Bond Street Story (37 page)

“Pub be all right for a sandwich?” he asked. “Get a proper meal afterwards.”

This time Marcia did not even nod. She was too frozen. She simply sat beside him, shivering inside the mink, wondering what on earth her hair was going to look like when they got there.

On the whole, of all the parts of London that she knew, she felt that Covent Garden was the one she hated most. The surrounding buildings were either wired up and empty or shuttered like a row of catacombs. And up the narrow side streets barrows had been turned over on their sides and left roughly lashed to piles of empty baskets. The whole place had the air of having been evacuated after an unsuccessful spell of street-fighting.

It was not until they were actually inside the Opera House that Marcia began to feel better. The staircase was distinctly promising. And the chandeliers had just that note of elegance that had been so conspicuously lacking outside. Scarcely like a theatre at all, in fact. More like a private mansion. The sort that can be hired for charities and things. Marcia began to feel at home.

And as she went through into the auditorium she understood why Tony should have wanted to come. In a restrained cathedrallike way it was certainly impressive. It was the size that did it. And the emptiness. As though a giant oval gasometer had been cleaned up and furnished entirely on the inside. The one thing that was puzzling was why ballet of all things should have to be conducted on Cup Final scale.

The orchestra was just arriving. The players came trooping in, whole hordes of them, through the two doors leading from somewhere underneath the stage. It was the numbers that Marcia found astonishing. The whole thing was music-making as Cecil B. de Mille might have arranged it.

But from that distance, it was all unreal somehow. It might have been a marionette band that was being assembled. Then the puppet conductor himself was brought on. And all the real people near at hand began clapping. The house lights went down. And the conductor, very expertly manipulated, gave two peremptory taps with his toy baton. Immediately, the whole puppet orchestra—ingeniously hinged violinists, woodwind players, brass and percussion—straightened up as though the concealed strings had suddenly been pulled tight. The overture had begun.

“I wonder what time it all finishes,” Marcia found herself wondering. “I forgot to ask.”

But all that really mattered was that she was beginning to get warm again. And the music was pleasant rather than otherwise. Even though she couldn't truthfully say that she enjoyed it, it was nice being able to watch it all happening. And it was heaven, sheer heaven, having Tony there beside her. She glanced across at him. His hand was up to his cheek. His eyes were half-closed. And on his face was an expression of sheer inward happiness. It was wonderful, seeing him as happy as all that. But, in a sense, he was too happy. Too abstracted. He seemed to have forgotten about her entirely.

The dancing itself, Marcia had to admit, was a just a teeny-weeny bit tedious. And—oh, so embarrassing. Really, those young men in sausage-skin tights. How they could do it. There must be
someone
who could have told them. One of the girls perhaps. They certainly looked serious enough. Not so much as a smile anywhere. Come to that, only about five out of ten for looks. And less for deportment. They all had a curious duck-like movement with their feet turned too far outwards. Marcia longed to go down on to the stage to show them just once how to walk properly. But why worry? Nobody else seemed to have noticed how much was wrong. And if you just sat there, not concentrating on anything, an agreeably anaesthetic sensation came over you. It was like taking a long hot bath without the nuisance of having to dry yourself afterwards. The only difficulty lay in being absolutely sure that you could keep awake.

“Like a drink?” Tony asked when the interval came round.

Marcia rose obediently. It was gratifying that he had even
remembered that she was there. And he was actually looking at her now. That was better still. Because she could tell that he was admiring her. It was lovely to be standing there with him, and feel his admiration run all over her.

“Enjoying it?”

“Dreamy,” she answered. “Absolutely dreamy.”

But the drink, all the same, was a mistake. Because it wasn't really a drink that these people wanted. It was talk. And such talk, too. It wasn't enough apparently that they had just been watching all that dancing. They had to keep on about it. Go over it. Again. And again. And again.

Tony seemed to know so many people, too. Marcia found herself being introduced on all sides. To pale, untidy young men. And tall intense young women. And not very satisfactory introductions, either. Because immediately they met, they started talking. But not to Marcia. After one or two attempts, they were forced to give that up. Then they talked round her. Across her. Behind her. And all that Marcia could do was to stand there. Listening. Smiling. Looking beautiful.

“It's worse than a point-to-point if you don't like racing,” she found herself thinking.

And, at the thought, it all came back to her. The big cold house. The week-end parties. The bad weather. Her first husband. The endless talk about horses ...

The bell in the foyer started ringing. Tony took her arm.

“Not bored?” he asked.

By the time they got outside, the rain had started. Real steady stuff. The kind that always falls round Covent Garden. Marcia recognized straight away that it was hopeless. Nobody ever went out in rain like that.

Tony inspected things for a moment.

“Better bring the car right round,” he said. “You wait there.”

It was years—God knows how many years—since anyone had treated her like this. Not since the early thirties. But here she hurriedly checked herself. She mustn't go on having thoughts like that. It was terribly morbid remembering dates. And it really did break her heart seeing Tony dashing off into the downpour for her sake. That pleased her. It showed that, unlike so many other girls, she really had been getting steadily nicer all the time.

And even sitting there in the car with that ghastly mackintosh contraption pulled over her, she still forgave him. Didn't even mind the cold. Or the drips. Or anything. Because she had suddenly realized that this was the sort of girl she really was.
Informal. Unselfish. Full of the simple joy of living. And so young, oh, so truly young, at heart.

Supper, too, was bliss. Absolute bliss. It was The Chalice that Tony chose. It might have been awkward, of course, if Mr. Bulping had dropped in on the off chance of finding her. But there was no sign of Mr. Bulping. He was up somewhere in the Midlands, arranging contracts and things. And, in any case, this wouldn't have been the kind of evening that Mr. Bulping understood. To-night everything was different. Ethereal. Out of this world. Pure.

The only thing against it was the sadness. No matter what she did, it kept breaking over her. Not just waves either. Long devastating rollers. Even out on the dance floor, actually in his arms, she was ready to weep. And all because Tony looked younger than ever this evening.

“Oh, God, make him love me,” she kept imploring. “Make him feel that he can't do without me. Let me take care of him. Let me be the one who sees that he doesn't come to harm. I don't mind how he behaves. Let him trample over me. Only don't let him ever go away.”

It was nearly two o'clock when they got back to Marcia's block of flats. By then, the streets were quite empty. And there were no lights showing in any of the windows. Everyone else in London was asleep.

Marcia was shivering again.

“T ... t ... thanks s ... so much for a w ... w ... wonderful evening,” she began, her teeth chattering.

But Tony did not seem in the least ready to go.

“Don't I even get a drink?” he asked.

As they stood there by the horrible little car, it seemed to Marcia that they were quite alone. Not just alone in London. It might have been a desert island, or the moon, it was so silent. And ever since she had been a girl, the thought of desert islands and the moon had always affected her strangely.

“It's t ... t ... terribly late,” she started to say and then stopped herself. “D ... d ... don't ring. I've g ... g ... got a key,” she added.

 

It seemed to Mr. Privett as though life had unaccountably flattened out somehow.

There had been those existing few days down in the vestibule while Mr. Bloot was on honeymoon. But Mr. Bloot had been married for nearly three months now. Married. And missing. For all that Mr. Privett saw of him, it might have been Ultima Thule and not merely Finsbury Park where Mr. Bloot was now living. He never came near Fewkes Road at week-ends. Never suggested a meeting at the Highgate Ponds. Even seemed reticent and withdrawn at elevenses. In short, he had become a stranger.

And having no Mr. Bloot and no model yacht to sail, Mr. Privett was left with no definite purpose in life. Nor, the way things were going, did there seem much prospect of ever having one again. Mr. Hamster's letters had eased off of late. There had only been two in the last month. The Court Case on which everything depended still seemed as far away as ever.

For Mrs. Privett it was not so bad. She had at least rediscovered Nancy. And they had been seeing each other again. First rather guiltily on neutral ground in the tea-room at Victoria Station. Then in Nancy's own little flat in West Kensington. And finally in Fewkes Road itself. Secretly, of course. They both agreed that, in no circumstances, should it be mentioned to Mrs. Rammell. Nancy even added cryptically that it could only lead to further unpleasantness.

But secrecy is one thing. Reticence is quite another. And Nancy had been keeping everything bottled up for years. Mrs. Privett listened in amazement. She learnt how shamelessly henpecked Mr. Rammell was. How the only thing that Mrs. Rammell really cared about was a title, so that it could be as Lady Rammell that her name appeared in connection with all those concerts and recitals. How extremely Mrs. Rammell disliked Sir Harry. How cordially the dislike was reciprocated. And how worried they all were about young Tony who didn't seem to want to settle down to anything.

“You don't know how lucky you've been. About Tony and Irene, I mean,” Nancy confided. “He isn't like anyone on our side. Father was always so steady until the crash came. There's a streak of recklessness in Tony that's pure Rammell. Not his father, of course. That's why they don't get on. More like Sir Harry.”

“So you think I did the right thing in stopping it?” Mrs. Privett asked.

“You'd have regretted it for the rest of your life if you hadn't. And Irene after you,” Nancy replied. “I can tell you ...”

It was the third time already that Mrs. Privett and Nancy had enjoyed this particular conversation. Neither had added anything new. But as a subject it still seemed as fresh and promising as ever. It was because both women wanted to go on with it that they arranged to meet again. Early next month. Over in Nancy's flat next time.

Mrs. Privett had not attempted to conceal these meetings from her husband. She did not repeat Nancy's general indiscretions. That would somehow have savoured too much of treachery. But the bit about Irene was obviously intended for him. And Mr. Privett knew it pretty well by heart. By now he was able to repeat Nancy's exact words before Mrs. Privett came to them.

Not that he was by any means convinced. He still admired young Mr. Tony. Envied Mr. Rammell having a son like him. But it was really of Irene that he was thinking. He knew how any girl must feel after her first love-affair has been suddenly broken up. That was why he admired her, too. If she hadn't been the sensible sort she might have done something really terrible. Not just run away from home and come back again. And, ever since, she had been so quiet and controlled about it all. Not letting on to a soul about how she must really be feeling.

He mentioned this aspect of the tragedy to Mrs. Privett. But Mrs. Privett would have none of it.

“She'll get over it,” she said. “She has already. It never was anything.”

“Then why ...?” Mr. Privett began.

“Because it might have,” Mrs. Privett told him.

“I still think ...” Mr. Privett began again.

But again Mrs. Privett interrupted him.

“Well, I don't,” she said. “I know.”

That was why it was such a victory for Mrs. Privett when Irene began stopping in town in the evenings so that she could have dinner at the Hostel. Mrs. Privett had always guessed that it would work out that way. For some time now, Irene had been seeing less and less of her old friends from the Eleanor Atkinson. And it was only natural that she should be getting into a new circle, a Rammell circle, by now. It was the girl from Classical Records with whom she had become friendly—the one who had the brother in Travel.

“Why not ask her over for tea one Sunday?” Mrs. Privett finally suggested.

“I may do,” Irene answered. “Thanks, Mum.”

It was next Sunday that Irene chose. That showed how right Mrs. Privett had been in proposing it. And it showed, too, that Classical Records must be every bit as keen. Between them, Irene and Classical Records were taking the whole thing for granted.

“Do you mind if she brings Ted along with her?” Irene asked.

“Who's Ted?” Mrs. Privett replied. “Is she engaged to him or something?”

“Ted's her brother,” Irene told her. “You know. You met him at the dance.”

“What's she want to bring him for?”

“Well, why not?” Irene demanded. “He's only living in digs. You can't expect him to spend every Sunday at the Hostel.”

“Haven't they got a home?”

“I don't know,” Irene answered. “I've never asked them.”

Mrs. Privett looked hard at her daughter. Indifference on that scale, she knew, could mean only one thing.