Free Bond Street Story by Norman Collins Page A

reckoned, to cut across. Nippiness, in his view was what had been demanded of him. Nothing more ... Indeed, as he had explained to the policeman, was it likely that anyone in his senses would risk putting up a bicycle and trailer against something that looked as if it could successfully have rammed the
Queen Elizabeth
?
    It was merely the near-side mudguard that had touched him. A mere nip. But it was enough. With a single flick it had ripped up the trailer, and sent Mr. Privett flying into the gutter, his bicycle on top of him.
    The crowd that collected magically, as though by bush telegraph, had been visibly edified. It was agreed that it was a miracle that Mr. Privett had not been killed. But by the time the driver of the coach had come back and someone had found a policeman, the entire perspective of the episode had begun to alter. Mr. Privett was still in the principal role. But the role itself had changed disturbingly. He was no longer the object of misery and compassion, the tragic victim of circumstances. He had become someone who was sinister and malign, a saboteur of immense coaches. The policeman had stationed himself close beside Mr. Privett as if to forestall lynching ...
    But Mrs. Privett could bear to hear no more. She told him not to exhaust himself further with conversation and helped him upstairs to the bedroom. Then, swift and masterful, she took off the nautical-type jacket. Stripped him right down. Popped him into bed. He was to stay there, she said, until she had fetched the doctor.
    Mr. Privett felt better already. The anguish, the sense of shame, the pain even, had all ebbed out of him. In their place flowed in warmth, love, security. He felt at peace with the world.
    Then suddenly he remembered something. He jerked himself up in bed.
    â€œDo you think somebody ought to go along and tell Gus?” he asked. “If he’s up there waiting, he’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”
    Â 
Chapter Seven
1
    Monday, of course, was entirely out of the question. Mrs. Privett had to ring up Rammell’s and explain. Nor was it easy. The last thing that she wanted was to get caught up in a long rigmarole about toy boats. A
cycling accident
was how she described it.
    The doctor was dubious about the rest of the week as well. No man of Mr. Privett’s age, he said, can run slap into a motor-coach and expect to feel the same afterwards. It was a wonder, he added, that no bones had been broken.
    But even if Mr. Privett’s skeleton was still intact, the rest of him soon began to show the effects of that header into the gutter. What revealed itself at first merely as a mild brownish discoloration developed rapidly into a whole pattern of bruises shot through with vivid colours like a sunset. They became magnificent. Sensational. Gratifying.
    Whenever Mrs. Privett slipped out of the room for a moment, Mr. Privett would slide back the bedclothes and, going over to the long mirror in the wardrobe, would stand with his pyjama jacket held open admiring himself.
2
    The accident brought out everything that was best in Irene. The sight of Mr. Privett lying there, pathetically small among the pillows, made her want to cry. She felt sorry that she had ever been beastly to her father.
    And that was just as well. Because it was on that same Monday that Rammell’s wrote to Irene. The letter was there on the doormat, along with a postcard from the M.R.Y.O.A.—the Model Racing Yacht Owners’ Association—reminding Mr. Privett that next week’s rally was at the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens.
    Naturally, Mrs. Privett recognized the Rammell letter the instant she saw it. It was the embossed “R” on the back of the envelope that gave it away. And even before she had turned it over she was certain that it would be for Irene.
    But it wasn’t to Irene that she took it. Not immediately, that is. First she showed it to Mr. Privett.
    â€œThere!” she said triumphantly.