Bond Street Story (17 page)

“Come along now,” he said. “Time to go round the departments.”

This was very much the other Mr. Rammell. The one whom Tony scarcely recognized. There was a new air of authority about him. Tony even felt rather respectful. Because this version of his father made sense. He seemed more at home, as it were. More at home in the shop than back in Eaton Square.

But all the same Tony didn't find the prospect of going round the departments very attractive. It was too public for his liking. Suppose he met someone he knew. That wouldn't be so funny. And as they got into the lift, he mentioned what he was feeling.

“I say, Dad,” he said diffidently. “Don't want you to feel you have to do this, you know. Not on my account. No point in making a spectacle of ourselves.”

But Mr. Rammell merely laid his hand on Tony's arm for a moment.

“Got to get used to being stared at,” he said. “Doesn't do you any harm, and it's good for them. Great mistake to slink round. Bad for you, and they resent it. Say good morning, and remember their names. That's the chief point. Very important, people's names. They're the only ones they've got.”

They had reached the ground floor by now, and the lift girl pressed the knob that slid the big fancy doors back for them. Tony had been observing her carefully on the way down. They held a mysterious fascination for him, these lift girls. The one in charge of their lift was clearly a twin of the girl in charge of the adjoining one—the one which was going up while theirs had been starting to go down. But that wasn't the end of it. There were two more of the family, apparently of exactly the same age, both sailing serenely up and down the lift shafts on the north side of the buildings, and another pair, twins, in charge of the main lifts by the front entrance. The only difference was that some of them wore fair hair, and some of them dark. It was obviously the same hair, however—rather long and very curly, and fluffed carefully up under the hat band at the back. It occurred to Tony that perhaps the hair was issued along with the uniform.

Tony was thinking vaguely about a ballet that could be made with Robert Helpmann for the shop-walker, and a chorus of little blonde and brunette lift-dolls, when he became aware that his father was introducing him to someone. It was to Mr. Bloot. It was, indeed, Mr. Bloot who destroyed the ballet in Tony's mind. Because Mr. Bloot was not in the least like Robert Helpmann. It would have to have been an all-police ballet to do justice to Mr. Bloot.

“Vurry per-oud to meet yur, sir,” Mr. Bloot was saying, with the sort of bow that is usually reserved for Royalty. “Vurry per-oud, indeed, sir.”

“Everything all right?” Mr. Rammell asked.

He had a quick, clipped way of speaking that Tony had not heard before. The thought that his father was possibly quite a brisk efficient sort of person surprised him. Certainly he seemed to know a lot about the place. And he gave the air of wanting to know exactly what was going on. Not that Mr. Bloot had very much to tell him.

“Vurry quaht, sir,” was all he said. “Vurry quaht, indeed. Always vurry quaht of a Monday.”

But already Mr. Rammell was moving on.

“Get his name?” he inquired.

Tony shook his head.

“Didn't catch it,” he said.

“Then listen,” Mr. Rammell said sharply. “And concentrate. No good coming round if you don't pay attention. Just a waste of everybody's time. It was Bloot. B-l-o-o-t.”

Tony said nothing. That was because he was finding it difficult to keep up with Mr. Rammell. His father seemed to have collected a new store of energy from somewhere. He was stepping out like a road walker. What's more, he had just seen one of the ground floor's real aristocracy. Someone to whom he was rather proud to introduce his son. That was because he had himself once been introduced to him. The man, in fact, was almost as old as Rammell's. Been there for fifty years. And beginning to look as though it had been longer. Practically quills and parchment it must have been when he had started.

“This is Mr. Barwell,” Mr. Rammell said quickly. “Try to remember. B-a-r-w-e-l-l.”

The letters were positively hissed at him, Tony noticed. It was the sort of voice that a frayed schoolmaster uses when up against a really stupid child. Tony resented it. And it hurt all the more because it was so strikingly different from the tone of voice that Mr. Rammell used when speaking to Mr. Barwell himself.

“Ah, morning, Barwell,” he said, rather as though it might have been in the saloon bar that they were meeting. “How's the back? Got to take care of yourself, you know. Like you to meet my son. Just taking a look round for himself. Probably be seeing a good deal more of him. Wants to find out how it all works, don't you, Tony?”

This was even more embarrassing. Because his father seemed to have forgotten what age his own son was. From the way he was speaking he was practically inviting Mr. Barwell to come forward and pat him on the head. Not that Mr. Barwell looked the sort of man to be unduly familiar. He had been in the stationery trade for so long that he had gone a bit dry and papery himself. And he didn't say very much. Just stood there smiling like a polite mummy, and rubbing the ball of his thumb across his fingers as though sampling invisible weaves. Tony felt sorry for the old thing.

But apparently Mr. Rammell saw Mr. Barwell differently. There was no trace of being sorry when he referred to him. There was respect, rather. Open, unconcealed admiration. A reverence for this ancient wizard of diaries and note-paper.

“No flies on old Barwell,” Mr. Rammell said, admiringly. “Knows the whole thing from back to front. Best buyer in the business. Good standing, too. He's this year's President.”

“What of?”

“S.D.T.A.,” Mr. Rammell told him in a tone of surprise, as though he expected everybody to know about the S.D.T.A. and Mr. Barwell's presidency. “You know, Stationery and Diary Trades Association. Quite a figure, old Barwell.” He paused, and then, dropping his voice a little, added more respectfully than ever. “He could
kill
a new line if he didn't like it.”

Even so, the despotic, line-killing Mr. Barwell was only one of them. There were other figures all evidently in their own way as well-established and formidable as that desiccated figure under the illuminated “FOUNTAIN PENS” notice. There was Mr. Chubb, a very tall, sad man who kept bending forward like a flamingo and easing his knee-joints while he was talking. He, it seemed, was a complete master of neckwear. There was Mr. Gibson, fat and squat and damp-looking like a toad, who knew all about gloves. And Mr. Rawle, upright and military in appearance, who was an authority on shirts. There was Mr. Hamlin, Mr. Newby, Mr. Bridson, Mr ...

But it was none of these that Tony Rammell was thinking. The names were too many. The accomplishments too various. He had given up. He wasn't even listening any more. He was looking instead at the dress ornament counter just beyond the handbags. There was a big dark girl there that he didn't care for. She looked altogether too glowering and sultry for his taste. And she was apparently having some sort of trouble with her dress. A shoulder strap had gone, or something. It was the girl beside her who interested Tony. She was dark, too. But in a younger, fresher sort of way. She couldn't have been more than about seventeen or eighteen, he reckoned. Scarcely more than a child. Ought to have been at the seaside somewhere enjoying herself. Not standing about in a big shop looking agitated.

Because there was no doubt about it: she was certainly in a state about something. And he saw the cause of all the trouble was a rather seedy-looking, undersized man who was talking to her. Tony supposed that he was finding fault with the girl. He moved forward to hear what the row was all about.

But the words he caught surprised him. It might have been Rammell's medical officer who was speaking.

“You'll take a glass of hot milk like I say,” the man was telling her. “A glass of hot milk and a bun. It's nearly eleven. I'll show you the way.”

By now, however, it wasn't only Tony who was interested. It was Mr. Rammell as well. He had just spoken a word to Mr. Higgett of smoking accessories, nodded to Mr. Sparkes who specialized in binoculars and opera glasses, and smiled warmly at
Mr. Benskin (umbrellas and shooting-sticks). Then he noticed what was going on through the archway on the feminine side of the store. It was astonishing! Five minutes to eleven, and the upper floor shopwalker engaged in what looked like a rather stormy flirtation with a pretty girl whom he had never seen before. Mr. Rammell hurried forward. He was glad to observe that Tony, too, had spotted that something was amiss.

“Good morning, Mr. Privett,” he said briskly. “What's going on here?”

The “Mr.” was itself significant. There was a coldness, a sense of distance about it, that would never have been there if he had met him normally on his own ground two floors higher up. Then it would have been: “'Morning, Privett. Leg getting on all right?”

But to his surprise, Mr. Privett did not seem to notice that anything was wrong. At the sight of Mr. Rammell he began beaming.

“Good morning, sir,” he said as though he had engineered the whole meeting. “This is er nappy omen. Might I introduce my daughter, Ireen? First day here, sir. Just starting. Ireen, this is our Managing Director.”

He was as a matter of fact showing off a bit. Building up the part to impress Irene. He didn't usually carry on quite such a spirited conversation when he met Mr. Rammell. Generally it was nothing more than: “Nicely, thank you, sir. Very kind of you to inquire.” But Irene's presence gave him a new confidence. He wanted to give her plenty of confidence, too. Show her that her father was the sort of man who was on practically back-slapping terms with all the directors.

And he felt bound to say—he did, indeed, say it very frequently to Mrs. Privett that evening—that Mr. Rammell behaved very nicely indeed. Because even though Irene, apart from being Mr. Privett's daughter, was a nobody, a mere beginner, Mr. Rammell leant across and shook hands with her.

“I hope you'll be very happy here,” he said.

And Irene, instead of remaining silent, or blushing or doing anything silly like that, delighted Mr. Privett by behaving in her best Eleanor Atkinson speech-day manner.

“Thank you, Mr. Rammell,” she said. “I feel quite sure I shall.”

That in itself would have been good enough. But it was nothing to what was coming. Because Mr. Rammell glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to the rather diffident, shy-looking young man who was standing behind him.

“Well, well, well Privett,” he said. There was no trace of the
“Mr.” now. “Quite a family party, isn't it? This is my son, Mr. Anthony. First day here, too. Tony, this is Mr. Privett. Keeps the third floor in order, eh, Privett?”

Like Mr. Privett, Mr. Rammell was over-playing
his
part a bit by now.

Tony shook hands.

“I shall be coming up to see you one of these days, Mr. Privett,” he said. “Perhaps you could spare the time to show me round.”

At that, Mr. Rammell was delighted, too. Absolutely delighted. The politeness was so exactly right. The “one of these days” had the authentic ring to it. Tony might have been on the managerial board already.

But what Mr. Rammell couldn't understand was Tony's behaviour when he was introduced to Irene Privett. Because then he did more than shake hands with her. He said something that Mr. Rammell couldn't quite catch. It sounded like a warning against hot milk.

 

Marcia had been trying hard, desperately hard, to bring her interests in line with Mr. Bulping's. She now even tried to read the articles in
Country Life
instead of merely glancing at the advertisements. Because it turned out that Mr. Bulping was by way of being a country gentleman as well as a manufacturer.

Secretly, the prospect of country life still appalled her. The perpetual rain. The brogues. The incredibly doggy-smelling spaniels. The neighbours. But she had learnt her lesson the hard way. After two husband failures she was ready to identify herself absolutely with the third one. And if her new life had to include racehorses she was determined to do her best by them. That was why she sometimes read
The Field
as well.

It was because of her selflessness that she was so wretched at the present moment. Quite cast-down and despondent. Almost suicidal, in fact. That was because she had begun to doubt Mr. Bulping. If she hadn't been working for her living it would all have been so much easier. But professional engagements were after all her livelihood. There were whole regiments of debs, and generals' daughters simply sitting by the telephone day after day waiting for their agents to call them.

And Mr. Bulping's visits were always so sudden. A telephoned love message at four-thirty meant that the lover himself would be arriving at Euston by nine-thirty. And it wasn't always convenient. What was she to do if he clashed with National Silk Week or a B.B.C. Television Knit-Wear Gala?

Take to-night, for instance. She was modelling for charity in the Park-Mayfair from nine until ten-fifteen. Mr. Bulping, on the other hand, wanted supper at ten sharp. When she told him about the fashion show he didn't even ask where it was. Just told her to be round at Quog's at 10.30, and rang off.

Had he flicked her across the face with one of his own swim-suits, she could not have been more offended. Because if he had really loved her—loved, that is, in the way she loved him—he would have come along simply to watch her as she paraded. She especially wanted him there, too. All on account of one particular wrap. It was an electric-blue mink. With simply enormous sleeves. The price was three thousand guineas. But Marcia who knew about mink had to admit that it really was worth every penny of it.

Without Mr. Bulping there, however, it remained horribly impersonal. Merely another expensive wrap that she was displaying for other people. It was heartbreaking to reflect that sometime there would be someone somewhere else sufficiently devoted to want to make a gift of it ...