Bellman & Black

  “Come in! How is it all coming along? Will you be ready by the fifteenth of May?”

  Bellman always began like this.

  “All will be ready on the fifteenth of May. Rest assured. The design for the oak entrance doors are with Mr. Deakin. He is giving the job to his very best man. The side and back doors are in hand with his team.”

  Bellman nodded. “It’s the internal doors I want to instruct on today. I want you to think of the emporium as a theater. The customers must not be distracted by any sense of what is happening offstage. You have already noted the cork lining to the corridors?”

  “It is in the warehouse now. The doors to be lined on the other side with cork too? We left that undecided.”

  “It will be quieter than baize. Do it. There is more to be considered than noise, though. Stock is to be replenished as invisibly as possible. Staff must be allowed to enter and exit the shop floor with the utmost discretion. The doors between the staff passageways and the shop floor are not to appear as doors at all, but must seem to the naked eye as part of the paneling. The way I see it, the edges of each door will be concealed in the shadowed part of the relief, so that the wall will appear unbroken.”

  “Handles?”

  Bellman shook his head. “A ball latch that will answer to pressure from either side. A member of the staff must come and go noiselessly and invisibly.”

  Fox nodded as he noted these instructions in a calfskin book he had got from the same supplier as Bellman’s. The pencil he wrote with was one that Bellman had given him.

  “Consider it done.”

  “You will be sure to have the building complete for the fifteenth of May?”

  Fox smiled. “I will have it done for the fourteenth if you wish it.”

  Bellman stared. “Can you?”

  Fox had spoken lightly. It was only a joke. He had forgotten that Bellman had no sense of humor. But being young and ambitious and liking a challenge, he couldn’t help answering, “Of course.”

  After lunch they spent half an hour in a brougham before arriving at a courtyard, then a room fragrant with cedar and pine, and carpeted with curls cut from the heads of babies, that were crisp underfoot. On the wall, a rack of gouges and chisels, meticulously arranged. The carver, with bone white hair shorn to his skull, bent over his work with intent concentration.

  “Best in London,” Fox murmured and then, louder, as the man looked up to greet them, “Mr. Geoffroys. This is Mr. Bellman. Come to see how things are progressing.”

  Mr. Geoffroys returned the gouge to its place.

  “Two of the large elements are complete.” He invited them with a gesture to walk to the back of the workshop, where two forms rested against the wall. Taller than a man, the elaborate B shapes were exact twins.

  Bellman and Fox ran fingers along the curves of the Bs, admiring the smoothness of the carving, the grace of the flourishes, the closeness of the joints.

  “Once it’s plated these joins will be quite invisible,” Mr. Geoffroys told Bellman. “And see here”—carved trains of ivy leaves and fine wooden lilies—“these will fit together like so, to make the garland.”

  Bellman could not have been more satisfied. It was fine workmanship, the letters had grandeur, once silvered they would be even more impressive; the floral garland would be exquisite.

  “It looks nearly finished . . . What is it that remains to be done?”

  “The and.”

  “The end?” Bellman was puzzled.

  “And. Ampersand, I believe you call it. Come and see.”

  They moved back to the work area. The block of wood that Mr. Geoffroys was working on was clamped. Roughly hewn at the edges and the base, marked out lightly in pencil, it was starting to take shape at the top. The carver selected a gouge and applied it to the wood. Standing on a platform to be at the right height, he shifted his weight to one foot, leaned into the tool with meticulous control. The movement came not from his arm but from his whole body it seemed, and a shaving of wood pared away like a curl of butter. He repeated the movement with tiny modifications, over and over, and the curve took shape.

  Ampersand. The sign that denoted a commercial relationship. The figure that bound B to B. The connection. The tie.

  A sudden and unexpected thread of doubt wormed into Bellman’s thoughts. He put his head on one side and looked again. Was that really right?

  “You don’t think that’s going to be too . . .”

  Fox looked alarmed. “Too . . . ?”

  Mr. Geoffroys stopped his carving, and both he and Fox watched Bellman.

  What was it? Bellman’s chest constricted and his mouth was dry. Was he too hot?

  Because his employer didn’t speak, Fox broke in. “If it’s wrong it can be redone. Let’s see . . .” He had the original design with him. He unfolded it and spread it flat. He compared it with the sketches and measurements given to the carver. “All is as planned—the ampersand equivalent in height to the initials—of course if, seeing it in reality, it seems out of proportion . . . At present it is incomplete, so it gives an impression of solidity that will be alleviated once it is finished. And the gilding will lighten the effect again. It will be less—er—wooden.”

  “Yes. Less . . . Yes.”

  There was a moment of uncertainty. Mr. Geoffroys looked at Fox, who looked at Bellman, who looked at the ampersand appearing out of a block of oak.

  Complete, it would be less solid. Gilded, it would appear lighter.

  Bellman pulled at his collar and swallowed uncomfortably.

  “Of course, if it troubles you, it can be redone. It might even be possible to reuse some of the completed—”

  “No. Go ahead. It’s all right.”

  They turned to leave.

  “Ready middle of next week, then?” Fox asked Mr. Geoffroys.

  Mr. Geoffroys nodded as they took their leave and said something Bellman didn’t quite catch.

  “An inn,” Bellman instructed their driver.

  “It’s the wood dust,” Fox agreed. “It does make the throat unbearably dry. You didn’t catch what Geoffroys said, I think?”

  “What? No.”

  “He said, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Black.’ Funny, eh? Suppose that happens all the time.”

  Fox found Bellman unusually silent over their drink at the inn and on the way back to Regent Street. He appeared to be brooding over some intractable problem. It was quite unlike him to be abstracted or indecisive or at a loss. His characteristic resolve and energy had melted from his face, and the expression revealed was almost unrecognizable as Bellman’s. What was it? Fear? Anguish? Despair?

  “All right?” he asked, uncertainly.

  Bellman did not respond. Eyes fixed in the middle distance, he gave every impression of being miles away, so Fox was taken aback when all of a sudden Bellman started to speak.

  “Fell into conversation with a fellow. Couple of years back, now. Barely knew the fellow, never been introduced. He’s the one that put me onto it. The mourning goods business. Spotted the opportunity as it were.”

  He locked eyes with Fox, who said, “And?”

  Bellman frowned and scratched his head. “It raises questions. Doesn’t it? If he should turn up, wanting . . .”

  “A share of the business?”

  “For instance.”

  Fox thought about it. He was no lawyer, but he’d signed a few contracts in his time. “Just a conversation, you say? You hadn’t met with a view to talking business?”

  “No! No! Pure chance we even met.”

  “He didn’t set out his terms and conditions? Ask you to sign anything?”

  Bellman shook his head.

  “Well then, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on, has he?”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course! Having ideas is one thing, but putting them into action is quite another. What’s he done since for you?”

  “Nothing. Haven’t seen him.”

  Well, then. A lawyer would laugh it out of court.
Who’s to say it wasn’t your idea anyway? You were in the production business already. Had the contacts. The investment. You’re the one who’s been putting the hours in.”

  Bellman grimaced. “If it was his idea, though . . .”

  “Ideas! I have a hundred every day. Worth nothing till someone puts a bit of time and effort into it.” Something struck him. “Any witnesses to this conversation?”

  “Not a soul there but us.”

  “Don’t give it another thought, then. If he turns up with his begging bowl you can either give him a slap-up dinner and a bottle of brandy or send him off with a flea in his ear, depending on how amenable he seems. If he wants to fight you in court, let him. What’s to stop you denying the conversation ever happened?”

  Bellman seemed half convinced. “I’ve told you, though.”

  Fox winked at him. “I haven’t heard a word you’ve said this last ten minutes.”

  Back at Regent Street, the slowing of the carriage and the opening of the door onto the clamor of the construction site roused Bellman. He jumped from the carriage with all his old vigor and brought his hands together in a booming clap.

  “So. How many joiners do we have on-site today? Twenty? Let’s see how that mahogany is looking.”

  Well, thought Fox. He’s forgotten about it now. On to the next thing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  That night, at three in the morning, an ampersand coiled ropelike round Bellman’s neck, knotting itself tightly and squeezing the breath out of him. When his eyes opened to his bedroom in London he was gasping and his heart was beating as if it were really his dying minute.

  Send him off with a flea in his ear . . . Deny the conversation ever happened . . . God in heaven, had he really allowed himself to entertain thoughts like this? What if Black were to overhear a discussion of that sort? What if he found out that Bellman was thinking about ways of breaking their partnership?

  What kind of partnership was it he had entered into? Black was on his side, surely? Otherwise he would have chosen some other person to share his idea with. They had an understanding, he was certain of it. Bellman was the active partner: it was he who went out into the world, wrote the letters, held the meetings, engaged contractors, negotiated terms, paid the invoices; later, it would be he who engaged seamstresses and shopgirls, recruited clerks, set up the systems, dealt with the haberdashers, took charge of the day-to-day running of the business.

  Black was—how to describe it? Black had done none of the work, Fox was right about that. He had not put up the money. He seemed content to let Bellman get on with things. When you studied the thing objectively, it was hard to see what Black’s role in the venture was at all, he admitted to himself. Except that it had been his idea in the first place, and a damned fine one too. The haberdashers had not hesitated to come in with him. The bank needed no persuasion to lend large sums.

  He frowned. His memory of the night in the churchyard was obstinately refusing to come into focus, yet he retained from it the acute sense that Black was not a man to be fobbed off with a bottle of whiskey. Merely picturing the scene—You’ve done me a great service my friend! Here, let me offer you this bottle as an expression of my gratitude!—made him feel uncomfortable. As for the idea of court, denying Black his rights . . . He seemed to see Black’s eye, bearing witness against him, staring at him implacably from the dock. It cut through time and space and the wall of the room he slept in, pinned him to his mattress in fear. He was amiable and jovial all right, but at the same time, wasn’t he powerful? Menacing, even?

  But what did Black want?

  Bellman got out of bed. He would draft a contract here, now, tonight. Whenever the man appeared—for he would appear—he could open a drawer, pull out the paper, and say to him, “Where have you been, Black, my good fellow? Better late than never, eh? This contract has been waiting for you all along, and I have made you a wealthy man.” That should do it.

  He sat at his desk in a nightshirt and started to write. It was a fairly standard contract, and goodness knows he had drafted and signed enough of them in his time to know what he was doing. He could leave a space to fill in the exact percentage later, once he’d done some calculations, but the main thing was to get the terms and conditions clearly set out.

  For some reason, when he was a few lines in, he found the whole thing rather unsatisfactory. On paper the words seemed inadequate, beside the point. They lacked their usual solidity.

  Perhaps he should get a lawyer to look it over . . .

  The thought of setting out the difficulty before a lawyer drew him up short. It had been peculiar, the way it had all come about, certainly. The whole situation was unorthodox. When he’d put the thing before Fox he had been able to leave certain things vague, unexplained. That wouldn’t do for a lawyer. It would be—Bellman winced—awkward.

  He read through what he had written, then tore the paper to pieces and dropped them in the wastepaper basket. There would be a better way of wording it. He’d do it tomorrow, when he was fresh.

  CHAPTER TEN

  For more than twelve months up to a hundred men a day had been kept busy in the construction of Bellman’s great monster. The skeleton had risen gigantically from the ground, stone by stone. Glaziers, tensely handling vast sheets of glass, fitted eyes in the creature’s gaping sockets. Along the bones of the building ran arteries designed to carry the very lifeblood of the enterprise: money. Canisters containing money could be placed at any sales point into a niche in the wall. Once the door to the niche was closed a pneumatic system would whip the payment swiftly to the accountant’s office at the heart, where a cashier would make out a receipt for the payment, this receipt being returned to the customer the same way. Meanwhile the shop staff would be able to continue their business of sympathy and consolation, activities that did not sit naturally, Bellman considered, with the handling of cash. A second network of veins delivered the gas to illuminate all this. Over the bones and arteries, covering them, joiners applied a skin of fielded mahogany paneling.

  Bellman saw all this. He was pleased.

  The day came when the shop fitters went in. Theirs was the job of giving the monster the character of a shop: the provision to the retail floors of counters, shelves, cupboards, drawers, display cabinets, and racks; on the second floor the offices with their desks and filing cabinets; on the third floor, the seamstresses’ work stations; in the attics, tiny bedrooms for the seamstresses; in the basement the shelving and work stations for dispatch, the reception area and storage for incoming stock together with related offices.

  This same day there was activity outside the building. A small crowd of passers-by had gathered for the spectacle. All eyes were on the platform over the main entrance. There was an air of expectation, as if it were a sculpture or a monument ready for unveiling—not that there was really any surprise in store, for the top edge of the shop windows already bore the name Bellman & Black.

  Eighteen feet up in the air, three men stood on the dais. One was gesturing firmly to his fellows on the ground and calling out “Up! Up! Up! Steady! To me! Steady!” while a weighty form, padded, wrapped, and trussed so that its true shape could only be guessed at, was raised on a hoist. Calmly it swung on its ropes, careless of the height and the nearness of the window glass. Below, men labored at the pulley; above, arms stretched out to steady the weight and guide it onto the projecting ledge. A second padded shape was hoisted into the air, then a third. Next there was a certain amount of business on the platform. Ropes to be untied, sacking covers stripped, packing removed.

  Bellman’s neck was aching from looking up. Wishing for something to settle his stomach, he brushed his coat free of the bits of straw that had come to rest on it.

  Next to him, Fox was now doing the calling: “Left! Again. Stop!”

  And now Fox nudged him: “What do you say? About right?”

  Bellman looked. The workmen, dwarfed by the scale of the centerpiece, stepped to the edge of the dais to give them a cl
ear view, and there it was. His initial and Black’s, linked by the sinuous handcuff loop of the ampersand. The silver glittered in the sun, and the crowd burst into applause.

  Lighter, they had told him. Less solid.

  He was prepared this time.

  “Yes,” he said curtly to Fox. “Good.”

  Some in the crowd had turned their attention away from the shop front and toward him.

  “Mr. Bellman, that is,” he heard someone say. “The man himself.”

  And another voice came from the crowd. “And Mr. Black? Where is he?”

  Bellman waved an abrupt thank-you in the direction of the men on the dais and strode rapidly in the direction of the entrance.

  “You don’t want to oversee the positioning of the garland?” Fox chased after him. At the back of the platform were a number of crates awaiting attention. He had checked them this morning. They were filled with a botanical tangle of silver lilies and garlands of gilded ivy leaves.

  “You see to it. I’ll come back when it’s done.”

  But the day was a busy one and he didn’t find the time. He couldn’t be everywhere at once. Not that it mattered. The men knew what they were doing, and Fox was there. In any case, there was always tomorrow.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Men balanced on ladders to fit the gaslights. They hammered nails with not a shred of pity for the ears. They sanded and retouched paintwork where a poorly fitted window had leaked. They heaved mattresses from the basement to the very top of the building so that the seamstresses would have somewhere to sleep. They crouched on the stairs marking the positions for the brackets for carpet rods. Tools and men and materials were everywhere, and no man could find his chisel when he wanted it. Fox was in all places at once, nodding, checking, ticking things off.

  Only two weeks remained before the grand opening of Bellman & Black. There were a thousand things to be done before that day, and they were all being done at once.

  To add to the chaos, there were girls in the shop. Today was the day of the interviews for the seamstresses. Arriving by the side door, they came into a hall of hammering, banging, measuring, carrying, shouting, and cursing. The smells of paint and varnish were in the air. The girls held their skirts carefully out of the sawdust and away from the paint. A surprising number of obstacles contrived to be in the path of the women—rolled carpet, planks, lengths of architrave—but the men were endlessly willing to grasp them by the waist and lift them over. The mattress carriers winked promises to one girl after another—the softest mattress for you, my lovely—but most of them were too intent on getting a job to flirt back.