Bond Street Story (63 page)

But this was not so easy. It had been Nancy's day to go round there. And Mrs. Privett hadn't liked to put her off. Nor would Nancy have been willing to be put off. Childless herself, she found babies—toddlers, especially—irresistible. As it was, she had spent from four o'clock that afternoon practically flat on the hearth-rug, piling up bricks, pushing toy motor cars, giving her playmate things that he could bang, rolling balls at him, letting him pull her hair. Mrs. Privett had felt that she was rather overdoing it. And told her so. In consequence, Nancy had sulked. Mrs. Privett
had been forced to do something about it. Give way gracefully. That was why she had allowed Nancy to help in the bathroom. Sprinkle the powder, while Mrs. Privett patted it in.

But it was not Nancy's presence that was the trouble. It was Mr. Bloot's. He was there as well. In this re-acquired bachelor state, he tended to come round to Fewkes Road rather a lot. Usually at meal-times. But not as a burden any longer. As a rather ostentatiously generous family friend. A bottle of port, or sherry, tucked under his arm. Or, in season, a pineapple. Even, on occasion, a small bunch of flowers for Mrs. Privett.

That was because TWEETIE was doing so nicely. Fairly booming. With budgerigars thriving on it. And Mr. Bloot's commission more than doubling. Mr. Bloot, with only himself to care for, was in the thousand-a-year class now. And he was enjoying himself.

But suddenly seeing Nancy and Irene again proved too much for him. He became reminiscent. About Nancy herself as a girl. And about Irene as a baby. About how Woodbines had been twopence a packet, and he and Emily had once been young. So young that from sheer happiness in living they had done silly, impulsive things, like hiring a boat on the Serpentine late one Saturday evening, and how the attendant, a rough-voiced man, had been forced to scull out to them in the gathering darkness to bring them in again. And about a hat of Emily's with white flowers on it that a horse had attempted to eat while they were waiting arm-in-arm to cross the Edgware Road. And about some shrimps that had nearly killed them both, bringing them up in a violent, mulberry coloured rash, after having been eaten on a sunny August afternoon at a small café with an outside awning at Westcliff-on-Sea. And about Emily's unreasoning fear of mice ...

It was Emily, not Hetty, who figured in all these stories. But quite impersonally. As someone who had apparently existed only during those few distant months of courtship. A mere snapshot-collection of memories. Like the rowing-boat attendant. And the horse. And the outside awning. And the mice.

It was Rammell's that was continuous. Rammell's that was the full-scale documentary. How Sir Harry, as plain Mr. Rammell in those days, had once made everyone stay all night to prepare a new window display that had been the talk of London the next day. And how Mr. Preece had started at fifteen shillings a week in dispatch—and look at him now. And how Mr. Rammell, the present one, had always been a bit afraid of his father. And what a surprise it was that young Mr. Tony looked like settling down at last. And how Mr. Bloot, not so blind as some others he could mention, had always known that Marcia was no better than she
should be. And how he didn't envy Sir Harry having to keep an eye on her out there with all those bathing-beaches and cocktail-bars and American playboys around.

Mr. Bloot was in a particularly frank and expansive mood this evening. Rammell's, in his opinion, was in the wrong hands at the moment. But would weather it. Retail commerce, he believed, had a big future. Bond Street had come to stay. There would always be a Rammell's. And it would take more than a little pip-squeak like Mr. Preece to bring it down.

But there was more than past bitterness in Mr. Bloot to-night. He moved irresistibly forward. Spanned generations. And it was on Junior that he fastened. There was a new life. And it was, he insisted, up to them to make sure that the best was made of it. No wrong moves. No false steps. Outside representation, on the road, was all right, he explained, for someone of his standing, his experience. But not for a young man. A beginner. Too many temptations. Like drinking. And women. Some of the things he'd seen since he'd left Rammell's ... only the presence of the ladies prevented him from describing them. No, all in all—financial reward, included—he'd advise them to put Junior into Rammell's. Get him started there. And, even though he might not cut much ice himself with Mr. Preece at the moment he still had good friends in high places and when the tahm came would be ready to put in a word or two in the raht quahter.

When Nancy said at last that she really had to go or her landlady would be wondering whatever had become of her, Mr. Bloot said that he'd better go along, too. He had his own commitments. A new pair. Blue and white. Championship stock with a whole row of Firsts and Seconds and Honourable Mentions on both sides. But for them he would have been ready to stay all night. As it was, he left with the name of Rammell's still on his lips. Nattering on about openings. And chances. And not minding too much about the pay. Not at first, that is.

Mr. Privett fell asleep as soon as he got to bed. To-day had been something of a strain. And to-morrow was sure to be as bad. Sales took it out of him. He had to admit that. But then he wasn't as young as he used to be. And being at the top naturally had its responsibilities. Everything depended on him nowadays. Mr. Privett, in fact,
was
Rammell's.

Bond Street is Bond Street all right. You can find it in any street directory. But the big store, by the name of Rammell's, is entirely imaginary. So is everybody connected with it. The directors, the management, the models, the assistants, the buyers, the shopwalkers, the secretaries, have no living counterparts. Nor have the manufacturers, the wholesalers and the travellers. All wives are imaginary, too. In short, this is a work of fiction. And nothing but fiction. Only Bond Street itself is real.

Norman Richard Collins was born in Beaconsfield, Buckinghamshire, on October 3, 1907. By the time he was nine years old, at the William Ellis School in Hampstead, he displayed a talent for both writing and publishing. In January 1933, when he was twenty-five, he became assistant managing director in the publishing house run by Victor Gollancz. In 1941 Collins was forced to move to the BBC due to increasingly poor relationship with Gollancz, who resented Collins' talent and saw him as a rival. During this time he became known for his innovative programming which included ‘Woman's Hour', which still airs today on BBC Radio Four. He rose to Controller of the BBC Television Service, later leaving to co-found what is now ITV after deciding a competitor to the BBC's monopoly was needed.

Alongside his busy career, Collins wrote fourteen novels and one work of non-fiction in his lifetime, most of which were popular successes, published begrudgingly by Gollancz. Collins also became well known for his innovative programming at the British Broadcasting Corporation during the late 1940s, and later for advocating and leading the movement toward commercial television broadcasting in Great Britain.

An unmistakable mark of Collins' power of application and creative energy was that he continued to write fiction throughout such an active working life. Although never a full-time writer he was a fluent and prolific author with sixteen titles and two plays to his credit between 1934 and 1981. An autographed edition of twelve of his novels was published during the 1960s.

Anna

‘I Shall Not Want'

Flames Coming out of the Top

Little Nelson

The Bat that Flits

The Facts of Fiction

The Governor's Lady

The Husband's Story

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.

First published in Great Britain in 1959 by Odhams Press Ltd.

This electronic edition published in 2015 by Bloomsbury Reader

Copyright © 1959 Norman Collins

The moral right of the author is asserted.

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eISBN: 9781448209972

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