Read Online Bond Street Story by Norman Collins - Free Book Online

tapestry curtains had come to be his one retreat. His refuge. With the mahogany door closed behind him, he was safe alike from Mr. Preece and from Mrs. Rammell. Even his indigestion seemed to vanish as he entered.
    But young Tony was still speaking.
    â€œIf we got rid of all that phoney woodwork,” he was saying, with the same kind of dreamy insistence that Mr. Rammell knew in his wife’s voice when she was planning a concert, “we could scrap the curtains altogether and begin getting down to things.”
    Mr. Rammell tried hard to feel amused.
    â€œWhat sort of things?” he asked indulgently.
    â€œI should junk the books for a start,” Tony continued. “It isn’t as if you ever read them.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œWhy not offer the furniture to the V and A?” Tony askedhim. “Pity to disperse it. ‘Hotel Lounge. English style, c. 1900’—that kind of thing. They’d rather like it.”
    â€œAnd if I did, what the hell should I sit on?”
    â€œPlastic mostly,” Tony told him. “Plastic. And moulded ply.”
    Mr. Rammell gave a little involuntary shudder.
    â€œAny upholstery?” he asked.
    Obviously there was nothing to be done but to humour the boy. And, up to the present, Mr. Rammell had been congratulating himself on the way he was keeping things going just as though it were a normal conversation between two sane, healthy people. But Tony’s absorption in the project was already beginning to alarm him.
    â€œFoam latex,” he replied. “Sprayed on. Choose your own colour.”
    â€œThat the lot?” he asked.
    Tony paused.
    â€œI’ve been wondering about the ceiling,” he said. “With the chandelier down, it would make a rather nice expanse. Could be plain silver. Then you could throw the light up at it.”
    â€œAnd the walls? Don’t forget you’ve stripped the panelling.”
    â€œWhy not pink?” Tony asked. “Pink for the two sides. And apple-green for the ends. Then it wouldn’t look so much like a bloody undertaker’s. You’d find yourself breathing again.”
    Mr. Rammell took up a position on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He was still calm. That was the great thing. Hadn’t lost his temper yet. But he knew from long experience of talks with Tony that it was liable to go at any moment. And he particularly wanted to avoid any kind of upset this morning.
    â€œI think I’ll just keep things as they are for the time being,” he said quietly. “If you want to go mucking about with the furniture why don’t you start on your own room.”
    He smiled a little as he said it. If only his wife could have heard him she would have realized how patient—God only knew how patient—he really was with the boy.
    But already Tony was speaking.
    â€œI have,” he said.
    Mr. Rammell uttered a long, deep sigh.
    â€œDoes your mother know?” he asked.
    Tony looked surprised.
    â€œOh, yes,” he said. “She likes it. It was her idea about this study. That’s why I came down here.”
    That was all that Mr. Rammell needed to hear. He could feel his temper, his carefully suppressed temper, suddenly boiling over inside him like a milk saucepan!
    â€œWhy the devil can’t your mother leave things alone?” he demanded. “And you, too. It isn’t like a reasonable home. It’s just one long bloody madhouse. When it isn’t music, it’s ballet. And when it isn’t ballet it’s some goddamn-awful sculpture.” He paused for a moment. “Just you listen to me, young man,” he went on. “When I was your age I’d done nearly three years in the business. I knew enough to earn my own living. I could ...”
    But Tony was no longer listening. He had got up from the chair and was bending down to pick up the portable radio. Then he walked slowly across the room without even looking at