Marriages are Made in Bond Street Page 5

  ‘He did rather remind me of my former husband, so no, thank you. I noticed him staring at me, though not admiringly. I’m sure he disapproved of my wearing slacks, and was wondering whether my family appears in Debrett!’

  Mary was dispirited but resolved at all costs to find Cedric a bride, in order to get rid of him. The young women under twenty-one currently on the books were a milliner, a domestic servant, a cake-maker, an art mistress and a lady’s companion, none of them a potential Mrs Thistleton. But two days later in walked a girl of twenty who worked in a very recherché art gallery owned by a baronet. Mary immediately telephoned Cedric and arranged for him to meet Miss Plunkett for luncheon the next day.

  When Cedric swanned into the office the following afternoon he did not express gratitude. Drumming his well-manicured fingernails on the desk, he complained in clipped tones that for him to marry a person who was in trade was totally impossible. He failed to comprehend how Miss Jenner and Miss Oliver could have even considered such an introduction. Mary’s chest swelled in indignation. ‘If being in rubber is not being in trade, what on earth is?’ she muttered to herself.

  Oblivious of the impression he was creating, Cedric added more criticism: baronet he might be, but the gallery owner had been scandalously divorced, he sniffed, lifting his chin. He frowned, while contracting his nostrils and tweaking the pristine silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, as though to protect his delicate nose from an indelicate odour. So would Mary and Heather kindly try harder?

  As Cedric left, Mary turned to Heather, speechless with indignation. The telephone rang, and Heather picked it up to hear Miss Plunkett’s icy voice. ‘He was frightful, truly frightful. His brain cavity is filled with rubber, and his heart with copies of Debrett – shredded very fine as there is virtually no space in the teeny-weeny void which should contain his vital organ. He is the most snobbish and the most obtuse man I have met in my entire life. He could talk of nothing but his employer and his social circle in Malaya – but I do not believe that in Malaya or anywhere else in the whole wide world anyone at all is interested in him. His own self absorbs all the interest in people of which he is capable: there is not the smallest sliver of love or kindness or interest or concern or even common courtesy left over to bestow on anyone else. If he is a true sample of your male clients kindly return my registration fee forthwith.’

  As Miss Plunkett paused for breath Heather adopted her most soothing yet commanding tone, assuring her that Cedric regrettably failed to understand that mores in England are different from those in Malaya, and that, equally regrettably, there were some English girls not dissimilar to him who would find him congenial. Had Mary but known Miss Plunkett a little longer, Heather insisted, she would have realized it was not a good match. Heather then diverted her still-fulminating listener with a description of a clever, kind and open-minded young man whom she could meet immediately. Almost mollified, Miss Plunkett accepted and put the telephone down.

  ‘Thank you, Heather,’ murmured a chastened Mary.

  ‘No thanks are due, dear Mary. There will always be clients who complain, whether justifiably or not. And it is true that there are young women who share Cedric’s unfortunate characteristics, and others who want at any cost to escape their fate by fleeing to another country. We shall have to hope that some equally unpleasant or thoroughly desperate damsel darkens our doors before long.’

  ‘There are certainly young women who loathe their drab life here, and sigh for some exotic far-flung continent, especially with a gallant husband adding to the rosy adventure.’

  ‘Mrs Thistleton would be assured of an adventure, though rosiness with Cedric is difficult to imagine.’

  Mary thought long and hard before introducing Cedric to the next candidate. Miss Jenkins, a very smart former debutante, lived on an allowance of £500 a year from her father. With no need to work, she spent her days buying clothes, having beauty treatments and lunching with girlfriends. She had been engaged three times but always (according to her) had broken off the engagement, and although most men insisted they did not want a hard-boiled wife, Mary felt that a soft-boiled one simply would not survive Cedric.

  The meeting was not a success. Cedric stormed into the office to castigate Mary: no sooner had Miss Jenkins sipped her sherry than she had told him – horror! – of the three fiancés, and – unspeakable horror! – had confessed to having had an affair with a married man. Cedric was mortally offended. How dare Mary introduce him to such a fast, loose, dishonest female? He could no more marry such an improper person than fly. His friends would be incensed; his employer would give him the blackest of marks.

  Heather was unmoved. ‘The silly girl should not have told him, of course,’ she drawled. ‘But his shock was pure play-acting, for he has no idea what an affair is. He has no acquaintance with real human experience, and is devoid of any true feelings. He is, in truth, rather pathetic. You are doing your best for him, dear Mary, so keep your pecker up. However, I seem to remember that Miss Jenkins has made such confessions to other clients. She needs to be told to stop, for she is ruining her chances, and if she does not find a husband soon she certainly will be on the shelf.’

  Heather asked Miss Jenkins to come into the office, sat her down and looked her straight in the eye. ‘It is most unwise for a woman to confess to some past misdemeanour of which she is ashamed, such as an affair with a married man. It is especially unwise to make such a confession to a potential husband, for he is bound to wonder if a woman who has been complicit in one married man’s unfaithfulness might behave in the same way again.’

  Miss Jenkins gave a defiant little sniff. After all, her married man had felt no shame, so why should she? She drew hard on her cigarette, twitched her skirt, crossed and recrossed her legs and half-rose to leave. But as Heather was poised to continue, she settled down and listened, albeit with the air of a child compelled to endure a ticking-off.

  As both she and Heather well knew, at twenty-six and not married, Miss Jenkins was beginning to become something of a social pariah. Most of her friends had a husband, and children, and the majority now lived out of town and had exchanged gossipy girl-friend luncheons for couples’ dinner parties. Miss Jenkins had never felt any inclination to train for any profession, and was alarmed to realize that, with little to occupy it, her life was emptying. The thrill of affairs had diminished since the wife of the married man, discovering the couple in bed in a hotel, had raved and stormed to such effect that the cowardly husband had meekly slunk back to the marital lair like a mauled fox, swishing his drooping tail in farewell.

  Terrified of the nothingness of spinsterhood, Miss Jenkins earnestly hoped Heather would rescue her from the gaping hole of her future. Her only concept of somethingness was marriage, so she forced herself to smile and listen as Heather elaborated on the importance a man considering marriage places on moral behaviour. Miss Jenkins was not at all sure she understood but, needing to ingratiate herself with Heather, she mouthed her agreement, and thanked her potential saviour profusely.

  But it was too late for Miss Jenkins and Cedric. Heather and Mary kept trying, consulting their registration cards, forms and books. ‘What about Miss Read-Melville?’ wondered Heather. ‘She’s a terrible snob – when I interviewed her she went on and on about the family estates and acres and ancestors. If she and Cedric got off, we would kill two difficult birds with one stone!’

  ‘That would be truly wonderful. But I doubt she would think his background good enough, especially as I don’t think he’s got any background. Miss R.-M. requires a pedigree dating from William the Conqueror, and I feel in my bones that Cedric’s started with a gentlemen’s tailor circa 1910!’

  ‘Well, what about Arabella Scott? She would adore to live abroad, and boss a lot of servants around and run a grand house. She would out-memsahib all the memsahibs in the entire social circle!’

  ‘Yes, and she’d boss Cedric too, and serve him jolly well right. He’d soon rue the day and demand his money ba
ck. But Miss Scott lives in Aberdeen, remember, and she’s not coming to London again before Cedric goes back to Malaya.’

  Mary managed to introduce Cedric to one or two young women who were so desperate that almost any husband would be better than none, but every girl squirmed at his arrogance, while he haughtily dismissed them as inadequate for his requirements.

  With only two weeks of Cedric’s leave to go the two match-makers were in despair, until out of the blue, with no appointment, in walked the future Mrs Thistleton, escorted by her father.

  Lord W. was a chivalrous old peer with courtly manners who doted on his only child, the Hon. Grizelda. Late in life he had fallen hook, line and sinker for a much younger, fragile girl and married her, only to stand helplessly by as she died giving birth to their daughter. Lord W. was now in his seventies, Grizelda twenty. What would become of her when he was no more? She was not an appealing girl, entirely lacking the alluring grace of her mother. She would never be short of money, for he was inordinately rich, but he had set his heart on finding her a husband and a home.

  Before inheriting his title, Lord W. had managed a rubber plantation in Malaya. After his wife’s death, a charming childless widow, Mrs R., now in her fifties, had befriended him and helped him to bring up Grizelda, and now they wanted to marry – once Grizelda was established. Ten years ago they had moved back to the Old Country so that Grizelda could go to an English school; but they felt lost in a drastically changed England, and yearned to return to their beloved Malaya. So on hearing that the Marriage Bureau received many applications from that state, Lord W. speculated about the possibility of Heather finding a husband for Grizelda, and a new life for him and Mrs R.

  After they had ushered Lord W. and Grizelda out, the match-makers faced each other across the desk. ‘Here’s a dilemma!’ lamented Mary. ‘Cedric is the answer in so many ways. But though she’s far from pretty, the Hon. Grizelda is a nice child and it would be like throwing a Christian to the lions. I’d feel like a cold-blooded murderess! Anyway, he doesn’t want a wife with dependent parents, so it’s a non-starter. But he’s the only possibility.’

  ‘Grizelda is certainly not a star attraction. Her skin’s too sallow, her eyes too close-set, her lips too narrow, her hair too lank, and her clothes are quite simply deplorable. But Cedric’s not concerned about looks. It’s social status he’s entirely focused on, and Grizelda has that in spades. I agree she is a nice child, but I think there’s more to her. I was watching her all the time her father was talking: she didn’t utter a squeak, but I could see her mind working – she was chewing her lower lip and twisting her hands from time to time. I bet my bottom dollar she has views of her own. Let’s get her in by herself. As for the dependent parents, Cedric assumes they would be financially and socially embarrassing; but imagine the stupendous kudos of pa-in-law being a Lord, and a rich Lord too! A full-blooded aristocrat! It’s beyond Cedric’s wildest dreams. He’d be over the moon!’

  So Grizelda was invited back, and to Heather’s gratification the silent girl waxed so loquacious that Mary had difficulty in absorbing the whirlpool of words that cascaded from her thin lips. Much though she loved and appreciated her father and Mrs R., Grizelda felt crushed by their anxious concern. ‘I am perfectly capable!’ she exploded, thumping the desk with her fist, ‘and I should love to run an establishment and have a husband, though not one who fusses over me as if I’m a fragile flower. My father is the darlingest of men, but he cannot see that I am a cactus. Nor that worrying over me achieves nothing except to worry me! And my “mother”, Mrs R., is devoted to him, which is simply heavenly, but she sees me only through his eyes. I should adore to go back to Malaya, and as long as he’s not a lunatic or a savage, I don’t care what my husband is. I am perfectly able to manage. Pa doesn’t have an inkling, but last year I had a fling with a gorgeous man in the village, until he got too uppity and I had to see him off. This candidate of yours sounds possible: kindly arrange for me to meet him.’

  Flabbergasted, Mary organized the introduction and, a day later, was further stunned when Cedric telephoned to recount, in curiously stifled, subdued tones, oozing meekness and gratitude, what had transpired.

  He had been first taken aback and then taken over by the Hon. Grizelda. The minute they had finished luncheon at the Dorchester, and were drinking their coffee, she had laid down her terms for their marriage: she would retain her title and the vast sums of money she would inherit on her twenty-first birthday and on the death of her father. She would if necessary make her husband an allowance. They would marry immediately and sail to Malaya on the first available ship. She would manage their house and entertain lavishly. Her father and his new wife would live in the vicinity. She would do all in her power to produce a son and heir. Was Cedric content with the proposal?

  Cedric had capitulated.

  Torn between laughter and tears by this chillingly unromantic outcome, Mary alternately chortled and wept as she repeated to Heather Grizelda’s matter-of-fact summary: ‘Cedric is magnificently, superbly, ravishingly good-looking, simply the most sensational man I have ever set eyes on, and I am not at all attractive, I know. But I have what he wants. So you see, we are equal. And whenever I’m fed up with him I shall simply sit and stare at him!’

  5

  The Perfect Secretary and Other Learning Curves

  In 1939 fear of war pervaded and polluted the atmosphere. You could feel it, almost touch and hear and smell it. The rumbling tension concentrated the minds of unmarried people, bringing into sharp focus their desire for a spouse, a steady ally in a threatening and uncertain world. The Marriage Bureau offered hope to the ever-growing numbers of people who climbed the Bond Street stairs in the summer heat, overwhelming Mary and Heather, who worked flat out to keep up with the demand. Something had to be done.

  More clients meant more money, so there was now enough to pay a secretary. Mary engaged one. ‘She’s perfect!’ she reported to Heather. ‘Just wait till you see her. She has impeccable references – I spoke to her former employer over the telephone. She’ll change our lives!’

  The Perfect Secretary seemed to embody all the respect-ability and discretion her former employer had emphasized. Aged about fifty, she looked eminently reliable and competent, her grey hair parted down the middle and drawn back into a neat bun and no visible make-up. She wore a plain, tidy grey coat and skirt over a high-necked, demurely frilled cotton blouse, sensible black lace-up shoes and thick brown lisle stockings. Her hat was a sort of grey felt pudding basin with a limp felt flower stuck incongruously on one side – ‘Left over from her youth in the 1920s,’ judged Heather – and her gloves were so heavily padded that had she been younger she might have been taken for a lady fencer. She peeled them off to reveal strong square hands with short stubby fingers, which were soon flying like gunshot across the keyboard of the Harrods typewriter.

  The Perfect Secretary was a flawless typist, and she could spell and punctuate to perfection. Mary and Heather had only to say, ‘Please send Mr X to Miss Y’, for her to rattle off the introduction, meticulously observing special requirements requested on the registration form: ‘Do not post any letter on a Friday as I am out at work early on Saturdays and my mother will open my letters. I cannot stop her.’ Or, ‘Use only the envelopes I have supplied – the Bureau’s are too thin, you can read through them.’

  The Perfect Secretary could write, too: she composed tactful letters to applicants who had paid their registration fee, but for whom after a few weeks there was still no suitable introduction, so Mary and Heather returned their money wishing them luck, and trying not to hurt their feelings. Mary was exultant: ‘She’s a real gem! What a difference! Now we can take on even more clients!’

  And so they did, interviewing, arranging introductions and talking to applicants and clients on the telephone, while the Perfect Secretary kept her head down and typed, hardly pausing in her pounding to talk to the match-makers.

  With more clients came more registration fee
s. Heather was thrilled but taken aback: ‘We had thought small rather than big about the business, and the results of our publicity had caught us by surprise, so much so that we had not even opened a bank account. Now we were taking lots of cash, and we didn’t want to leave it in the office over the weekend. So I put it all into a big brown paper bag, walked out into Bond Street, went into the first bank I saw, a Bank of Scotland, emptied the notes and coins onto the counter, and said to the cashier that I would like to open a business account. He looked a bit startled and said I ought to see the manager.

  ‘The cashier showed me into an office where a benign and cherubic-looking man sitting behind a huge desk was smiling kindly at me. He introduced himself as Mr Gentle, shook my hand warmly and asked me to sit down and tell him about the business. So I did, and I told him that we would probably be returning most of the money we had taken. He was interested and not at all shocked, and said that would be quite all right, but if the business really got going we should become a company, with an accountant. He was marvellously helpful and we took this piece of advice, and several others that he gave us over the years. He became a father figure to me until he retired.’

  Perhaps affected by the unusualness of the Marriage Bureau, the Perfect Secretary started to display odd changes in her appearance. Heather described the evolution: ‘At first we thought the changes were for the better, when she started using make-up – just a little powder on her rather shiny nose, and a delicate pale pink lipstick. But every week the lipstick became rosier and brighter, until she settled into a garish dark red, which made her mouth look as if it belonged to a vampire who had just bitten into a deliciously tasty virgin. The harsh colour did not become her at all, especially as her face was so at odds with her clothes. We didn’t say anything, in fact we hardly ever talked to her, for she was always bent over the typewriter and repelled any overtures from us.