Nowadays they never even mention Mr. Bloot. Not any longer. Too many other things have been happening. Too much going on in all departments. After all, three years is quite a time. There are some assistants in Rammell’s, with their probation period and two annual increments both behind them, who have never so much as heard of Mr. Bloot. Simply do not know that he ever existed. Sounds incredible. But it’s true.
You see, the management didn’t feel that they could have Mr. Bloot back. Not after those newspaper paragraphs. His unexplained absence, his scarpering, was too unsatisfactory. When Mr. Bloot did turn up in Bond Street on the next day, Mr. Preece sent him away again. Told him to take extended sick leave. Said that he would be hearing from them.
Mr. Bloot heard all right. The letter said that the firm had decided to retire him. And, in recognition of his long service, they were going to pay him a pension of three pounds a week. It was Mr. Bloot’s day of gloom when he received the letter. And the gloom came a good forty-eight hours too late. He had failed to notify the Staff Supervisor that he was staying with the Privetts. And Hetty in her present mood wasn’t forwarding anything.
Naturally, Mr. Privett wanted Mr. Bloot to go on living with them. Make Fewkes Road his headquarters. Look on it as home. But here some latent instinct of reserve asserted itself. He refused. And he was adamant. Less than six weeks after he had moved in, he moved out again.
Just in time, too, for his presence to be remembered as a tender incident. And not as a major imposition. Another fortnight—another week, even another twenty-four hours—and so far as Mrs. Privett was concerned, the charm of Mr. Bloot’s presence might easily have evaporated. Sorry as she was for him and deliberately making herself remember poor Emmie, she still didn’t see why she should be expected to spend the rest of her life boiling kettles, cutting cake, spreading bread and butter, making pastry, peeling things, washing up so that their visitor would feel strong enough to take a little stroll with Mr. Privett in the evenings.
The only surprise came with Mr. Bloot’s choice of residence. Not that it was really surprising when you came to remember the long quiet history of his domestic background before Hetty came into the picture. He was not a man with an army of friends posted strategically all over London. Not someone given to dropping in and being dropped in on. There was, in fact, only one address that he knew. And, when he finally decided that he needed a place of his own so that any budgies he might have could get indoor exercise, he went to the only address that he knew. Back to Tetsbury Road. To the Gurneys.
And they simply couldn’t have been nicer. The sight of Mr. Bloot, fresh and pink from the effort of walking, standing there in her own porchway was enough for Mrs. Gurney. She took it as a vast, unspoken apology. Forgave him instantly. Asked him in. Reunited him with Mr. Gurney. Gave him tea.
Of course, it required a bit of arranging to fit him in again. It wasn’t his old rooms that he got back. That would have been too much to hope for. But Mr. Bloot was philosophical about it. He recognized that life is all change. Transformation. Metamorphosis. That nothing on earth remains the same for ever. And that it is a brave man who is ready to accept the unknown. So when the Gurneys offered him the first floor back instead of the second floor front, Mr. Bloot accepted.
What’s more, it was a turning point. With good luck waiting round the corner. He got his old dining-table back—the big one with the casters—and the small bamboo piece on which he had always put his watch at night. But that wasn’t all. Discarded by Rammell’s, he suddenly found himself sought after elsewhere. There was a new bird food—TWEETIE, BUDGIES LOVE IT—that had just come on to the market. And the manufacturers asked Mr. Bloot if he would like to represent it. Asked him very tactfully, too. Explained that they needed someone of his standing, his professional record, to introduce the product. Otherwise, of course, Mr. Bloot wouldn’t have considered it. Not common, commercial traveller stuff. Not bag work.
As it is, he is doing very nicely. A good five pounds’ commission most weeks. And there is a big future in it. More hungry little budgies being hatched out every day. More packets of TWEETIE disappearing from the shelves.
The firm is so pleased, in fact, that they’ve offered Mr. Bloot the South of England. The whole of it. And a car. A Hillman. But only on condition that he can drive. And that looks like being a stumbling block. He’s been taking lessons at a driving school. But the instructor isn’t hopeful. Mr. Bloot isn’t by any means a natural. It’s the gears mostly. And the starting. And backing into places. And hand signals. And remembering about traffic lights. And other cars. And stopping. He’s dented one wing of the driving school car quite badly. The Privetts don’t see very much of Mr. Bloot nowadays. Except at week-ends, of course. Not with TWEETIE by day. And driving lessons in the evenings.
And Fewkes Road tends to be a bit quiet and lifeless now that Irene is married. Mrs. Privett had the idea at one time of having Nancy Parkinson over to live with them. Nancy’s nerves had been bad lately. And it seemed the sensible thing to do.
When it was suggested, Nancy jumped at it. Fairly jumped. It seemed everything that she could want. Company. Friendship. Love. That warm feeling of being among people who really cared. She was ready to move in on the Saturday. Then she remembered about Mrs. Rammell. And she realized at once that Mrs. Rammell wouldn’t like it. Not having her own sister in digs with one of the staff. She might think that Nancy was getting at her. So nothing came of it. And Nancy remained where she was. She still sent Mrs. Privett post-cards.
Not that the Privetts needed the money. Not since Mr. Privett had got his promotion. He is permanently in Mr. Bloot’s shoes now. Main vestibule. New frock-coat. Cut to measure. Dress allowance to cover things like shirts and ties. And another two pounds a week. For the first few weeks Mr. Privett felt too guilty to enjoy it. As though, by accepting, he had somehow been disloyal to Gus. But he’s got over the feeling now. Too many other things on his mind. Too much responsibility. And the sense of supreme command certainly leaves its mark on a man. Mr. Privett has taken to wearing a buttonhole. And he can afford to. He no longer has to queue up with the rest of them on Fridays for his pay envelope. He’s monthly salaried now. He’s senior.
And successful. The Dianthe has proved a real winner now that she’s been back to Mr. Lumley to have half an inch and half an ounce taken off her keel. Obviously, a desperate measure. But there was something wrong with the Dianthe, even though Mr. Privett wouldn’t admit it. As it is, she’s perfect. Almost too good. She is now the most heavily handicapped yacht up at Highgate.
Mr. Bloot turns up regularly to see her sail. And he’s looking more imposing than ever. New hat. New overcoat. New shoes. So imposing, in fact, that the rumour has got about that Mr. Bloot is the real owner of the Dianthe, and simply allows Mr. Privett to do the sailing. Not that Mr. Privett minds. He’s happy enough just seeing Mr. Bloot and the Dianthe both up there.
But even though Mr. Privett’s Sundays may seem full again, there is still something missing. Irene. That is because she and Ted chose Wembley of all places to live in when they got married. Why? Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Privett could possibly imagine. Nor, for that matter, could Ted and Irene. They didn’t know anyone at Wembley. Had no friends there. Weren’t particularly enthusiastic about being so near to the Stadium with all the noise and commotion of the football crowds. Had never dreamed of living in Metroland at all. It was simply that they went there one Saturday afternoon merely for the bus ride—and the nesting instinct caught them unawares. Nice little flat, though. With telephone. And constant hot water. And a very good-sounding address. The Buckingham Court bit fully makes up for its being N.W.9.
Irene isn’t in Rammell’s any longer. Not properly, that is. You can’t look after a baby and be a career girl, too. Not at the same time. And, when it came to it, Irene put the baby first. He’s over eight months old already. Coming up for nine. There was some trouble about his feeding at first. No appetite. Wouldn’t suck properly. But, thank goodness, that’s all over. He’s simply enormous by now. Going to be an engineer. Or a scientist. Or something. You can tell that by the way he’s interested in anything moving. Especially in things that go round. And it’s a full-time job just coping with him.
Even so Irene hasn’t cut adrift from Rammell’s completely. She’s been at the annual staff dances. The last one wasn’t so bad. But the time before was terrible. She was expecting Junior practically at any moment. And, of course, she goes along to the Sports Club. Because Ted is secretary now. There is his position to be kept up. Fortunately, the sports ground isn’t far away. Neasden is one of the few places that Wembley is really near to. And quite a lot of Rammell wives live out somewhere in that direction. And on fine Saturdays there are almost as many prams as players.
Of course, Irene is missing Bond Street. No good pretending she isn’t. Even though she knows she’s doing the right thing staying by Junior she feels out of it somehow. She’s stood over by the sink in the little kitchenette washing up bottles and things after Ted has left in the morning, with the flat suddenly silent and empty-feeling behind her, and envied the other girls, complete strangers, that she can see in the road outside all going in the direction of the station.
And it is worst of all in the evening when Ted begins talking about Rammell’s. Mere minor gossip. Like who’s ill. Or about a row over a sale’s slip with the date left off. Or the surprise love-affair between Office Stationery and Children’s Hairdressing—just when everyone thought that Office Stationery was interested only in Electric Mixers, and Children’s Hairdressing seemed all set for Travel Goods. Then she really feels an outsider. As though she’d been expelled, or something.
That’s why she looks forward so much to Christmas. She’s on Rammell’s temporary list, of course. One of the permanent temporaries, so to speak. Good assistants aren’t three a penny. And she can go back whenever she wants to. Last Christmas, for example, was heavenly. The same rush in the morning. Standing up in the train. Worked off her feet as soon as she got there. Only half an hour for lunch because there were all the things to put straight again. Ten minutes for tea. A splitting headache by five-thirty. And the glorious sense of being in the swim again.
It was during one of the Christmas periods that she saw Tony. Irene was back in Gowns and young Tony—Mr. Rammell by now to the staff—came through the department. Their eyes met. And he came over and talked to her. Asked about the baby. And about where she was living. And how she liked life in general. Stayed there beside her for a good two or three minutes. And it didn’t mean a thing to either of them. Funny when you come to think of it. At one time he couldn’t get that gleaming, dark head of Irene’s out of his mind. And she had felt strangely disturbed, as though all her bones had turned to jelly, if she even caught sight of him. And now there was just nothing there. No flame at all. Not even a flicker.
On Tony’s part it wasn’t simply that he’d known rather a lot of other girls since Irene. Not counting Marcia, that is. There’d been Mary-Lou and Brenda and, ultimately, Desta over in New York. And there’d been Pamela and Imogen over here since he’d come back. All—with the exception of Marcia—small, dark ones. With distinctly upturned noses. Evidently his biologic type. His fate. But he was too busy for any of them now. Was living a practically girl-less existence. Coming into Rammell’s before nine and not getting away again much before seven. It’s because of the long hours that he’s moved into Albany. Only two rooms. And a bath. And distinctly dark in winter. But the best address in London. And so close to Bond Street.
Some of Tony’s American ideas have caught on. Not all. But some. Particularly on the accounting side. There’s been nothing less than a revolution up there. Calculators, microfilm records, photostat machines, electronic computers. The whole works. There was an article on Rammell’s in “Business Efficiency” only the other month. And all Tony’s doing. Not that he has become managing director in the meantime. Nothing like that. You can’t expect to spend a few months in the States enjoying yourself and then shoot up like a rocket the moment you return. He’s on the board all right. But that’s as far as it goes.
It is Mr. Preece who is managing director. But he has only just moved into Mr. Rammell’s old room. Still feels a bit awkward about being there. Rather self-conscious amid so much solid splendour. Even looks wrong. He’s paler than ever. And thinner. So neatly dressed, too, that there seems to be nothing of him. Whenever he sits back for a moment it is obvious that he ought to get himself a smaller chair. But he’s happy all right. Oh, so happy. He’s got where he meant to be.
And, in consequence, Mrs. Preece is happy, too. They’ve just moved into a larger house. Farther from the station. Not because the old one wasn’t big enough. Simply because they both felt that, with Mr. Preece’s position, they ought to have something a bit more secluded. Gates and a drive, you know. Well, they’ve got it. And, as a result, Mrs. Preece is nearly dead with fatigue. She’s having servant trouble. And local labour won’t come out so far. But it’s worth it, seeing her husband go sweeping off in the morning in his new Sapphire.
As for Mr. Rammell himself, he’s given up caring. After the operation he made a thoroughly good recovery. Even a lightning one. He was back on the job again inside six weeks. Six weeks too soon, as it turned out. Because all the old trouble started up again. More pains. More doctors. More nursing homes. For the next twelve months he was hanging over the office rather than actually a part of it. And, after the last bout, Mr. Huntley Cary advised him to throw his hand in for good. Cut clear and go off somewhere. Put Rammell’s right behind him. Regard himself as having had it. Said that, otherwise, he wouldn’t accept any further responsibility.
Pretty cool, when you come to think of it. After all those fees. And pooh-poohing everything. All the professional soft talk, in fact. But just like Mr. Huntley Cary. And very good advice all the same.
Because Mr. Rammell is much better now. He’s put on weight. And cut down his smoking. And he’s sleeping eight hours every night. With a cat-nap in the afternoons as well most days. But that’s probably the sea air. He spends most of his time on cruises nowadays. He’s been to all the places he ever wanted to visit. Romantic places, too. He’s seen coral fish over the side. He’s smelt the scent of cinnamon coming in on the shore breeze. He’s seen palm trees apparently rising from the surface of the ocean. And frigate birds overhead. And flying-fish. And dolphins playing. Even a whale. Everything he could have imagined.
And one thing that he didn’t ever imagine. Mrs. Rammell. Because she insisted on coming, too. At the first hint, she dropped everything. Resigned from her committees right, left and centre. Closed the house up. And moved into the double state room alongside her husband.
Just so that she could be there to look after him, she said. Not that it worked out quite that way. She was a terrible sailor. Even the gentlest of swells upset her. The stewardess alone could not cope. Mr. Rammell had to act as sick-nurse as well. It was a bit of a strain naturally, coming so soon on top of his own illness. But it certainly helped to keep his mind occupied.
They’re off Cape Town at the moment. On their way to the Far East. And it is working out better on this trip. Mrs. Rammell has engaged her own companion. And Mr. Rammell has a separate cabin. He’s comparatively undisturbed. Almost a bachelor. And, as he drops off to sleep at night, he’s started playing an old, childhood game again. It’s his ship. And they’re sailing on a secret mission. There’s danger in the air. Mutiny among the crew. The glass is falling. Fuel’s low. And his wound is worse than he’s admitted. It’s going to be all right, of course. But not yet. Not till he’s revealed his secret weapon ... Five or ten minutes of delightful half-waking dream-drivel every evening. Real nursery stuff. Only better. Because now he can actually feel a ship under him. Hear the long creakings, as he dreams.
Mrs. Rammell’s own night thoughts are not so restful. But then they never were. And there is one thing in particular that keeps coming back into her mind just when she thinks that she really is going off to sleep. She will never be Lady Rammell now. Doesn’t see how she can be. Not now that poor dear Eric, bless him, of course, is so much of a back number.
There is another reason, too. But Mrs. Rammell has taught herself not to think of that one. Has closed her mind to it entirely. It’s connected with Marcia, you see.
Marcia was too much dazed when she first arrived in Bermuda to do anything very much. Just sat about in the sun, reminding herself that this was where she had always wanted to be, and wondering vaguely about the future. Not worrying. Just wondering.
It was certainly a delightful hotel. She had noticed the names of two peers in the register when she signed in. And Sir Harry could not have been more generous. Everything paid for. And he’d opened an account for her just as he said he would. She’d never had more money in her life. More money. Or less to spend it on.
Naturally, she was grateful. That was why she sent him a postcard of the place. A colour postcard, addressed in that rather strange, backward-sloping handwriting of hers. But Sir Harry was not interested in the handwriting. Didn’t even notice it. It was the colour that hit him. Fierce Prussian-blue sky. Indigo sea. Mustard-yellow sand. Veridian palm trees. He realized instantly that red omnibuses here in London were no substitute. And B.O.A.C. did the rest. Forty-eight hours later he was out there beside her.
They’re Sir Harry and Lady Rammell now. Special licence. Just like that. All on the spur of the moment. Entirely Sir Harry’s idea. And, when he put it to her, she found it beyond herself to say “No.” In the circumstances, it would have seemed so ungrateful. So unfeeling. She’s learning Scrabble and Canasta. Or, rather, trying to. Scrabble is way beyond her, because of the spelling. And Canasta is almost as difficult. Naturally, it’s simply heavenly being Lady Rammell. It’s all she ever dreamed of. And so rich, too. Nor does the difference in their ages matter. Not in a place like Bermuda. The whole island is a love-nest for improbables. But she’s finding it a strain. Make no mistake about that. She’s out on her heels already. Can’t keep up with him. The late hours. And so much loving attention. And the drink. And the photography. In all that sun she’s stood up against balconies for hours, literally hours, while Sir Harry’s been getting the stop right. Because he likes to have her in all the pictures. And she’s only beginning to realize how much in the old days the professional in charge really helped. But life for Marcia nowadays is both so tranquil and, at the same time, such a rush that she never remembers the other men who once shared it. Not even Mr. Bulping.
And that’s fair enough. Mr. Bulping doesn’t remember her. There’s a marvellous little hostess, a widow, at a country club outside Wolverhampton. She’s taking up all Mr. Bulping’s spare time. She’s under thirty. And 34—21—34. He’s crazy over her. Must be. He’s just given her his Bentley. Lent it, rather. Anyhow, it’s all hers. And he’s got one of the new ones with a downswept tail. Still, if Mrs. B. will only do the decent thing and divorce him, he’s reckoning on getting the old one back. He can take it. Wouldn’t look at any house that hadn’t got a double garage.
And that about accounts for all of them.
Except for Hetty, of course. But she was never really one of the Rammell family. Simply married into it. And, when she broke with Mr. Bloot, she broke with Rammell’s too. Mr. Bloot himself never so much as saw her again. He went round to Artillery Mansions the second night he was back. Made a regular evening pilgrimage. But either there was no answer at all or it was Chick who opened the door and merely closed it again. And even when he wrote to her, she did not answer. Not that there were any charges or recriminations in the letter. Nothing emotional. Simply straightforward appeals for what were indubitably his. His other suit. His black boots. His umbrella. His linen. The empty birdcages ... in the end, still in the absence of any reply, it was Mr. Privett who had to go round to collect most of them.
When letters did begin to arrive, they were from her solicitor. All about desertion. And cruelty. And instituting divorce proceedings. They shook him up badly, those letters. Mr. Bloot had always strongly disapproved of divorce. It was, in his opinion, one of the signs that the country was going to the dogs. He didn’t want to play any part in a divorce case. Least of all as the guilty party.
That was why, on Mr. Privett’s advice, he went round and consulted Mr. Hamster. Naturally, Mr. Hamster was delighted. He saw the point immediately. As soon as he heard about Chick, he said that they would defend the case. And more than defend it. Petition themselves. He spoke of having the flat watched. Of tipping off the Queen’s Proctor. Of getting Hetty turned out of the flat because it was being used for immoral purposes. Of having a quiet word with a policeman he knew, to see if they could get Chick run in for anything. Of suing for the return of the balance of his personal property.
All in all, the case—which might have been merely one of the undefended kind—is developing very interestingly. Mr. Hamster is pleased. He’s putting his best into it. In some ways, it promises to be about the biggest divorce case he has ever handled.
Meanwhile Hetty and Chick were really getting along very well together. Rather too much to drink, perhaps. And thoroughly slack in their habits. Slopping around in dressing-gowns until midday on Sundays. Eating everything out of tins. Not tidying up the mess of ash-trays and glasses after the weekly card parties. But obviously made for each other. And it has to be admitted that the flat is a happier place since Gus left it. He did tend to spoil the fun rather whenever she had her friends in. “That old wet blanket” is how nowadays she generally refers to him.
But there’s too much going on to waste our sympathy on anyone like Hetty.
Take to-day, for instance. Mrs. Privett didn’t get to bed until nearly midnight. But she was up again at six-thirty. Up, and boiling things. The porridge was simmering in its double saucepan. The milk with an asbestos mat under it, stood ready to be brought over the flame as soon as it was needed. And there was an extra kettle on. Everything was ready in fact a good half-hour earlier than usual. The clock on the kitchen mantelshelf even now showed only two minutes past seven.
Mrs. Privett had laid the table the night before. And it was obvious that it was not by any means an ordinary Monday morning breakfast. Someone extra had been invited. Rather a special guest, too, from the look of things. One of the upright chairs, the one with arms, had been brought through from the drawing-room. And, as though that in itself were not enough, two of the best cushions, also from the drawing-room, had been wedged into it. If it had been a Pasha they were entertaining, things could not have taken on a more deeply-upholstered look.
Mrs. Privett herself seemed clearly keyed up. Her lips were drawn down more tightly than ever. And she was humming. Not any time, in particular. Merely a faint, buzzing noise that indicated happiness, preoccupation and a sense of inner urgency. When she went over to the gas-stove and removed the larger of the two kettles, she gave one of those little signs that indicate that things are planning out the way they have been intended.
Then, kettle in hand, she went quickly upstairs to the bathroom. Filling the basin, she added just the right amount of cold water, spread out the clean towel, saw that all the odds and ends—toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, comb, skin ointment—were there ready in the little toilet bag, and went through on tiptoe into Irene’s old room.
The door was already open. Had been open all night, in fact. Carefully wedged by a folded-up piece of newspaper. The curtains were drawn. But the sash-window behind them was down a good foot. And a screen had been placed in between the window and the bed so that a direct draught was impossible even with the open door. Still on tiptoe, Mrs. Privett pulled back the curtains, folded up the screen, closed the window and went over to the bed. Only then did she allow herself to come down on to her heels and set about waking up the occupant.
He was certainly asleep all right. Flat out. And blissful. A bit pallid perhaps after more than twelve hours without food. Even dissipated looking. With a tremendous sweep of eyelashes across the pale cheek. But still alive. And protected from everything. It seemed a sin to wake him up at all, she reflected. Better to let him go drifting along as he was until he woke up on his own account. But Irene had been emphatic on that point. Just because he was spending his first night away from home, she didn’t want his regular habits, his routine, upset. She hadn’t really wanted Mrs. Privett to have him at all. It was only because of Rammell’s that she had even considered it. And it was all so sudden, too. Other Sale times Irene had got it all worked out. Ted’s sister knew someone who could come over to be with Junior. But she required proper warning. Two or three weeks’ notice at least. And this time she had let them down by going into hospital. Without her, it was impossible. So clearly impossible that Irene hadn’t even bothered to fill up the Staff (Temporary) form that the Supervisor had sent her. Simply put it out of her mind. Told herself that Junior must come first. And tried hard to forget about the extra money.
Then, just when everything was settled, the Supervisor phoned up personally. It was nothing less than an emergency, it seemed. The ’flu epidemic had seen to that. Half the assistants away. And the Sales already started. Rammell’s would take it as a special favour, she said, if Airene could possibly mennege it just to hailp them out for a day or two until their other gairls were beck with them again.
There’s always something flattering about being rung up personally. It’s nice to think that something enormous like Rammell’s can’t get along without you. Irene said at once that she didn’t see how she could, but she’d try. And she knew perfectly well as she said it that she would.
Less than an hour after the Supervisor had telephoned, Irene was on her way by bus with Junior over to Mrs. Privett’s to make all the arrangements. Not that she was ready to do the sensible thing and leave him then and there. She would bring him back later, she said, with all his things. He had possessions, it seemed, from which separation was unthinkable.
But it had all worked out perfectly. Even though she felt strangely callous and childless, as though she had just had Junior adopted and was never going to see him again, she was able to leave Wembley with Ted next morning, catching the eight-ten that he always took. And it was certainly like being home again to find herself in Rammell’s. There was a warm, pleasant familiarity about everything. Same smell of the grey Wilton on the floor. Same dust-sheets to be whisked off and put away. Same murmur as the shop began to fill up and come to life. Same little treble ting as the elevator doors opened. Same rustle of packing paper. Same hum from the street outside. Same well-oiled whirring sound of the sliding doors to the stock cabinets. Same assistants, most of them. And so pleased to see her, too.
It was Gowns that she was sent up to. And just as well. There were two assistants away and the beginner, a Miss Hammans, was already complaining of a headache and a sore throat. In desperation, the Supervisor had even brought Miss Sulgrave over from Staff Stores. She was more motherly and affectionate than ever. Nearly wept when she saw Irene looking so young and pretty after the ordeal of motherhood. But Miss Sulgrave had always been a bit emotional and over-demonstrative with the youngsters. And Irene didn’t consider herself a youngster any longer. Besides, all those years in Staff Stores had rubbed some of the gloss off Miss Sulgrave’s technique. She wasn’t really main-building class any longer. Still full of smiles and endlessly patient, she was nevertheless liable to lapses. Try as she would, “dear” kept slipping out, instead of “madam”. And even at Sale time, that was hardly a thing that could be overlooked.
In consequence, Irene might have been in charge of the place. It wasn’t easy because she didn’t know what stock they were carrying. But it wasn’t really difficult because she was trained to it. And more than trained. It was something that was in the blood. She was in her element.
Not that Irene would even have considered it if it had been any other store that had asked her. She wasn’t hireable. Not just like that. Loyalty came into it, too. And sentiment. And a bit of snobbery as well. After all, Rammell’s was Rammell’s. Though at Sale time you’d hardly know it. For a start, there was a different class of customer altogether. Different clothes. Different accents. Different manners. They weren’t Bond Street regulars at all. Didn’t come near the place in the ordinary way. They were invaders. Barbarian women from the hills around London. Female suburban Goths who swept in just for a day, intent on a little pillage in the plain.
Rammell’s knew how to cope with them, however. Had been preparing for months, in fact. These Annual Sales were an institution. And there isn’t much to choose when you get down to the morality of the market-place. There has to be a good deal of give and take on both sides. After all, it was the label as much as the dress that most of the huntresses were after. Anything to show that it had really come from Rammell’s. And, in the circumstances, Rammell’s was clearly to be excused for having done a little special buying so as to be ready for the rush. Simple little afternoon frocks, and even rather gorgeous evening-gowns, from workshops that were left entirely unpatronized during the rest of the year. Two-piece woollens and cocktail dresses, that you wouldn’t find again on any of the hangers for another twelve months. Irene even felt rather ashamed of one or two of the models that had been brought in. Would have passed them by herself without giving them a second thought. Couldn’t quite reconcile the way the seams had been turned in and the zip-fasteners sewn on with what Rammell’s really stood for. But she had learnt her lesson when she first came there. In any big store, even the best of them, it is only the newcomer who ever questions the buyer about where all the fresh stock at Sales time has suddenly come from.
And there was no question of its not being wanted. By ten o’clock she had got thirty-four pounds’ worth of business down on the check sheet in her book. But that’s always the way it is at Sale time. There’s a belief that only the dawn marauders get what they really come for. The others have to take the left-overs, the rubbish. It isn’t true, of course. There’s more coming up from the Stock Room practically all the time. But it’s more than a mere fiction. It’s part of the true faith about all Sales. It’s what keeps up the spirit of the thing. Gets middle-aged housewives camping out on little stools with Thermos flasks beside them, just to be first at the counters in the morning.
It wasn’t only the assistants who suffered. It was tough on Mr. Privett, too. They took some handling, these customers. After all, he was the one who had to face them. He was the one who actually had to open the doors. And, having opened them, he was the one who had to step back smartly. Otherwise they would just have overwhelmed him. Because they weren’t the kind to waste time by asking. They dashed. Straight through the departments as though they owned the place. By five past nine the sacking had begun. And Millinery was usually the worst. There were some hats that had been crammed on and snatched off again upwards of a dozen times before Mr. Privett had been able to take up his proper position again in the main foyer.
Because of the rush, Irene hadn’t seen Ted since she had left him that morning outside the Staff Cloakrooms. Didn’t even catch sight of him at eleven when she went up to the canteen for a cup of coffee. But it was quite understandable. He had his own world up there to look after. A world of catgut and rubber and stainless steel shafts and pale willow. All marked down. And all being pawed and swung and taken out of their stands by a separate race of male invaders. Only with a difference. There were more of the Rammell regulars among them. Steady, sensible chaps who had put off buying another dozen golf balls or a new tennis racket until they had seen what the Sale had to offer.
It was at lunch-time when Irene went up to see him. And it gave her a real pang of sudden happiness to be reminded of how important he was. If you’re in the trade, you can tell at a glance when something’s a success. And there was achievement written large over the whole department. And that wasn’t just the opinion of an over-loving wife. If things hadn’t been pretty good, the management would never have knocked down the partition in the Downe Street corner to enlarge the floor space. As it was, Ted now had cycles and motor scooters too. It was a garage as well as sports pavilion up there on the fifth floor.
Because it was the Sale, there was no time for the sort of lunch that husband and wife might have been expected to eat together. Nothing leisurely. No graceful living. Just a sandwich and a cup of coffee up in the canteen. No time even to get out of the place for a breath of air. Not that Irene minded. She was thinking of Junior. She was sure that he was all right, of course. Quite sure. With Mrs. Privett in charge nothing could possibly happen. It was only that Irene couldn’t help imagining things. Like faulty fire-guards. And loose stair rods. And cupboards crashing over. And traffic accidents when Mrs. Privett took Junior out for a walk. And dog bites ... Even while serving there in Bond Street, Irene in reality was far away.
By four o’clock, she had had it. Tired. Really tired. It was worse than housework. Worse than pram-pushing. Worse than anything in the whole world except being a shop assistant at Sales time. She hadn’t sat down properly since she got there. Been on her feet since a quarter to nine. Had taken down more than a hundred dresses. Put eighty-six of them away again. Jammed her ball-point pencil because she had dropped it on the parquet flooring. Scraped her arm on one of the hangers because the dresses were jammed in so tight in the cabinets. Been rude to a large, hostile woman who had wasted her time by insisting on trying on a 38 when she could see that she needed a 42 at least. Made a mistake of ten shillings in her Cash Sheet. Had mistaken a regular for a casual, and had refused to change something because she thought it had been bought at the sales. Had breathed other people’s air for nearly seven hours. Had a headache. Felt swimmy when she reached up for things. And there was still another ninety minutes to go.
It was funny somehow to see Mr. Privett standing there waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs by the staff entrance. He was standing in exactly the place where he always used to stand. It seemed as though she had never got married at all. And there was the little smile on his face that was always there whenever he saw Irene.
“I’ve just seen Ted,” he told her. “He won’t be a moment.”
This rather relieved Irene. Not because she was worried about Ted. But because Mr. Privett himself did not seem to be worried. There had been that awkward period while she and Ted had been engaged. Then Mr. Privett had always been at pains not to get in the way. Had moved off whenever he saw Ted coming. Seemed to feel that they were just waiting for him to go. Whereas, now that they were married, things were easier. The old jumpiness had disappeared. And Mr. Privett was himself again.
But she wasn’t really thinking of her father any longer. Or even of Ted. It was Junior who still filled her mind. And all the way back in the Underground she realized that she could never be quite the perfect assistant again. Not single-minded, that is. Anyhow, not until he was older. At school all day. And by then there might be another Junior. Someone who needed her even more than Rammell’s did. She and Ted had always told themselves that they were going to have more than one. An only child can be such a problem. It isn’t fair to them to be left entirely to themselves so much. And the gap should never be too long anyway ... In the meantime, all that she wanted was to get back to Fewkes Road and have Junior to herself at last.
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.