonged in dingy little dressing-rooms. In agents' offices with photographs of Vivian Leigh and Peggy Ashcroft and all the rest of her friends round the walls. On board ship going out to Australia, with the scenery and props stored away somewhere in the hold. In front with terrific explosions of applause still coming down from the gallery. Back at her old school judging the end-of-term drama contest ...