How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  ‘Good morning.’

  He swayed towards her from the hips like an ape, as if not to miss her words. He returned to an erect position against the wall. He watched her wistfully as she gathered the money and lifted the box to place on the counter. He gathered his loose lips preparing them for his daily remark.

  ‘Bonza mornin’, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. It’s going to be hot, though.’ She smiled at him.

  He fumbled the box. His heart-was pounding. He gathered the box to him. He clasped his arms around it as if it were a support.

  He raised his face. She was still looking at him with steady brown eyes.

  She said gently, ‘The box is rather awkward to carry.’

  He did not reply. His helpless glance almost hurt with its weight of wordless feeling. His lips moved uselessly. He walked clumsily out, clasping his box.

  2

  The clicking room comes first … they stand before specially prepared boards of soft wood and sweep their curved and pointed knives around the galvanized iron patterns placed on the skin … they stand side by side … they do not look up when you enter … they have to cut four hundred pairs a day at the Modern Shoe … they do not speak to each other … they have no time for a quick draw … no smoking here … fling the skin on the board … grasp it in your fingers … pull to see the direction of the stretch … place your pattern so that the grain on the vamp will meet the pull of the lasting without give … round with the knife … watch your fingers … blood from a gash spoils the leather … keep going … don’t cut beyond the pattern … keep in … keep in … that little gash at the end of the stroke means waste … you can’t lay your pattern plumb with the edge, if the leather is gashed … remember that all these little odd shaped pieces of leather are to be sewn together by machinists to form the uppers of shoes … and there must be no flaws in the upper … but there are flaws in the skin … miss the flaws … cut round the flaws … but no waste, curse you, no waste … use your brains … you are a clicker … clickers are superior … clickers wear a collar and lie …

  Swiftly men … thrust the spike that projects from the edge of your knife’s handle through the little holes in the pattern … those little pricks are to guide the machinist … but God Almighty, they’ll never see those marks … the light … the artificial light … the strain on the eyes … and suede … they might be hard to see in suede but they are plain in patent … anyway that’s none of your business … you are a clicker … you are paid four pounds one per week to make little odd-shaped pieces of leather … you are nothing else but a clicker … those little odd-shaped pieces of leather leave you … they go on … they are grouped in bundles and go on to the machine room … forget them … you are a clicker, they go on …

  The machine room is an oven.. the iron roof is just above your head … and the girls with curved backs sitting in rows on old stools … the long benches and the black machines like heathen idols hungry for sacrifice … and girls that lay their hands upon them … that lay their small hands, their large hands, upon them … or their fat hands, cheapringed … or hands that tremble … or old hands that should be resting on laps … or hands that weep … or hands, confident, untiring … and fingers that dart and manipulate … that control … that get covered with the blackness of box leather … that dip between breasts for handkerchiefs whereon to wipe the sweat that beads the forehand.

  These hot days, and only a leaky bath at home … and the forewoman hovering … hovering … hovering … and the forewoman hovering … and Creepy Clynes and the forewoman hovering … and buzz and whir and flap of unguarded belts … and stink of armpit sweat … and buzz and whir … and against your knee the press that raises the wheel to release the upper … let it down … br-r-r-r-r.. At is an approaching wind … it rises … rises … the floor trembles … the bench vibrates … there are a hundred machines … the tortured leather writhes from the savagery of needles … and the Perforator and the bang-bang, bang … and the bang-bang, bang … and the confetti of leather for the worn shoes upon your feet to trample on and Skivers that shear the edge of leather so that they can be beaded … and Post Trimmers that sew the upper to the lining and with thin, narrow knives trim the lining level with the sewn edge …

  It is hot in the machine room … it is terribly hot in the machine room with a north wind blowing … and Elly Vickers can do four hundred pair a day on the Binder … over a pair a minute on the Binder … Elly is a star … two bob week extra for Elly … watch her girls … watch Elly on the Binder.

  And Vera is a star … a vamper must be good … she sews the backs to the vamp and the upper is complete … Vera is a plain machinist no longer … She is a vamper … three bob a week extra for her … and she started like you, Tessie … at fourteen years old she was sewing linings … keep at it, Tessie … in eight years you will be a vamper at two pounds five a week like Vera … won’t your mother be pleased? …

  Biddy Freeman worked the Fortuna Skiving Machine.

  Skiving pares the edges of the leather pieces to a paper thinness. The shaved edge is then smeared with glue by beginners, after which the Beading Machine folds it over and cements it down so that no raw edges spoil the appearance of the completed shoe.

  Biddy had been working the Fortuna Skiver for ten years. She had started work when she was fifteen years old.

  She commenced work at seven forty-five and finished at five fifteen. She had three-quarters of an hour for lunch. She was allowed to go to the lavatory during the day, but not too often. She was paid two guineas a week.

  She was short, slim and dainty. Her flesh was firm. She did not wear brassieres or wrap-ons. She had dark-blue, expressive eyes that issued a mischievous, smiling challenge. In repose, a faintly mocking smile was always present on her lips. Her soft, wavy hair was constantly entangled with the light from the window before which she worked.

  She dressed well. Her clothes were designed to show off her figure to the best advantage, yet she walked as if she were unconscious of them. She used cosmetics lavishly and had been with many men, yet a sweetness of disposition and a strange cleanliness of mind lived in the air around her.

  She heard the pad, pad of his crutches as he mounted the stairs. For a flash her face became serious and intent. Then her expression softened.

  She worked with greater speed. Yet her movements from being mechanical had become conscious. The pieces of leather did not slide beneath the arm with the same inevitable continuity. Some pieces wavered; others came through with the pale skived edge too wide.

  When the accountant entered, he walked to a desk used by one of the girls for checking the orders as they came through from the clicking room. The desk was close to Biddy’s machine. There was a bench beside the desk. Upon the bench were bundles of pieces waiting to be skived. The girl who did the checking placed them there. She had finished this task and was helping the forewoman tally the completed uppers at the other end of the room.

  Biddy did not always wait for the forewoman to keep her supplied with work. She often made trips to the bench herself.

  She left her machine. The accountant waited. She made no attempt to conceal her motive for walking to the bench each time he worked at the desk. She stood by all her actions. She had an entire disregard for subterfuge.

  They looked at each other, smiling. Their regard contained no strain. It was eloquent and expressed an absolute accord of inclination. It questioned and answered and was delighted with the answer. The accountant’s fingers remained motionless on the lifted leaf of a book. Biddy moved bundles of leather unnecessarily.

  The accountant looked down at his book and turned the leaves. He spoke to her with his head slightly on one side, his mouth inclined towards her.

  ‘Thanks ever so much for those scones. I’m really going to enjoy my lunch today. I think it was great of you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me till you have eaten them.’

  ‘You are not trying to poison me, are you?’


  ‘Oh, no, Mister McCormack!’ She spoke with mock seriousness, the ‘Mister’ slightly emphasized. She looked sideways at him. Her eyes were laughing and mischievous.

  She moved closer, and looking down at the bundles of leather, said, ‘I found out that you are not married.’

  ‘But I told you I wasn’t.’

  ‘But I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘Who told you this time?’

  ‘Oh, I just found out.’

  ‘Well, are you pleased, now that you know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How about meeting me one night?’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes, certainly. When can I meet you?’

  ‘Oh, any time —’

  ‘What about tomorrow night, then?’

  ‘That will do. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Anywhere you wish. Wherever it is convenient for you. Where do you live?’

  ‘In Wellington Street.’

  ‘Well, I’ll meet you on the corner of Wellington and Johnston Streets at a quarter to eight.’

  ‘You won’t slip me up?’

  ‘I don’t slip people up.’

  ‘You don’t look as if you would.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Their eyes skirmished with each other above smiles.

  ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Thanks again for those scones.’

  He met Clynes coming from the pump room.

  ‘How are we going?’ said Clynes, stopping him. ‘Are we making any money?’

  ‘We’re holding our own,’ said the accountant.

  ‘I don’t know what this place is coming to,’ said Clynes. ‘What with Rickety Kate running things. What do you think of her?’

  ‘She’s got her points, I suppose,’ said the accountant, evasively.

  Clynes laughed sourly. ‘Yes; we know what they are. You can’t run a business lying on your back.’

  ‘Depends on the business,’ said the accountant, dryly, looking at the hands of one of the machinists as they adjusted a needle. They made quick movements. A diamond ring glittered beneath the cardboard-shaded light, above her head. ‘I wonder who she’s engaged to.’ He looked at her face. ‘She’s not bad, either.’ She raised her eyes. He smiled at her. His smile had a shy, faltering quality as if he were suddenly afraid of being thought too forward.

  The factory manager was looking at the floor. He was frowning and biting his underlip.

  ‘I’d like to see her kicked out of here. Are our houses safe?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You needn’t worry over them. But look, I wanted to see you about the pump room. They lost three pounds last week. Is Clarkson easing up?’

  ‘It’s not Clarkson. He’s the best foreman we’ve got. It’s her. She orders everything on the one last at the one time. Why doesn’t she break up her orders? Why doesn’t she study the factory? We haven’t got the lasts. I told Fulsham, but what can you say against her? He’s got me in the gun now because I told him she was a fool. And I’ll tell him again, too. I’m not frightened of him or her.’

  ‘Have you got those pump room figures on you now?’ asked the accountant. ‘I’ll have to go over them again.’

  Clynes handed him a slip of paper.

  ‘I’ll see you later about them,’ said the accountant. He swung towards the stairs.

  Clynes looked around the machine room biting his underlip. The girls worked furiously.

  In the office, Miss Claws was waiting.

  ‘Have you seen Clynes about, Mr McCormack?’

  ‘Yes, he’s upstairs.’

  ‘That man will drive me mad. I don’t know why Mr Fulsham keeps him on. I don’t take any notice of what he says, now. I’ll tell him off properly one of these days. He tried to bounce me on Friday. He thinks he knows everything.’

  The accountant sat down.

  ‘Are the Shoes coming through crook?’

  ‘They’re terrible. The machining’s awful and I can’t get my orders. I keep telling Mr Fulsham. Wiley & Hale are putting it all over us. Clynes takes five weeks to deliver. I order a new design and they’re out of date when I get them. You’ve got to be in on the start. The man’s mad. Where is he? Upstairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stopped half-way to the door.

  ‘Get me a girl will you, Mr McCormack? A smart girl. I put Miss Davey off. She’s a dope. Could you get one for tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good-o.’ She went out.

  The accountant looked at Miss Trueman over his shoulder.

  ‘It was Miss Davey after all.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Feet scraped on the passage way.

  A woman’s face, smiling broadly, appeared from behind the door. It was shining and moist with sweat. She heaved with her body and raised the baby higher in her arms. She drew a deep breath, projected her lips and blew through them with accompanying sounds of distress.

  She sat the baby on the counter. It looked calm and cool. It surveyed the accountant intently with large, blue eyes.

  The woman pushed her hat back from her brow and wiped her forehead with a handkerchief she had taken from her bag. She continued blowing through her heavy lips. She made primitive animal sounds.

  ‘My God, it’s hot.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said the accountant.

  The baby still watched him. It lifted his hand and placed a finger in its mouth. It did it slowly as if the action warranted deep thought.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘This girl should have started here this morning.’ She indicated with a gesture someone hidden from his sight.

  ‘Who?’ asked the accountant. He leaned forward.

  A young girl stepped self-consciously into view and stood before him. She was about eighteen years old. Her mouth dropped slightly at the corners. As she looked at the accountant, her mind slipped away to a world of her own creating, then jerked back to reality just as quickly. She had a beautiful figure. Her soft, rounded body, and the impression that she would be unable to resist any attempt on her virginity, had a disquietening effect. In profile, her face was beautiful.

  ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’ asked the accountant; ‘Why didn’t she start?’

  ‘I had to go into town to get permission for her to work under the wage. The man told me. You know … She’s had no experience. I couldn’t get it Saturday.’

  ‘I’ll ring through for the manager. Just wait a moment.’

  He pressed the buzzer. The baby took its finger from its mouth and held it poised motionlessly. It looked at the accountant with an expression of consternation. Its finger was very wet. The accountant looked away and frowned at the ledger.

  The woman shook herself and plucked at her blouse and skirt as if releasing the material from cohesion with wet flesh. She blew through her lips.

  The accountant looked at the baby from the corner of his eye.

  It had accepted the buzzer and replaced its finger. Its expression was contemplative. The accountant lifted his pencil and read the printing on its side. He tapped it on the desk. He was conscious that the baby had removed its finger.

  The girl standing beside the fat woman, moved on her feet. The woman said to her, ‘Have you got threepence on you? I’ll go home by the tram. It’s so hot.’

  The accountant drew lines on a piece of paper. He rested his head against the receiver of the phone. He suddenly lifted his head and looked the baby in the eyes. A smile slowly began to form around its mouth. But its eyes were still a little fearful.

  ‘I shouldn’t have worn this frock,’ said the woman.

  ‘I told you,’ said the girl.

  ‘Send Mr Clynes down.’ The accountant spoke into the receiver. At his change of interest, the smile left the baby’s mouth.

  The accountant hung up the receiver and picked up his pen abstractedly. He began to write, but suddenly looking up, he smiled at the baby.

  It was astounded and looked at him unbel
ievingly.

  The mother became conscious of his interest. She suddenly felt very fond of the baby.

  She murmured and patted it and said, ‘The pet.’

  ‘It’s heavy carrying a baby,’ she said. ‘It’s so hot.’

  She turned and looked at the road and the hot sunlight. Her features twisted into an expression of suffering.

  The accountant looked from the mother to the child. It reached out a little wet hands towards him.

  ‘Babies are a tie, you know,’ said the mother.

  She lifted it and with various pats, pulls and smoothing of creases made the baby appear more presentable.

  The baby accepted this philosophically.

  ‘Here is the manager now,’ said the accountant.

  Clynes walked in.

  The mother began to explain. She made the girl a party to the discussion by encompassing sweeps of her hand —’ Leila Hale — you remember …’

  The baby looked at the accountant while they talked. It made jerky, spasmodic signs with its hands.

  ‘Can she start now?’ asked the manager.

  ‘Go with the man, Leila. Yes, of course she can.’

  The girl hesitated.

  ‘Good-bye, dear. Now, work hard for the man.’

  The girl followed the manager into the factory.

  The mother tucked at her sleeves and stretched out her arms as if about to engage in a wrestling bout.

  She lifted the baby so that its chest rested against her shoulder. It looked behind her. It wore its ‘going for a walk’ expression and sucked its hand contentedly. As it passed, bobbing on her shoulder, through the door and out on the street, it withdrew its hand from its mouth and raised it in the air. A thin strand of saliva joined its thumb and first finger. It smiled at the accountant and called, ‘Da-Da.’

  The accountant sat biting his pen and looking at the wall.

  He suddenly smiled and said to Miss Trueman:

  ‘I wish I had half a dozen children.’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  He laughed and seized the phone. He dialled a number.

  ‘Every time I look at Clynes,’ said Miss Trueman, ‘I think, Gee, he looks like a fat boot! He couldn’t be anything else but a boot factory manager.’