Marriages are Made in Bond Street Page 2

  The next day Audrey was walking to the village bakery when a little man outfitted in a black suit, high-collared white shirt, maroon tie and highly polished black shoes, carrying a neatly furled umbrella and an incongruous string shopping bag, tipped his bowler hat to her, as in a reedy voice he enquired, ‘Excuse me, Miss, I beg your pardon, but I should be grateful if you could assist me. I am looking for Hall Farm, the residence of Miss Audrey Parsons. If you are cognizant of the whereabouts of that establishment, would you be so kind as to direct me?’

  Comprehending in a flash that the matrimonial paper had mistakenly parted with her name and address instead of forwarding a reply to her, Audrey lied like a trooper: ‘Oh, certainly. But I fear that you are not in luck, since my friend Miss Parsons is in London today.’

  His face registered such disappointment that Audrey felt a momentary twinge of guilt, and asked solicitously: ‘Have you come far? Was she expecting you today?’

  ‘No, my presence was not anticipated by the young lady. Notwithstanding, it is with great regret that I shall not have the pleasure of making her acquaintance today. However, I shall return on another occasion. It is my good fortune to live but a few miles from this charming village, and to be in possession of a car.’ Transferring the shopping bag to the same hand as that clutching the umbrella, he pointed at a dark green Austin 7 parked in the road. His chest swelled with ineffable pride. ‘I purchased this vehicle with the profit from my shop. Alas, there were naysayers in the village who expressed their opinion that the proceeds of trade should not be expended on earthly pleasures, in particular not by a follower of Christ. However, I am persuaded that Our Lord would not have gainsaid my action, which was taken not simply for the gratification of myself, but also for the delectation of my future wife. You see, Miss, I anticipate entering the state of holy matrimony in the very near future. I am desirous of acquiring a suitable wife – that is to say, a young lady in my station of life.’

  Audrey was mesmerized by the little man’s high, singsong voice, his fulsome language, and visions of a forgiving Jesus standing at his shoulder – or perhaps driving the Austin 7, pictured Audrey irreverently. Driving to a station? Unable to resist, forcing herself not to laugh, she asked, ‘And what is your station in life?’

  The little man drew himself up to his full five feet four inches as he proclaimed, ‘I am a butcher, Miss. I own my own butcher’s shop. I work hard, and on Sundays I have the honour to serve Our Lord as sidesman in our church.’

  As he paused for Audrey’s admiration and approbation, the postman, looking hot and flustered, approached on his bicycle. Seeing Audrey, he drew up and, panting, handed her some letters. ‘I’m glad to see you, Miss Parsons. I’m on the late side, so I’d be grateful if you would take these back to the farm – they’re for you and your father.’

  Audrey seized the letters, mumbling and blushing, fully aware that the little man was wearing a puzzled expression.

  ‘Miss Parsons?’ he queried, more uncertain than accusatory. ‘A farm? Are there two Miss Parsons living on a farm in this village?’

  Audrey could stand her own deceitfulness no longer. ‘No!’ she confessed, screwing up her eyes as if to blind herself to her own wickedness. ‘No, there is only one, and I am she. I am most dreadfully sorry.’

  ‘But why did you not enlighten me at the outset?’

  Despite her distress Audrey’s mind was functioning at top speed. She simply could not tell him that one look at him had been enough to make her lie. Now she took refuge in a second glib untruth. ‘Because I am already suited. I did not want to mislead you. I am so sorry.’

  ‘Ah, Miss, you misjudged me. I should have delighted in felicitating you on your future happiness, as indeed I do now. May the Lord bless you. And before I take my leave may I offer you this small gift.’ The little man reached into the string bag and withdrew a large and lumpy parcel, wrapped up in brown paper and securely tied with thick string. He handed it to Audrey, tipped his hat, bowed slightly, turned on his heel, got into his car and drove off.

  Audrey walked back to the farm in a state of pure misery. How well the little butcher had behaved, and how badly had she. That he had brought her a present was salt in her wound.

  Before going into the farmyard she sat on a stile, opened the parcel, and dropped it with a piercing shriek. There on the grass lay the cleaned but still bloody carcase of a large rabbit, no doubt the finest from the butcher’s shop.

  For several days Audrey was cowed by her encounter. But as she recovered, she saw it as simply reinforcing the need for a marriage agency. She felt that young men vaguely expect that in some miraculous but unspecified way they will meet their dream girl. In reality this mythical female is sitting patiently in her parents’ home waiting for ‘Mr Right’, but as he does not know she is there, so does not materialize, she grows increasingly forlorn and morose. How sad. How unnecessarily sad. How preventable.

  Audrey persevered with Uncle George’s idea. She wanted to start the marriage agency in London, which would be particularly convenient for clients coming on leave from abroad. She arranged to meet Heather, who was living a hectic, glamorous urban life of parties, nightclubs and dinners with beaux, and still did not quite believe that her friend was serious, nor that such an extraordinary, dotty idea might work.

  Audrey persisted, and gradually if reluctantly Heather yielded to the enthusiasm and conviction radiating from her friend (who kept mum about her matrimonial advertisement).

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘it’s lunatic, batty, but I’ll join you and give it a whirl. But I don’t like the word “agency”. Let’s call it a Marriage Bureau.’

  The Marriage Bureau was born.

  2

  No, It’s Not a Brothel

  Heather was working off and on as a mannequin and a film extra – her last appearance was in a ballroom scene in Goodbye Mr Chips in 1939. But she did not envisage life as a professional model or actress, and, much though she loved glamour and parties, she was too intelligent and capable to find her current way of life permanently satisfying. Still a shade hesitant, she found herself being drawn ever deeper into Audrey’s mad scheme.

  In all strata of society, Heather knew, parents worried if their daughters remained single after the age of about twenty. However, even in the aristocratic set girls were starting to rebel against such expectations. They were refusing to be sent out to India in what was known as the ‘Fishing Fleet’: gaggles of scarcely educated girls who had failed to find a husband and so were dispatched by ship with the express purpose of finding one among the lonely men serving the British Empire in India. Such young women were beginning to demand as good an education as a boy, and the right to leave home, take a job and choose their own friends. After all, many of their mothers had worked, either in paid jobs or in the voluntary services, during the Great War, and had felt frustrated at having to return to domesticity in peacetime.

  However, Britain was still enduring a severe economic crisis with terrible unemployment, and any girl with visible means of support who could live with her family was therefore castigated as immoral and unpatriotic if she took a job that a man could do, because if he was out of work his wife and family would starve.

  Audrey and Heather had observed this state of affairs from the Far East, and they both had girl-friends in England who were living at home, leading very dull lives – being dutiful and walking the dogs, doing good works, helping in the house, going to church, arranging the flowers, and meeting virtually no eligible men.

  ‘But you can see as well as I can, Heather,’ insisted Audrey, ‘out in the Far East there are twenty eligible men to one woman, and all of them want a wife. They always say, “When I go home on leave I’m going to be married.” When you say, “Congratulations! Who’s the lucky girl?” they look a bit shuffly, poor lambs, and mutter, “I don’t know, but I hope to meet somebody.” They have only a few months’ leave in England, which is hardly long enough to meet, woo and wed, so they are often stil
l sad and lonely bachelors when they return. My heart bleeds for them.’

  Heather’s heart did not bleed, but slowly she became thoroughly infected with Audrey’s enthusiasm, and began to see in Uncle George’s brainwave not only a different and ingenious occupation but also one which would earn her some money. Unlike Audrey, Heather had a shrewd business head and, now convinced of the need for the Marriage Bureau, bent her mind to the practicalities of establishing it. ‘Audrey was imaginative and romantic and I was practical and logical,’ recalled Heather, ‘and we were both serious about the Bureau, so the partnership worked well from the start.’

  As their plans progressed, Audrey spent more and more time in London. She dropped little hints to her parents which, without telling a complete fib, implied that she was being wooed by a suitor on leave from Ceylon whom she had met through her good friend Heather. In her anxiety to avoid the wrath of her parents should they discover what she was really up to, Audrey decided to use a different name in the Marriage Bureau. ‘My second Christian name is Mary,’ she announced to Heather, ‘so I shall transfer it to my first name. I never liked “Audrey” much anyway, and I used to get called “Tawdry Audrey”. My mother’s maiden name is Oliver, so I shall call myself “Mary Oliver”. And I don’t want people to find out who I am, and tell my parents, so I shall stop being a farmer’s daughter, and become a parson’s daughter. That’s near enough the truth, as he’s Mr Parsons! I’ll stick to Cambridgeshire – I can’t see any reason for changing it. So from now on I am Miss Mary Oliver, daughter of a Cambridgeshire parson. That sounds very nice and respectable, a person the clients can trust. And I’ll say I was a deb, like you, don’t you think?’

  Heather agreed. She was not unconcerned about her own parents’ reaction to their daughter’s extraordinary new departure, which they were bound to hear about since they lived in London. But she was confident she could twist her father round her little finger, and eventually convince them both.

  Heather and the newly christened Mary wrote to their girl-friends, and to several of their male friends and acquaintances in India, informing them that they would be the Marriage Bureau’s first clients. ‘We wanted a nucleus of clients,’ explained Heather, ‘so that we had enough possible introductions, and we also wanted to practise interviewing. Some of the friends we wrote to were annoyed, as people often are if you produce a really practical solution to their problems – and far more annoyed later when we did not use them!’

  They resolved that bureau marriages should be solidly grounded. The match-makers would ensure that a man and a woman came from the same social background, and had a similar income and attitude to finances (though of course most women would have less money). They would have shared tastes and aspirations, and probably be of the same religion. The Bureau would interview all prospective husbands and wives, asking them for details about themselves and the kind of person they wanted to marry. Clients would fill in a registration form, the interviewer would add her own comments, and then she would select a suitable introduction. The Bureau would give the woman basic information about the man, and no introduction would proceed unless she agreed (she might throw up her hands in horror on being presented with details of a former boy-friend, or even an ex-husband). If the woman was happy, she would write to the man and they would arrange to meet. They would then inform Heather and Mary as to how the meeting had gone, and whether they proposed to get to know each other better, or would like a new introduction. The Bureau would charge a modest registration fee for a year’s introductions, and when a couple married, they would pay the After Marriage Fee, so that the Bureau could prosper. Everything would be conducted in confidence and with the utmost carefulness.

  Their tentative beginnings remained enshrined in Heather’s memory. ‘We had nobody to copy, no reference books to help us. We just had to rely on common sense, good taste, and our certainty that we were doing something which was needed. We had to really think it out. The legal part took a long time.’

  Mary and Heather decided to take advice, so they consulted a firm of well-known and established solicitors. ‘We saw the junior partner,’ Heather recalled, ‘a fearsomely correct and conventional man dressed in a funereally sober suit – he only needed a black silk top hat with ribbons flowing down it to be the perfect undertaker. He was all fawning smiles and unctuous solicitude as we sat down and faced him across his huge polished desk. He knew my father (and thought him far richer than he in fact was) and was hoping for some good business from me. But the sunshine vanished behind the blackest of storm clouds when he heard our proposals. He clearly thought we were wanting to set up some kind of superior West End brothel, providing high-class prostitutes, no doubt glamorous but impoverished ex-debs like me, for wealthy men who would get an extra kick out of having well-born girls like us as madams. He was so overcome that his face turned bright red and his breath (nasty) came in quick gasps. He couldn’t get a word out, and I feared he might have a heart attack.

  ‘With a huge effort of self-control he calmed down. It was obvious that we were getting nowhere, but really for something to say more than anything else, I think, he managed to suppress his revulsion just enough to ask us how much capital we had. Mary, who was by this time thoroughly bored with him, gave me a gloriously innocent glance with her big brown eyes, looked demure and murmured, “I don’t know, but I don’t think my beat’s worth much. What about yours, Heather? Is it worth more than mine, do you think?” That effectively finished the interview: the solicitor clearly thought we really were ladies of ill fame, turned purple and spluttered inarticulately, so we waltzed out without any fond farewell, and went to look for somebody more helpful and less stodgy.’

  Heather’s address book was full of useful names and numbers. She and Mary pored over the pages, which took time as Heather’s handwriting, all loops and flourishes, was scarcely legible even to her. Luckily a name caught her eye: Humphrey, a friend who had recently qualified as a solicitor. He would be much less old-fashioned than the apoplectic one, Heather thought, and certainly much more intelligent.

  Humphrey, young, keen and open-minded, immediately got the point. He advised the two match-makers that their idea was startlingly novel but basically very sound, and that if they did things properly and efficiently they stood a good chance of succeeding. He himself might even become one of their first clients! However, his considered advice was that they seek Counsel’s opinion on how to protect both their clients and themselves. They needed some basic, formal rules, and some terms and conditions to be printed on the registration forms. Humphrey knew just the man, and took the two match-makers to see him.

  The Bureau never had to alter Counsel’s excellent rules. The first was that all clients would be interviewed, and that the interviews would be free. Nobody would be taken on unless they were free to marry, so anyone getting a divorce had to have the Decree Absolute. The Bureau would register clients only if there was a reasonable number of people to whom they could be introduced. The registration fee was the same for everybody, with the After Marriage Fee greater than the registration fee. The initial fee entitled the client to introductions one at a time, as and when there was a suitable candidate, unless the Bureau heard nothing from him or her for one year. The Bureau would never send out lists or photographs of clients, nor would it take up references.

  Counsel’s wording on the Bureau’s registration form also remained unchanged for decades:

  The purpose of the Marriage Bureau is to introduce with a view to marriage persons who desire to find matrimonial partners. Applicants are required to give full particulars of themselves and those particulars are then placed on the Register of the Bureau. The more difficult the applicant’s case the more limited the introductions will naturally be. The Bureau of course cannot do more than effect introductions nor hold themselves responsible for the results and does not vouch for the correctness of the particulars passed on. These particulars should be verified by you. In the opinion of the Bureau it is essential
for the applicant to meet the relatives and friends of a potential husband or wife before they commit themselves to an engagement or marriage. If the applicant has any cause for suspicion or complaint they are asked to inform the Bureau immediately. The matter will of course be dealt with confidentially.

  Mary and Heather were both in their mid-twenties, young and inexperienced, spirited and light-hearted, but with each step they completed they became more serious about what they wanted to do, and more determined than ever to do it thoroughly and properly. Heather’s misgivings had completely disappeared, and off she went to the London County Council, where an astonished official, awed by the sight of the svelte, elegant blonde sitting opposite him, listened open-mouthed to her plummy-voiced request for a licence to open a marriage bureau.

  ‘The LCC man was full of his own importance and quite stupid,’ reported Heather to Mary, ‘and I was longing to tell him to shut his mouth when he wasn’t speaking so I did not have all his dental cavities and fillings in my line of vision. So unattractive. He simply could not grasp the idea of a marriage bureau, and his Adam’s apple, which was rather prominent, kept jiggling up and down as he gulped and gawped and almost choked. I was very patient, I spelled it all out in simple words, but all he did was keep looking things up in big fat rule books, running his grubby finger up and down the pages, and mumbling to himself. He had a stab at exercising his authority: he put his fingertips together and leaned forward over the desk (so I leaned back) and pronounced his decision. He concluded that while there were no specific LCC rules governing marriage bureaux, he could see no impediment to our opening such an establishment on a trial basis of a year. In other words, he couldn’t find anything at all which fitted our case, but he would graciously put us on probation! So that will have to do. At least we tried!’