‘The investigator snaps it and Carlson keeps the extra.
‘On the second visit, this thief discoverer won’t wait for a docket. No, he hasn’t got time. “I don’t want a docket, thanks. I must catch a train.” So Carlson finds himself with fifteen and six in his hand and no record of it. He keeps it.
‘On the third visit, Carlson makes out a docket for the slippers. The investigator rises to go but he suddenly thinks of creams: “Oh! I forgot. A couple of jars of cream.” He doesn’t wait to have them added to his docket and Carlson pockets the shilling.
‘Carlson is dishonest. I cannot excuse him for that. But we are equally to blame. We encourage it. We encourage them to get more for their shoes than their list price, and we expect them to hand the proceeds of the robbery to us. What can you expect?’
The accountant gestured with an open hand and sank back in his chair.
‘I think it’s awful,’ burst in Miss Claws. ‘Thieving like that. We’ll sack him. You can’t trust anybody.’
Fulsham was gazing at the accountant.
‘I don’t like your tone, Mr McCormack,’ he said.
The accountant looked up and said, dryly, ‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘You will have to be careful,’ went on Fulsham.
‘Yes, I will,’ agreed the accountant, pleasantly.
‘You go round the shops this afternoon, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pick up Carter from the Swanston Street shop and bring him out to Richmond to take over. Put Carlson off straight away. Get him to sign a declaration stating the amount he has stolen since we have employed him. Arrange for him to pay it back. If he refuses to sign or admit to other thefts, put it in the hands of the police.’
‘Well, that’s the lot, I think. You can go — wait here, Miss Claws.’
‘I’m going to sack Carlson,’ said the accountant.
Miss Trueman raised her head. She looked out of the window in silence.
‘You checked all those dockets again, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, now he’s for it, poor beggar. I’ll be in Swanston Street for a while. Ring the shop there if you want me.’
‘What will you say?’
‘Say! What will I say. He’s a thief, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose he is, but he is not, really. How many men could resist keeping an “over” now and then?’
‘Not many. I suppose they think they have as much right to it as the firm. Where is my damned case?’ The accountant’s nerves were on edge.
Miss Trueman smiled at him. She handed him the case which had been lying beneath her table.
‘Thanks,’ he grinned. ‘I hate sacking people,’ he explained.
‘Yes, it must be horrible. It should always be done sitting down.’
‘Why? How do you mean?’
‘Well, the one sitting always seems to have more authority. If I had to sack anyone, I’d do it first thing in the morning, and sitting down. When you sack them at night it seems as if it is impulsive; but first thing in the morning makes it look as though you have thought over it all night.’
‘Hm …’ pondered the accountant.
He looked thoughtfully at the picture of the Duke of Gloucester.
‘Yes. Well, I must be going. I’ll be back before five. Hoorroo.’
The accountant walked out to his car, whistling.
He drove down Hoddle Street. Cumulus clouds, riding fast, moved from behind factory roofs, following hard behind their fleeting shadows on the ground. A flight of pigeons wheeled high above his car, then dropped rapidly to the shelter of cramped sheds in damp back yards. A little dog on the curb stood motionless, ears pricked, one front foot raised, looking with interest at a dog on the opposite curb.
The accountant’s car sped between them. Behind him the little dog crossed the street, tail wagging.
A coatless man on a cycle pushed against the wind, his silk shirt sleeves fluttering in a blur of movement. He passed into the shelter of a factory. His sleeves hung loosely.
The accountant pressed the accelerator. He thought of the man he had to sack. ‘I’ll walk in unsmiling. I’ll walk straight to his office. He will be in the shop. As I get to the door I’ll turn, “Just a minute, Mr Carlson.” I’ll look steadily at him as he walks towards me. I’ll stand aside and let him enter the office first. I’ll push him a chair. “Take a chair Carlson.” I’ll look severe. I’ll take the dockets from my pocket. I’ll— (Carlson, once you gave me a bunch of flowers for my room. You had grown them yourself. We looked at them together. I was holding them.) I’ll look severe … I’ll …’
He pulled up to a policeman’s hand. I wonder whose boots he is wearing? If every policeman wore Modern Shoe Co’s three-deckers we’d be on velvet. He let in the clutch. He turned into Victoria Street.
In front of the Modern Shoe Company’s Swanston Street shop he stopped the car and alighted. People hurried past him as he stood on the curb … crowds of people. Women with bags, dragging tired children … men striding strongly. Now, through them to the door. The crowd broke each side of him as though he was stranded jetsam in a tide race.
He reached the door and entered the shop. Girls in green uniforms stood or knelt before seated people. They smiled at those they attended. When they turned away to reach for more boxes on the shelves behind them the smile had gone, and their faces were serious and sometimes tired. But when they turned and knelt again, the smile was there.
And Gerald Furness, the manager, strode to and fro and saw that the smile was there. And women stood up and pressed their foot on the floor and lifted their dresses with their hands and looked down at their foot and said ‘I don’t know, I’m sure …’
The accountant walked among them and entered the cash desk. A tall girl with light-brown hair rose from her stool, smiling.
She is beautiful, thought the accountant. He smiled to himself — they are all beautiful.
He said ‘I bring great tidings of good joy, or good tidings of great joy, or whatever you like.’
He took a number of coins from his pocket and placed them on the desk. ‘Three and four pence,’ he said, ‘and all British.’
‘Goody,’ said the girl bending forward eagerly and clasing her hands. ‘I think I’ve got three and fourpence.’
‘Let’s pray you have three and fourpence,’ said the accountant.
She took her bag from beneath the desk and searched. ‘Got it,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
The girl gave him the money, and taking the English coins from the desk placed them in her bag.
‘They are becoming harder to get,’ said the accountant. ‘Your dabbling in exchange will soon be over.’
‘I’m still getting about one pound’s worth a week here. The man in that little place in Bourke Street where I bring them, is beginning to know me.’ She reflected, then said, ‘Isn’t it funny how English money is worth more than Australian money?’
‘It is funny,’ said the accountant. He opened the drawer in her desk and seated himself beside her. ‘Now for the disclosure, he said.
He looked up into her grey eyes, and said, ‘After I count this and find out how much you have stolen, I will get you to sign a declaration, then I’ll bring in a policeman and accompany you as far as the jail. And I’ll visit you every Saturday afternoon and bring you flowers, and we will talk through bars, and you will clutch them-with both hands like they do in gangster pictures. How much have you stolen?’
‘Only £23 this week, kind sir,’ she said, twiddling her thumbs and hanging her head.
A girl at the window thrust through a docket wrapped round some silver.
‘Fifteen and six, sixteen shillings,’ she called.
The cashier pushed sixpence beneath the grill. The accountant flipped coins beneath his fingers. The cashier watched him. She wished to continue talking, but the accountant’s face was serious. He jotted amounts down on a slip of p
aper. He added them up and said ‘Okay. We won’t arrest you this week.’
He stood up and searching in his pocket drew forth a piece of unwrapped chocolate. He looked at it frowningly. ‘There seems to be more tobacco and fluff on it than usual,’ he said.
‘Yes, there does,’ she said, leaning forward and looking at it seriously. ‘I’m beginning to rather like your brand of tobacco though. It makes the chocolate hot.’
He handed it to her.
‘Good-bye, Coral Sanderson.’ They smiled into each other’s eyes.
‘Pass, friend,’ she said, standing aside.
He went into the shop and approached the manager. He said, briskly, ‘I want to take Mr Carter out to the Richmond shop, Mr Furness. He is to take over from Mr Carlson, whom I am dismissing. Can he come immediately?’
‘Certainly, Mr McCormack.’
Furness turned. ‘Mr Carter,’ he called.
A young man stepped forward from the men’s section.
‘Mr McCormack is taking you out to our Richmond shop for the time being. Get your hat and coat.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carter left them.
The accountant sat in the car and waited for him.
He watched the people passing. He was moved by a desire to know them all. Behind each face was a life. He saw it as a large space from which branched many roads. Many roads behind their faces and all the roads were different and they spent their time walking up and down these roads which they knew so well.
No stranger saw these thoroughfares. They were hidden by their face, and they guarded them, and walked alone.
Yet sometimes they took a friend by the hand, and led him to and fro and showed him only that which they wished to see. But they always accompanied the friend upon their roads so the friend learned little of them or where they led.
Then the friend went back to his own roads to pace alone.
He would not stay upon the familiar roads behind his face. Never … He would go on and on, making new ones. He did not wish to return to the empty space from whence he started. He would walk on into the darknesses and forests that skirted the boundaries of his own roads. He would storm the fortress face of friends and with them stride the roads they trod alone. He would show them beauty in all their roads. He would never, never sit and dream in chosen spots behind his face. Always on …
Carter opened the door of the car.
‘Place my crutches on your left,’ said the accountant.
‘Good,’ said Carter.
They drove down Swanston Street in silence. Into Bourke Street — and groups of people standing in safety zones looking at them waiting for the green light. The accountant was glad he wasn’t walking, pushing through crowds. He felt tired.
In a short time he would be sacking Carlson. ‘We will not tolerate dishonesty, Mr Carlson. We trusted you. You have betrayed our trust’ — rot!
‘I am dismissing Mr Carlson this morning,’ he said.
Carter sat erect. ‘Oh yes, Mr McCormack.’
‘You will take over the management for the time being. If you can improve the figures the job is likely to be permanent.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr McCormack. You may be sure I will do my best.’
They entered the Richmond shop together.
Carlson advanced to meet them, smiling. He greeted the accountant with friendliness.
‘Wait here, Mr Carter,’ said the accountant. He beckoned Carlson to the cash desk. He entered the small enclosure and sat down. Carlson followed, his face serious.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
The accountant looking into his eyes, said gently, ‘Your cash has been short, Carlson, and I’ve brought another man out to take over.’
Carlson stood transfixed. He held his breath. His face was white and set.
The accountant went on.
‘We have paid investigators to visit each shop with the object of detecting thieving. They have been here. One of them bought a W.53 for two quid and you only handed in thirty bob.’
‘That is their correct price, thirty shillings,’ said Carlson quickly.
‘Yes,’ pursued the accountant, ‘but you received £2 for them. What happened to the other ten shillings?’
He took some dockets from his pocket. ‘There are some others …’
‘It’s all right. Don’t go on.’ Carlson’s voice was trembling. He lowered his head, looking at the floor. His arms hung loosely by his sides. ‘It’s so sudden.’ He was dazed.
The accountant was silent.
‘What will I do? I mean, do you think I could have another chance?’
‘They wouldn’t consider it,’ said the accountant.
Carlson bit his lower lip.
‘I’ll check up on your cash now, and then hand over to this chap. In the meantime write me out a declaration stating the total amount you have stolen since you have been in the firm’s employ, and sign it.’
‘What,’ cried Carlson wildly. ‘I haven’t stolen anything else.’ His fingers were clutching the air.
‘The management believes you have. They have instructed me to call in the police if you refuse to sign.’ His voice changed. He turned and faced the man.
‘I’m sorry, old chap, but you will have to do it. There is no alternative — except gaol, of course; and that’s unthinkable. I can’t say I blame you for this. How long has it been going on, anyway? Did you get away with a quid a week?’
Carlson sank into a chair. All his energy was gone. He looked around his shop as if he were already in gaol. ‘Hardly a quid. Fifteen bob, perhaps …’
‘Well, make it fifteen bob,’ said the accountant. ‘By the way, have you any money in the bank?’
‘No.’
‘Well, they won’t be able to get any from you. State you have taken fifteen shillings a week over the last ten weeks. I’ll fix the rest. They won’t force you to refund it. Couldn’t you go to another State for a while?’
‘I’m married.’
‘Oh! Well, anyway, sign a declaration.’
Carlson slowly picked up a pen. ‘What will I say?’
‘Oh! Just an admission. Put, “I, Rupert Carlson, hereby declare that I have stolen from my employers, the Modern Shoe Stores Proprietary Limited, an average of fifteen shillings per week over a period of ten weeks amounting in all to seven pounds ten shillings. Signed in the presence of, and so on. Something like that. I will witness your signature.’
Carlson began writing.
The accountant called in Carter and explained the handling of the cash.
When Carlson had handed him the completed form he signed it and said ‘Do you want a lift into the city?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carlson vaguely. ‘Perhaps I’d better go into the City.’ He got his hat and coat.
‘Where shall I let you out?’ asked the accountant as they drove along Bridge Road.
‘Oh, anywhere.’
The accountant stopped his car in Swanston Street. Carlson alighted. He stood on the kerb, looking up and down the street as if lost.
‘Good-bye,’ called the accountant, ‘and good luck.’
Carlson did not hear him. He stood uncertainly on the edge of a stream of people, clasping and unclasping his hands.
The accountant looked at his watch. It was too late to return to the office. He pulled up in front of a Bourke Street cafe.
‘Herald?’
‘Yes.’ He alighted, and stood looking down at the newsboy.
The boy fumbled for change in a leather bag he had suspended from the strap embracing his neck.
‘Any news?’ asked the accountant.
‘They found the lady’s body that was murdered,’ said the boy.
‘Go on!’ exclaimed the accountant.
‘Yes. Her teeth gave the police the clue of it.’
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
He took the change and entered the cafe. He sat opposite a man leaning over a plate of soup. The man held a half-filled spoon suspended be
tween the plate and his mouth. He looked intently at a spot on the table and moved his lips, tasting, as if to verify a doubt. He removed a bone from between his lips with his fingers. He raised his head and said ‘Good-day.’
‘Good-day,’ said the accountant.
A waitress came up smiling. ‘How are you today, Mr McCormack?’
‘Good, Violet.’
She swept crumbs from the space in front of him into her cupped hand. She moved a pot of mustard.
‘Well, what are you having tonight?’
He glanced at the menu. ‘Pea soup,’ he said.
‘It’s not bad,’ said the man grudgingly. He shifted his place and gazed at the paper open beside him.
‘France is twisting again.’
‘Is she?’
‘She runs with the hares and hunts with the hounds. She pretends to be with England yet she joins up with Russia.’
‘Well, England could do the same.’
‘What!’ exclaimed the man looking up. ‘Look, I know a chap — he’s a friend of mine — he drives a bus down Brighton way — and he said to me, he said — he reads a lot, this chap, and knows what he’s talking about — he said, “Believe me, Bert, the next war, we’ll be fighting with the Germans against the Russians, the French and the Italians.” And this chap’s well read, mind you. He knows a thing or two.’
‘He sounds rather intelligent,’ said the accountant, salting the soup the waitress had given him.
The man gazed sourly at the roast beef on the plate before him and commenced eating suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ he said, eating with more confidence. ‘You know what? There’s one country that’s a cancer upon the face of the earth. It’s the cause of all the trouble today. They’re in everything.’
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 11
