How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

‘No-o-o-. I don’t know. I could stand it, if it healed again, and left no mark.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll try it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better not.’

  She cuddled into him. ‘You’re trembling.’

  ‘Yes. Absurd, isn’t it? I want to take you, but it would look too much as if I brought you out for that purpose. I asked you to come out with me because I knew I would like your company. Will you come up to my room one night next week?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, softly.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Ron Hughes was beginning to get impatient.

  ‘Don’t, don’t.’ Leila was half crying.

  Her blouse was unfastened. Her throat was spangled with black leaves projected by a light behind the tree. He bent and kissed it. He could hear her heart thumping beneath her ribs. Her eyes were closed. She was breathing swiftly through distended nostrils. Her face was white and set, as if moulded in clay. Her rigidity was powerless against his male strength …

  She breathed a soft cry of anguish and ceased resisting.

  ‘Lie with your head on my lap so that I can stroke your hair,’ said Biddy.

  ‘A man in that position, always looks a fool to me,’ said the accountant. ‘He seems to have lost initiative. I’m more for action myself. Anyway, let’s try k.’

  He stretched himself on the ground. ‘The young man lay with his head against her belly,’ he said.

  ‘That sounds horrible. Don’t talk like that.’

  The accountant laughed to himself. ‘It does sound horrible, doesn’t it? Anyway, what else am I doing?’

  ‘You’re lying with your head on my lap.’

  ‘Lap,’ repeated the accountant. ‘Lap. That’s a hell of a word, too, and this is a hell of a position.’

  She curved over his face, looking down at him. Her head was gigantic against the sky. It hid a hundred stars. Her black bobbed hair hung round her face like a rent curtain. The parted strands were rifts in darkness.

  She came down to his mouth. He was lost in black fragrance. He closed his eyes. Lips pressed his mouth and lifted, pressed it again, moved across his face. His eyelids quivered to their soft, insistent pleading. He raised his arms seeking security.

  ‘Steady,’ he said. ‘Steady.’

  ‘You’ll be all right. What’s the good of crying about it?’ He placed his foot on a strand of wire, making a larger opening for her to get through.

  On the other side he placed his arm around her waist. She dried her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes it does,’ she said with a catch in her voice.

  She stopped suddenly and faced him. Her hands grasped his coat lapels. ‘We’re really married now. I did it because I love you. You love me too, don’t you?’ Her eyes searched his.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He evaded her glance.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said.

  He looked along the street. He bent and kissed her. She clung to him with spiritual exaltation.

  ‘It’s not wicked when we love each other.’

  ‘It’s only natural,’ he said.

  ‘We love each other,’ she whispered, inspired.

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’ He was impatient. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Hop in,’ said the accountant.

  He closed the door of the car. He hummed as he walked round to the other side.

  ‘Are you a flirt?’ asked Biddy, as he got in beside her.

  ‘Yes. Something awful. Aren’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I am,’ she said, wistfully.

  ‘You go seriously with one of your boy friends, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, don’t look so sad about it. Being in love is good fun.’

  ‘Is that all you see in it, just fun?’

  ‘That’s all I choose to see in it,’ he said.

  ‘For always?’

  ‘No. Not for always. I love children. I’d like to have at least half a dozen.’

  Biddy was silent.

  Crossing a street, he said, ‘Haifa dozen about the one age.’

  7

  It was a quarter to nine when the accountant arrived at the office next morning.

  ‘Has that new girl arrived yet — what’s her name? — Miss Beveridge.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I took her over to the other office. She’s waiting. She’s nice. I like her.’

  ‘What section of the cards was Miss Davis working on?’

  ‘Camberwell and Elsternwick. I think Miss Claws is going to start this girl on Camberwell.’

  ‘Miss Claws won’t be in for a day or two.’

  Mary looked pleased.

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll start her on Camberwell. Help her as much as you can this morning. Don’t touch those papers on my table. Dust around them.’

  The accountant walked over to the stores office. Freda Beveridge was sitting on a chair looking with interest at the rows of cabinets before her.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the accountant.

  ‘Good morning, Mr McCormack.’

  ‘Draw your chair over here, will you please. I’ll explain the work you are to do. Miss Claws, who controls the cabinets, will not be in for a few days.’

  Freda rose and shifted her chair.

  ‘You may hang your hat and coat on the hook here.’

  She was dressed in green. Her skin was smooth and unblemished.

  Sadness touched the accountant’s face for a moment. ‘That chair seems a little low. Try this one.’

  She sat down. An exhalation of warmth troubled the air around her. (I should never have engaged this girl.)

  ‘Each card in this cabinet represents a stock line carried by our Camberwell shop …”

  Sometimes his hand touched hers. (What in the hell is wrong with me.) His voice went on and on. (My voice sounds odd — disassociated.)

  “Have you grasped all that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr McCormack.’ She lifted her face and smiled into his eyes.

  He drew a breath and said: ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you come up against anything that puzzles you, come across and I’ll explain it to you. Later in the morning I will check your work.’

  Seated in his office, he rested his chin on his clasped hands. He sat motionless, looking at his crutches against the wall.

  For years I fought to forget those things — to act as if they never existed, and I succeeded. I have gone in where angels fear to tread. But was I wise, I wonder? Others were conscious of them. That girl would be. Should I always remember this.

  He rubbed his forehead up and down against his thumb nails. As you value yourself, so will people value you.

  Psychiatrists have explanations for my need of women, other than that of sex, he thought. Whether it affords a soul-satisfying compensation for the inferiority engendered by being crippled, doesn’t very much matter. It is no crime. There is nothing to be ashamed of in seeking compensation. It is not abnormal. I have a psychological necessity that makes me want to rise superior to my handicap. It drives me into the field exclusively held by the unaffiicted. I strive to become perfect in the very department I am least fitted for. I could sit in my room and study. I could become a scholar. I could devote my life to study; but there would always be the crutches in the corner.

  I have always sought success in those spheres that are supposed to be closed to us. I pursue women … and here, where success is valued among men, I strive the hardest.

  Am I seeing in every woman a challenge to my self-esteem? Am I developing into a woman-obsessed, would-be Casanova subconsciously, doubtful of my virility and striving to vindicate it by demonstrating its existence in a feverish search for conquests? Surely not. Say a gladiator, rather, poorly armed, but choosing to pick the opponent that offers the most formidable opposition, in order to preserve his pride in himself.

  The accountant smiled, thin-lipped, and lifted his shoulders.

  On with the fight. No matter the explana
tion. Never become beaten. The fewer men the greater share of honour, the greater the handicap, the sweeter the victory.

  I’ll take that girl out.

  The three of them sat at Fulsham’s table. The accountant arranged papers before him. Mr Fulsham leant back in his chair watching him. Miss Claws, on Fulsham’s right, gazed frowningly at her finger nails. She rubbed them on her sleeve, then looked at them again. She suddenly rested her hands on her lap and gave her attention to the two men. She did not remain thus for long. She glanced at her dress, then down at her legs. She crossed her legs. When she raised her head her expression was less petulant. She had walked into the office that afternoon and enquired from the accountant: ‘Is Mr Fulsham in?’ She had sat with Fulsham in his office, arguing and sometimes weeping. She had now reached a stage of calm confidence. Her eyes were still a little red.

  ‘Clynes is a long time,’ said Fulsham.

  ‘The consol broke down. He won’t be long,’ said the accountant.

  They waited.

  There was a knock. Clynes walked in. The accountant pushed a chair towards him.

  He sat down opposite Miss Claws. ‘We’ve got it going.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fulsham. ‘Now, Mr McCormack.’

  The accountant drew his chair closer to the table. ‘I will leave the details of this report till later, when we can discuss them separately’, he began. ‘The result, however, emphasises the increasing seriousness of the position. We have discussed the actual figures at previous meetings, so it is unnecessary to go into all that again. You will remember we decided to see if this month showed any improvement. It has not. The position is worse. We have now reached the stage where it is either a matter of increasing prices, which brings us above the price range of our competitors, or reducing manufacturing costs, which may affect our quality. In any case, there will have to be drastic cuts in overhead if we wish to survive. Our overhead over the last six months worked out at one and sixpence per pair, and we’ve been allowing ninepence. At the rate we are going, we will be bankrupt in six months.’

  He stopped and looked at Fulsham. There was silence.

  ‘What are the wages?’ asked Fulsham.

  ‘Three eighty.’

  ‘And the output?’

  ‘Two thousand five hundred.’

  ‘The wages are too high altogether. There is something wrong there, Clynes.’

  ‘That figure includes salaries too, doesn’t it?’ asked Clynes, significantly, of the accountant.

  ‘Yes,’ said the accountant. ‘It is the total amount paid each week, though, of course, all salaries go to overhead in the books.’

  ‘We must reduce our hands,’ said Fulsham, impatiently. ‘Let us start at the clicking room. Give the room’s output, then name the employee. Those we keep on will have to be speeded up.’ He addressed Clynes: ‘You are not getting the work out of them you should. You can decide which ones are to go off, but the output must be kept at its present figure. Now, Mr McCormack.’

  The accountant took the wages book. He commenced reading a list of names. After each name he paused, looking at Clynes. Clynes fidgeted. ‘Here, I’ll do it,’ said Fulsham, exasperated. The accountant continued. Fulsham signified those to be discharged by calling, ‘out’. The accountant recorded the name on a slip of paper.

  Miss Claws watched them with her chin on her hands.

  ‘Douglas, four pounds one,’ read the accountant.

  ‘That’s the man who spoilt those silver kid shoes, Mr Fulsham,’ said Miss Claws.

  ‘He’s a good man,’ snarled Clynes. ‘He wasn’t the only one to blame for that lot.’

  ‘Put him off,’ said Fulsham.

  A smile touched the accountant’s lips.

  When they had finished he looked at the list a little grimly. There’ll be some weeping wives this week. He handed the list to Clynes in silence.

  ‘We want more machines,’ reflected Fulsham, aloud.

  ‘We haven’t got the capital,’ said the accountant.

  ‘Overhead, now,’ said Fulsham. ‘What expenses do you think could be cut?’

  ‘Motor expenses for a start. The running of the cars is costing us twelve pounds a week at present.’

  ‘What else?’

  Clynes shuffled petulantly.

  ‘There is too much waste in the factory,’ continued the accountant. ‘I notice that leather has been purchased for which we have no need.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Those hundred and fifty crocs; that consignment of gold kid; that lot of Garagoya lizards — practically all wasted. We haven’t got the money to speculate on uncertainties.’

  ‘They’re all good lines,’ broke in Miss Claws. ‘Look at the prices we get for them, Mr Fulsham.’

  ‘Yes, but how many do you sell?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘We’re selling a lot,’ she snapped at him.

  ‘The dockets don’t show it.’

  She was silent, fuming.

  Clynes couldn’t suppress it. ‘Miss Claws asked for that lot of leather. Now it’s lying idle.’

  ‘I did no such thing.’

  ‘This is not going to get us anywhere,’ growled Fulsham. ‘It will have to be made up and jobbed out if we can’t get the price. Put on an order for a range in each lot, Miss Claws. Try them out in Camberwell. Andrews will move them if anyone can. He is a star.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clynes, afraid of his remark, but forced to express the general resentment smouldering in him.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘He is always picking faults with our work ‘

  ‘I think you over-value your work.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ His tone was irritating. ‘I’ve got eyes.

  I’ve seen other work. He doesn’t try to push our best shoes. He sells the cheaper stuff. It’s easier.’

  ‘That’s just what he doesn’t do. You concern yourself with the factory management,’ Fulsham said angrily. ‘Andrews is all right. His complaint about your finish was justified. Look at this finish,’ he took a shoe from the table beside him. ‘That’s one of Wiley and Hales. That’s the finish I want.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how to get that finish,’ said Clynes, sitting forward. ‘Fine kid. What’s more, I’ll make a pair and show you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see one pair made from the pick of the skin. I want all our shoes to have that finish. We want a man that knows something, over the cleaning room.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Someone that can get these results.’

  ‘What do you mean, results?’

  ‘Get that finish,’ roared Fulsham, banging the table.

  ‘I’m telling you I know how they get it. Finer kid. If you will cut up rotten kid, you’ll never get the finish. If I bring up a higher lustre on our stuff it will crack. That’s the trouble with dressings; they always crack. Creams sink into the leather, but don’t bring it up as well. You can do it with fine kid, but coarse kid wears better. If you will only use fine kid I could back it with swansdown.’

  Fulsham drew a breath. He tapped the shoe with a threatening finger and said, ‘You will get that finish or I will find someone who will.’

  Clynes gathered himself to reply.

  ‘Now about these expenses,’ said Fulsham to the accountant.

  The accountant continued reading his list.

  ‘Well, see that those cuts are made,’ said Fulsham, later. ‘Is there anything else before I go?’

  ‘There are the final reports from the Justice Investigation Company on their last visit to our Richmond shop,’ said the accountant, ‘It bears out the results of their earlier visits. I’ll give you a summary of their findings.’

  The accountant spread a large document before him. It bore provision for a detailed description of the salesman or woman who had served the investigator with shoes. The employee’s manner and sales ability were commented on: the conversation that occurred between them was given, and, finally,
a list of the footwear purchased with prices paid was detailed at the foot of the form.

  The Justice Investigation Company guaranteed to reveal any defalcations of cash in the shops they were commissioned to visit and also to supply proof of the dishonesty of the persons responsible. For this they charged five guineas for every shop investigated, with a proviso that they were to be paid fifty per cent of any stolen money refunded by those they proved guilty of thieving.

  The shoes and other articles they purchased on their visits were returned to the head office, together with the dockets made out for their sales. In cases where no docket was supplied, the omission was noted in their report.

  The document before the accountant described a ‘dark, energetic man,’ with a ‘blue tie, tidy appearance and hair brushed straight back.’

  ‘That’s Carlson,’ said Miss Claws, excitedly. She leant forward in her chair.

  The accountant continued reading. The salesman’s manner was described as ‘casual’, and it was noted that he ‘gazed at his finger nails’, while the investigator was trying on a pair of shoes. His conversation was recorded.

  On one visit, a docket was given with the purchase. On another, no docket was made out for the boots obtained. A third visit resulted in a docket for a pair of slippers bought, but a jar of cream purchased at the same time was not shown with the other entry.

  ‘I have checked the sales lists handed in by Carlson each day,’ continued the accountant, ‘and find that, on the first day, the investigator visited him, his return shows a shortage of ten shillings; on the next day, a shortage of fifteen and six, and, on the third day, a shortage of a shilling.’

  The accountant pushed the form to one side and addressed Fulsham. His voice was fuller. It shook a little.

  ‘Now let me tell you how that shortage came about. Carlson has kept that money,’ he thrust his head pugnaciously forward, ‘but our method of detecting it is equally as dishonest as his crime in keeping it. I have made enquiries around the shops we are paying them to visit, and their methods are always the same. Take this case. On the first day, the investigator buys a pair of shoes for two pounds, and the return for that sale, handed in by Carlson shows it at thirty shillings — a difference of ten shillings. The correct price of that shoe is thirty shillings. The investigator knows that. He knows it is the most expensive man’s shoe we have, but he keeps asking, “Haven’t you got a more expensive pair?” Not a better pair, mind you; but a more expensive pair. Since it is our policy to encourage the taking of “overs” from innocent customers,’—he looked at Miss Claws — ‘You will recollect that all your girls are paid commission on the amounts they obtain over the listed price. Since it is our policy to encourage this, Carlson gets another pair of the same line and tells him it is a better quality shoe for two pounds.