Bond Street Story (51 page)

“And where are they now?” Mrs. Privett demanded, her hand already on the door knob. “Out somewhere. Planning. If Ireen hadn't been concealing something she'd have come straight home and told me.”

Mrs. Privett paused for a moment. Then she spoke again.

“You can take it from me,” she said. “We've as good as lost her already. I only wish Ted had been turned down. I do really.”

The room seemed suddenly to have grown very quiet. Quiet and cheerless. Mr. Privett went round tidying up for Mr. Bloot's arrival, pulling the chair covers straight and folding up the evening paper into its original creases. This, in itself, was an indication of Mrs. Privett's distress. Usually she insisted in doing the tidying up herself. Regarded men as incapable of the necessary thoroughness.

As soon as the room was to rights again, Mr. Privett went through into the scullery and put on the kettle. Then he arranged the tea tray with the cups and saucers. And going over to the cupboard he took out the large circular cake tin with the portrait of Queen Mary on the lid. It was the remains of a chocolate cake that was inside. Thick chocolate on top. Then broad veins of brown sponge with white cream running thickly across it. It looked rich and geologic. Mr. Privett cut two generous slices and put them on a plate beside the empty teapot. Even so he was sorry that it was chocolate. Fruit cake, he knew, was what Mr. Bloot
preferred. Cut from the solid block. The dark kind with preserved cherries in it. Marzipan icing on the top if you like. Even shredded coconut. But definitely fruit. And preferably cherry.

By nine-fifteen everything was ready. And by nine-thirty Mr. Privett had turned off the gas and refilled the kettle. Nine forty-five. Ten o'clock. Ten-fifteen. And still no Mr. Bloot. Mr. Privett began to wonder if he was coming. There was something queer about his non-appearance. Unaccountable. Because when Mr. Privett had invited him Mr. Bloot had seemed so eager. Had fairly jumped at it, in fact. Mr. Privett could not help being vaguely anxious.

And then a strange feeling came over him. It was as though Mr. Bloot were already beside him. If not actually in the room, at least in the passageway just outside. And needing him. Urgently. Requiring help and assistance. Bodily and spiritual. Desperately crying out for it. The feeling was so strong, so suddenly overwhelming, that Mr. Privett got up and reached out instinctively for his jacket.

“Perhaps I ought to go round to him,” he told himself. “Perhaps something's happened. Perhaps he's ill, or something.”

It was only when he was actually standing up that he realized how foolish it was. Mr. Bloot had behaved this way before. It wasn't the first time that Mr. Privett had arranged the cake, the tea things, the extra jug for the hot water—only to have to put them all away again. And at ten-thirty it was obviously too late to expect him now.

The sensible thing, of course, would have been for Mr. Privett to make himself a cup of tea. Just sit there, quietly sipping it on the off chance that Mr. Bloot might after all pop in if only to say good night. In the ordinary way a cup of tea would have been just what Mr. Privett would have liked. But he was too dispirited to go to the trouble of making it. Even if it had been there ready on the table in front of him, he doubted if he could have brought himself to drink it. That funny feeling about Mr. Bloot being there when he wasn't, had upset him. Left him feeling faintly sick. Twingey. Out of sorts.

He started nervously when he heard a sound outside. And at the front door, too. But it was only Irene. She had her own key. And compared with Mr. Bloot's movements this was nothing. Just a light tap of a heel on the top step. The thin slither of the key sliding into the lock. The door closing almost silently behind her. It was only since her engagement had become official that Mrs. Privett had allowed her to stay out like this. And Irene had responded wonderfully. Her old schoolgirl banginess had disappeared
overnight. She was now so quiet that Mrs. Privett had to leave her bedroom door open to make sure of hearing her.

Irene did not come through to him. She ran straight upstairs. Down below in the kitchen, Mr. Privett caught the sound of voices, Irene's and Mrs. Privett's. Then there was the faint noise of Irene's door shutting. And, after that, silence. Mr. Privett himself had not called out. This was strange because in the ordinary way he always looked forward to kissing Irene good night. The day did not seem complete somehow without. But to-night he was too much preoccupied by thoughts of Mr. Bloot. He didn't feel like kissing anybody.

By ten-forty everything was put away again. Mr. Privett switched out the light and went along to the front door to lock up. It was the same every evening. He opened the front door. Took a deep breath or two of the fresh air that blew straight in down the Kentish Town Road from the north. Peered out to make sure that the ornamental iron gate was closed properly. Then shut and bolted the front door top and bottom as though border raiders might have been expected. Put the chain up as an extra precaution. Kicked the mat straight. And went up to bed.

But to-night when he opened the front door he let out a little cry of sheer surprise. That was because Mr. Bloot was standing there. Simply standing. Entirely stationary. Half-way between the gate and the front door. Massive and motionless, he was staring up at the Privetts' bedroom window.

At the sight of Mr. Privett he started. It was the first time that Mr. Privett had ever seen his friend give a little nervous jump like that. And it showed how much on edge poor Gus's nerves must be. But what was more remarkable still was the fact that he made no attempt to come forward. Instead of moving, he was standing there. Beckoning.

Mr. Privett went along the little path to greet him.

“Ah hoped Ah'd see you,” Mr. Bloot said in a hoarse, half-whisper. “Ah was afraid you'd gone to bed.”

“Where've you been?” Mr. Privett demanded.

“Aht here,” Mr. Bloot told him. “Aht here. Waiting. Ah was just going to ring when Ahreen and Ted came along. So Ah moved off. They've been saying good naht to each other. Ah thought they'd never stop. Ah'm cold.”

Mr. Bloot shivered a little as he said it and pulled at his fawn overcoat with the black velvet collar.

“Well, come on in,” Mr. Privett replied. “I'll make you a ...”

But Mr. Bloot stopped him. He laid his large, soft hand on Mr. Privett's arm.

“Ah couldn't,” he said. “Not to-naht. Ah'm too upset. That's why Ah couldn't face Ahreen.”

Mr. Bloot turned slightly, and the light of the street lamp fell on his face. Mr. Privett could see then that his friend had been crying. Either that, or drinking. But his words sounded distinct enough. And between sentences he kept giving little telltale sniffs. They were tears all right, Mr. Privett decided. Big, wet ones. They meant that something really dreadful must have happened. And whatever it was had knocked Mr. Bloot out completely. He had the appearance of a man who had been drained. Usually slightly flushed, rather mulberryish in complexion, his face in the lamplight showed up chalk-white and sunken.

“Not come in?” Mr. Privett asked incredulously.

Mr. Bloot shook his head.

“Not to-naht,” he repeated. “Ah'm not stopping. Ah couldn't face it. It's just that Ah had to tell someone. Had to get it off mah chest.”

“Is ... it Hetty?” Mr. Privett inquired.

Mr. Bloot nodded.

“Has she left you?”

The reply was slow in coming. Mr. Bloot was on the verge of tears again. And he could speak only with difficulty.

“It's worse,” he said at last. “Much worse.”

“Then what is it?”

“She's let mah budgies aht,” he said. “Deliberate. Cold and deliberate. Opened the cages. Let 'em flah away.”

But the reminder of his loss had been too painful for him. He had reached for his handkerchief while he was still speaking and was now mopping damply at his face.

Mr. Privett felt ashamed at himself for feeling so relieved. In the face of bird-love such as this, he was no better than an outsider.

“They'll come back,” he told him. “You're always reading about it in the papers. They'll come back. You see if they don't.”

But Mr. Bloot was beyond comforting.

“Not with her there,” he said, still from behind his handkerchief. “And not with Billy's chest. Think of him. Aht there”—Mr. Bloot raised his face for a moment and gazed upwards into the empty sky—“aht there on a naht lahk this.”

“Then what are you going to do?” Mr. Privett asked him. “You've got to do something.”

“Do?” Mr. Bloot repeated. “Ah'm going to leave her. Ah've
had enough. If Ah lay mah ahs on her again Ah may do something desprit.”

“You mean you're not going back there?”

“Only to pick up mah possessions. What's left of them. Then Ah'm orf. Scarpering. Done with it.”

“Would ... would you like to come here?” Mr. Privett inquired. “Just till it blows over?”

“It won't blow over,” Mr. Bloot answered. “Not this tahm. And not with me in charge.”

“We could put you up, you know,” Mr. Privett persisted.

But Mr. Bloot was too much preoccupied with his own misery even to say thank you.

“Not with friends,” he said. “Not any longer. Ah've got to face this aht alone.”

He turned as he said it and began to walk towards the front gate.

“Ah'm glad Ah told you,” he said over his shoulder. “Nahw you understand what Ah've been through.”

Mr. Privett went after him. He couldn't bear to see his friend go away from him like that.

“Would you like me to come round with you?” he asked.

But again Mr. Bloot only shook his head.

“Better not,” he said. “If she's still awake things may get ugly. Ah'd rather keep it prahvit.”

He closed the gate behind him, and paused for a moment.

“Juhst think of it,” he said. “Billy. And Tiddleywinks. Ah was going to exhibit him. And nahw ...” Mr. Bloot spread his arms out in a little gesture that indicated Fate and the unknown.

 

There was no sign of Mr. Bloot at Rammell's next morning. No sign. No letter. Not even a telephone call. By ten o'clock Mr. Privett had already slipped down twice to see if his friend had arrived. And he might just as well have saved himself the trouble. Because, at five minutes past ten, Mr. Preece sent for him. Would he take over please in the front hall, he said, and hang around there until Mr. Bloot got in touch with them?

What was particularly alarming was Mr. Preece's final remark. They had been phoning Artillery Mansions, he said, but could get no reply. In Mr. Preece's view, this confirmed that Mr. Bloot must be somewhere on his way to Bond Street. Held up in the Underground, possibly. Or delayed at Oxford Circus, the temporary victim of roadworks and traffic jams.

No one took Mr. Bloot's absence very seriously. No one, that is, with the exception of Mr. Privett. And he wouldn't have said anything. It would have savoured too much of disloyalty. How could he start talking about mysterious conversations in the lamplight? And the danger of things turning ugly? And the temptation to do something desperate? And scarpering? And little fugitive budgerigars perishing on the London roof tops in the crisp October air?

It was the second time that morning that he had said nothing. The first time had been at breakfast. Mrs. Privett had still wanted to know why Gus had kept her husband hanging about in the cold instead of coming indoors like a reasonable human being. And Mr. Privett had not told her. Simply could not bring himself to divulge so much intimate misery. Instead, he had lied. Told her that the evening had grown suddenly warmer. Even close. That Gus had already had a cup of tea before coming round. That they hadn't wanted to disturb the household by sitting about indoors, gossiping at that hour.

But already the strain was beginning to tell on Mr. Privett. He had not been able to sleep for thinking about it. And now as he stood there, with the long carpeted aisle of the store behind him and the black, shiny cars drawing up outside, it all came back to him. He'd heard enough about Hetty's ungovernable temper to know the risks which Mr. Bloot had been running. Suppose under the influence of rage, drink and jealousy she had turned on him? With her nail-scissors. Or the breadknife. Or with one of Mr. Bloot's own cut-throat razors ... The fears were so real and
terrible that Mr. Privett could think of nothing else. He was nightmare-ridden. As a floor-walker he was entirely useless.

And worse than useless. Off-putting. With head thrust forward, leaving the gap between his neck and his collar more pronounced than ever, and his mouth drawn down at the corners, he scowled at people. In consequence, no one approached. The whole crowded business of Rammell's, casuals as well as regulars, simply flowed past avoiding him.

But it wasn't only Mr. Bloot's disappearance that was causing anxiety in Rammell's that morning. The private affairs of top management were in disorder, too. The affair between Marcia and Mr. Rammell was brought suddenly to a head. And by Nancy Parkinson. Nor could there be any turning back. Because in the end, it was to Mrs. Rammell personally that Nancy spoke. It had to be
someone.
And, from the moment Nancy chose Mrs. Rammell, she felt a great weight being lifted from her mind. It was all so simple that way. So straightforward. So transparently honest. If Mrs. Rammell had to be told somehow—and to leave her unwarned would in Nancy's view be nothing less than treachery—how better than by her own sister?

Nancy therefore did not hesitate. She plunged in like an exhibition diver. At the deep end. And with a flourish. She kept nothing back. Told everything. Described the general alarm that Mr. Rammell's sudden infatuation was creating. Outlined her own alternative schemes for rescue and retrievement. Emphasized a score of times that it was no affair of hers. That she didn't want to intrude. That for her part she would rather have kept out of it altogether. That it was only her concern for Mrs. Rammell's happiness that had made her speak at all.