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A writer with an ear for the rhythms of Australian speech, Melbourne-based Alan Marshall published in the dominant social realist tradition of the 1940s and ’50s. The author of short stories, journalism, children’s books, novels and advice columns, he is best remembered for the first book of his autobiography, I Can Jump Puddles (1955). His work is marked by a deep interest in rural and working-class life, with an emphasis on shared experience.
HOUSE of BOOKS
ALAN MARSHALL
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet
This edition published by Allen & Unwin House of Books in 2012
First published by The Chesterhill Press, Melbourne, in 1949
Copyright © Alan Marshall 1949
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
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ISBN 978 1 74331 393 0 (pbk)
ISBN 978 1 74343 094 1 (ebook)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
So I cried.
So I raged and so I pleaded,
As I waited on this devil,
Making boots, boots.
Till the best part of me died,
For was dragged out by the roots;
And the hum no more I heeded,
Nay I heard it not at all.
And the call
Of the sweet and pleasant country, and
the stillness of the earth
I forgot,
And my lot
Ceased to hate, or deem tyrant evil,
Or his overthrow to plan.
So that now, no more a man,
But his unrebellious slave
In this Polyphemus cave
Unresisting I attend
To the end.
G. D. H. COLE
In Factory Dirge from The Crooked World
(Victor Gollancz Ltd. 1933)
1
The Factory snarls as it eats … it rears its head above the damp of narrow streets … above the swamp of houses … it is a dinosaur … it is Tyrannosaurus Rex … it is destruction … its talons are steel … its entrails are machines … its mouth is a door …
Into it you workers take with you your youth … your smooth necks … your unlined faces … your laughter … writhe in the digestive juices of its clattering guts … through days of sunshine … through months … through years … through a life … a thousand lives … Let it suck from you the substance of your firm unblemished flesh … till lines appear … till necks have lost the clasp of creaseless skin … till hands tremble … till powder clogs congested lungs and spit is colourful …
It will get you in the end … Tyrannosaurus Rex will get you … gorged with sound it belches forth the boots you make … the boots and shoes you make … the red shoes of dancers … the heavy boots of labourers … a thousand pairs a day … A THOUSAND PAIRS A DAY …
Factory … Dinosaur … Tyrannosaurus Rex …
They sat at the table together. He was a tall man with large, broad hands. One rested on some papers lying on the table. He slowly tapped his teeth with the end of a lead-pencil.
The woman watched him. His teeth were white and strong. There was sympathy and humour in the lines around his eyes. His chin was firm and powerful, and supported with ease the sagging flesh of his throat. His lips, though sensuously heavy, met with decision.
Without moving his head he turned his eyes so that they looked into those of his companion. She met his gaze without strain, searching deep for a sign that might aid her in anticipating his requirements. She had no mind of her own where he was concerned. She reacted instinctively to the will that moved slowly and heavily behind his eyes. She was a sensitive instrument responsive to his unspoken wishes.
Her hand fell to her lap. Her silk dress clung to her large, curved thighs and fell into a depression where her slightly parted legs offered no support for the material. Her fingers moved slowly, puckering the silk beneath her hand and revealing, as the hem moved over her knee, the warm, coloured flimsiness of her underclothing.
He placed the pencil on the table, reached out his thick hand and let it rest heavily on her lap. He plucked her flesh with his fingers a moment, then suddenly rose.
‘Well, I must keep that appointment. That girl will have to go, I suppose. You tell her. And don’t forget to ring the Camberwell shop about those returns. Shake Rogers up.’
The woman had risen also. Responsive to his change of mood, the hot sleepiness of her expression had flicked from her eyes like a freed blind. She replied with brisk resolution: ‘He’ll go, too. I warned you about him when you first put him on. Walker’s wouldn’t keep him a month. They watch their managers. I told you …’
‘Do what you like with him.’
He glanced at his wristlet watch as he strode across the room. The door he flung open bore upon its glass panel in gold letters the words, ‘Frederick J. Fulsham, Managing Director’. Beneath in smaller letters was printed, ‘The Modern Shoe Co. Pty Ltd’.
When he had gone she smoothed her dress with her hands, patted her blouse with her fingers. Her chin was drawn in as she looked downwards at the curve of her tightly bound breasts. It rested on two large folds of flesh squeezed from her throat. Satisfied that there was no disarray, she opened the door.
She was in the factory. Around her the air was alive with movement. It hummed with the multitude of stimuli that fed it with sound and scent. There were tappings, knockings, rumbles … whirls and loud anguished screeches … smell of new leather and cleaning liquids … sudden calls from men and
the scrape of boots … Through it all the low whine of speeding machinery.
The packer was standing before some racks laden with shoes. He was examining. The racks ran on small castors. When he finished examining the shoes on one rack, he pushed it to one side and pulled up another in its place. There were many racks. Girls pushed them from the cleaning room. Pairs became groups; groups joined. Occasionally he raised his head and scowled at them, feeling resentment at their increase.
He subjected each shoe to a careful examination. He felt inside it with his fingers, seeking tacks. He examined the stitching, the set of the heels, the leather; decided if the shoes matched.
With one held in his hands, he watched Miss Claws leave Fulsham’s office. He kept his gaze upon her, slowly turning his head as she passed. His thumb and fingers pressed and worked the calf upper. His thumb detecting a flaw in the leather, was joined by the fingers. They moved across the flaw, estimating accurately the extent and seriousness of the damage. He tossed the shoe among some discards. He had not looked at it.
He picked up another shoe. His movements were slow, and had no place in his thoughts. His eyes were fixed on the play of flesh beneath Miss Claw’s silken dress as she walked towards her office on the other side of the factory.
Sales Manageress! Faugh!! A slow, thick hatred of her held his fingers in a sudden stillness. His shares … his five hundred shares … and his house mortgaged as security for the Modern’s overdraft … and Clyne’s house, and McCormack’s house, and hell only knows how many more houses … and she with her rotten designs that filled their stores with dead stock. Before she came the place had been a gold mine … Every one of the original hands had been issued five hundred shares … Bonuses every year … Money! Money! Lots of it … and now cut salaries and falling sales … And Fulsham buying her a car and taking her to the races … and her, ‘You don’t watch the shoes, Mr Correll. That gold kid was rubbed’ … and Fulsham calling him into the office … and she sitting there with her cunning eyes … and Fulsham, ‘You’re slipping, Jack’ … and the smoke of Fulsham’s cigarette rising in front of his face … ‘You’re slipping, Jack’ … and he with Mrs Correll’s house in the firm …. ‘What have you got to say about it, Jack?’
She did it. The pimp! The bloody pimp! What had he to say about it! To have been able to say ‘You can shove your job’ … to have been able to say, ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got a job with the Arcade at six quid a week.’ … To have been able to say, ‘She’s a bloody liar. I’m through.’ … To have had to say, ‘I’m not slipping, Mr Fulsham. Davis put in that leather. It was finished all right when I examined the shoes. But Davis must have known that it wouldn’t stand up to it. See Davis. I’ll bet he bought it at a cut price. He’s always slipping in rubbish.’
And Davis got his … And now it would be days before he could look at Davis straight.
She passed into her office. He breathed deeply. An intense desire to humble her gave him a sense of momentary fatigue.
To have her in his power — to crush her — God! Wait till the Douglas Credit was in power. They’d all have money then. He’d show her then. The Douglas Credit — A-ah!
The junior packer approached: ‘Do you know anything about this, Mr Correll? Here is an order to forward thirty pairs of RA9 to the Camberwell shop. I wondered whether I should make out the ticket. They got thirty pairs yesterday, and Andrews kicked up a fuss about it then. He reckons he can’t move them out there. They’re dead in his fixtures. Miss Claws has signed it, though.’
‘What’s this! What’s this!’ Correll seized the order. The paper rustled in his hands. His fingers lingered, caressed it. It felt good. He placed it on the bench, smoothing out the creases. He read each word and figure with keen pleasure, savouring to the full the possibilities of the error. He looked at the printing on the form; at the upright and horizontal ruling. He meditated over the signature. It was so clear, so decisive, so assured.
He straightened himself. ‘We’ve got her this time.’ He stood square on his feet. He felt well. He looked round the factory and smiled. He again read the order.
‘That’s right, son. I’ll fix this. You go on with your work. I’ll see Fulsham about this. Is he in?’
‘He just went out, I think.’
‘He’ll be back. You go on with your work. I’ll fix this.’ He folded the order carefully and placed it in his pocket.
The accountant slipped his crutches from beneath his shoulders and placed them in the corner. He sat down heavily as if his muscles had suddenly lost their power to support him. He leant back in his chair.
He had contracted infantile paralysis when he was a child. His legs swung loosely from his hips when he walked. Certain body muscles were also paralysed so that he slumped in his chair when seated. It made him appear much shorter than he was.
He smiled easily and often. He never seemed to realize he was crippled, which sometimes discomforted people. He assumed an equality with others which was accepted by his friends.
His face revealed a victory. It displayed no uncertainty — no fear.
He was accountant for both the Modern Shoe Company and the Modern Shoe Stores.
The ‘Stores’ office employed five girls. Four of them worked on card indexes. The indexes showed the position of each stock line throughout the chain stores. They were used as a reference by Miss Claws, who controlled them.
The accountant’s office on the opposite side of the factory was in the nature of a thoroughfare. Carriers passed through on their way to open the large side door before which their trucks stood ready for unloading. Travellers called, beggars, out-of-works, salesmen … A little counter with a hinged top stayed most of them.
It was suddenly raised. A girl appeared. She was short with large hips. Her buttocks moved from side to side as she walked. She wore glasses. Her name was Mary Frobisher.
Mary started work half an hour earlier than the other girls. She was the junior and had to clean the accountant’s office. During the day she worked on the card index.
‘Good morning, Mr McCormack.’
‘Good morning, Mary.’
She placed her bag on the desk. She hung her coat and hat on a peg. The accountant sharpened a pencil. He held the pencil over a wastepaper basket, but the curled pieces of wood fell on the floor. He leant down and with pursed lips blew them away.
Mary had opened her bag. She looked intently into a small mirror. Her face bore a strained expression. She slapped her cheeks with a loose puff. Powder floated in the air.
‘George took me to Luna Park last night.’
‘Go on! Did he? Have a good time?’
‘Oo — great! But doesn’t it cost money? George spent over ten shillings. George doesn’t mind, though. Laugh! … We kept putting pennies in those machines — You know. You know where they tell you your fortunes. Some of them are good. Wait till I show you mine. George reckons it’s good. It is good. I’m going to keep it.’
She fumbled in her bag. She brought forth a small oblong card with a green border. One corner was smeared with lipstick.
‘Just look at that!’ She rubbed the card against the palm of her hand. She handed the card to the accountant. She looked searchingly through her bag. She placed a gold coloured cap over the lipstick and closed the bag with a snap.
‘Well, what do you think of it?’
The accountant was reading:
My Dear Friend,
According to your birthdate you were born in the 9th House of the Zodiac. You have an honest, ingenuous nature, a very, very generous heart, and will do anything for anyone, and at anytime without any thought of reward. Trouble from your liver is indicated, also the stomach, hips and thighs. Take plenty of exercise and snatch a few minutes daily for rest alone. What a wonderful personality in the surgical world you would be.
You have even impressed this mechanism with your personality. It is a pleasure to analyse you. There are no short comings.
All rights reserved.
&nb
sp; Prof. Renerb.
The accountant turned the card over and looked at the back. He reversed it and read it through again.
‘Hm,’ he said. He suddenly raised his head and smiled at her. He handed the card back.
‘It’s good.’
‘Yes, it is good, isn’t it; George thinks it’s good.’ She tossed her head to straighten her hair. ‘Goodness, I must hurry.’
She bustled about the office dusting and moving chairs. The accountant commenced checking a bundle of clicking dockets.
‘I was in at George’s last night for a while.’
‘Oh, yes! George has a new stepmother, hasn’t he? How does he like her? What do you think of her?’
‘Oh! I like her. She likes me, too. She’s real young. George likes her. She’s funny, though. She kisses George good-bye and everything.’
‘She must be fond of George.’
‘She likes him; but she bosses him. That’s silly. George just takes it. He says he doesn’t want to start rows. After his father leaves for work she gets George his breakfast. George doesn’t start work till nine. She chips him about being out late with me, and that; and lifts her finger and says, “Now, now,” and things like that. I said to George, “we don’t stop out very late. Others stop out till after twelve.” George says not to take any notice of her.’
The accountant looked thoughtfully at his pencil. He turned it round and round in his fingers. Mary moved the electric kettle from beneath his table. She said, ‘One of us will get killed with this kettle some day. I read in the paper the other night about a woman getting killed with an electric iron. It’s terrible. You can’t let go or anything.’
The accountant looked down at the kettle. It was heavily dinted. The wooden knob of the lid was missing.
‘Yes, it doesn’t look too safe, does it?’
A carrier appeared at the counter. He leant over to unfasten the catch. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. He had large brown arms. His leather apron was patched and worn. His face was shrunken as if it had been punctured.
‘Can I go through?’
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 1
