How Beautiful Are Thy Feet
Page 13
‘So do I,’ said the accountant. He turned to the father. ‘You do that, Tom. He’ll get the best attention there.’
‘Lots of people in the rats go there,’ said Mick. ‘They come out cured.’
‘You ought to go there, Mick,’ said Annie from behind the blue dress.
‘Annie does piece-work sewing at night,’ explained the mother.
‘Dear me, dear me,’ murmured the old woman by the fire, softly, to herself.
‘I’ll go and get Ted,’ said the father, later. He returned leading him by the hand, like a child. An overcoat was wrapped about him.
‘I’ll die. I’m dying,’ said Ted, weakly. ‘I’ve got no strength left. I’m weak as a dog.’
Mick rose and walked round to help him.
‘I’m only a tea-leaf, Mick, that’s all. ‘Member when we used to pinch fruit off the barrers. We’re just a couple of tea-leafs, that’s all.’
‘I’ll go and sit on the bed with you,’ said Mick.
‘Leave him a while,’ said Tom. ‘Talking excites him. Hop in now Ted.’ He led him into his bedroom. When he came back, he said, ‘He’s knocked off talking now, and is starting to twitch. Where’s those capsule things?’
His wife handed him a little bottle. ‘They make him sleep,’ she explained.
‘Two, isn’t it?’ asked the father, holding the bottle up to the light.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I want to see that crippled bloke,’ Ted called from the bedroom.
The parents confused, looked at the accountant quickly.
‘Give me the capsules. I’ll take them in to him,’ he said, smiling.
He walked into the bedroom.
‘You’ve got to take two of these,’ said the accountant.
Ted placed the two capsules on the palm of his hand. ‘They’re little torpedoes going down,’ he said.
‘What about water?’ asked the accountant.
‘I can swallow them without water.’
‘Away you go then.’
He flung them in his mouth, swallowing them rapidly.
‘Those people think I’m mad,’ he said, jerking his head towards the door.
‘I don’t,’ said the accountant, seriously. ‘I like you. They don’t think you’re mad either.’
‘I’m mastering it,’ he said lying down.
‘Good man.’
He closed his eyes and began breathing deeply.
The accountant crept out.
9
Mary Frobisher caught up to the accountant going to work. ‘I yelled out to you twice,’ she panted.
‘Did you?’ said the accountant. I didn’t hear. I must have been thinking.’
‘I think an awful lot when I’m walking, don’t you? And in trams a lot, too.’
‘I suppose you think mostly of George,’ said the accountant, with a sidelong smile at her.
‘Oh, yes. George, mostly. I’ve been thinking of his mother more.’
‘Why his mother?’
‘Oh, she is mad.’
‘Go on.’
‘She’s always saying to me that it would do George good if I went out with other boys. She says it would make him value me more, and that. She said you should make them jealous.’
‘Don’t take any notice of her,’ said the accountant, hitting a stone from the pavement with his crutch.
‘I know George doesn’t like it. He has gone out with other girls, but gets narked when I go out with other boys. Yet his mother keeps saying I ought to go out more.’
‘The mother can’t like you,’ suggested the accountant.
‘Oh, she does. So does the father. I think she’s right. I don’t see why I shouldn’t go out with whom I like.’
‘Well, if you want to go out with other boys, go.’
‘That’s what I say. I know girls in love who go out with other boys.’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the accountant, patiently. ‘I wouldn’t like a girl of mine to go out with other men.’
‘Oh! but I’m different. I wouldn’t do anything.’
‘I’m sure of that.’
‘You see, George is getting worse. It would do us both good if he went out with others. You see, he has been engaged. I’ve never been engaged. But I could have been. I know boys that I could have had.’ She walked in silence a moment, thinking.
‘It’s not that I want to go out with other boys, but George’s mother keeps telling me,’ she ended almost plaintively.
‘She might be trying to come between you and George,’ the accountant suggested.
‘Oh, no, she’s not,’ said Mary quickly. ‘She loves me. So does the father.’
The accountant stood aside for her to enter the office.
‘Don’t offices smell different in the morning,’ she said, sniffing. ‘It seems funny, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said the accountant, hanging up his hat.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mary. ‘I never seem to enjoy myself going out with other boys, somehow. I used to. I used to have a lovely time every time I went out with strange boys. I must be losing “it”.’
She commenced her cleaning. The accountant, bending to open the safe, said, ‘It’s not that. You’re in love with George. That’s all.’
‘Oh, George is lovely!’ she said enthusiastically, with a sudden change of spirits. ‘I went around there last night. I went in, and here he was washing the dishes. Look, I nearly died. He had one plate, and was rubbing it up and down — you know. Look, I nearly died. They were going to the pictures, and they left him to do them. I had to go into the dining-room. Laugh, I nearly died.
‘We went to the pictures after. George is lovely to go to the pictures with. He is real funny. Though I say it myself, he’s the wonderfullest chap. You like people seeing you with him — you know. He says lovely things to you and that. I know lots of girls who would love to have him.
‘But his mother hates him to talk about other girls. It’s only me she likes. But she likes me too much. She won’t leave me alone. She always talks to me when I go there, and George and I never get a chance together. George told me last night that she’s not speaking to him. He had a row with her over something or other.’
The accountant, with the ledger opened before him, said, ‘Well, let me add these figures now. You had better hurry up with the sweeping. It’s late. In that far drawer I put a calendar for you. You can take it home,’
She took it out and looked at it, smiling.
‘I love paintings. Thank you for it. I could look at paintings all night.’
‘Well, don’t look at it any longer. Go on with your work.’
‘Good-o.’
She began sweeping vigorously.
The accountant went on writing.
The workman whose small daughter had a cough, was the factory’s first aid man. He had attended classes for seven weeks. (Severe injuries to internal organs will usually cause uncontrolled haemorrhage which will give rise to the following signs and symptoms: (a) Rapid loss of strength, (b) Pallor of the face and lips, (c) Breathing hurried and laboured.)
He was very proud of being first aid man. He often brought pictures of naked bodies and diagrams of entrails to show the men. ‘This ’ere’s a baby in a woman’s stomach. You can’t buy these unless you’re a doctor. I can get them. I can get anything like that. Books with people standing naked and that.’
He liked massaging the cramped legs of tired machinists, or attending to the girls that fainted. He had an idea that all fainting fits were due to pregnancy. His name was Luther — James Luther, but he was known as ‘Martin’.
He read ‘good books’. Between the screams of the pounder against which he held each complaining shoe to smooth the edges of the upper tacked on to the inner sole, he spoke to the accountant gathering work dockets.
‘I’m readin’ the toughest book at home I’ve ever read. It’s real good. It’s called Betty Connors. Ever read it?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s two girls off the street in it. One’s called Betty and the other’s called Daisy, and they meet two chaps called Curly and Harry, and they cart ’em off. You ought to read what happens. He gives it all in this book. A cobber of mine lent it to me. It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever read. I’ll lend it to you if you like.’
‘I’d like to read it, but I’ve got half a dozen books waiting to be read at present. I’ll get it off you another time. Who is it by?’
‘I don’t know the chap who wrote it. Some chap or other. It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever read.’
‘It sounds tough,’ said the accountant, passing to the next workman.
Leila Hale sat on a high stool before her machine. At some time the round, wooden seat had split. Each half had independent movements. The stool had to be placed in a certain position before it became comfortable to sit upon. Each morning Leila knelt and adjusted the legs so that one rested on a raised knot in one of the flooring boards. At lunch time she again arranged it. Directly beneath her stool a small square of galvanised iron had been nailed to cover a hole worn in the floor. It was bent and polished by the soles of many shoes.
A row of hunched girls led towards the wall on her right. Their faces were expressionless, save for a slight frown of concentration as their eyes followed the hurrying leather in its progress beneath the needle.
Their movements were mechanical, executed with the speed that comes from countless repetitions. When the forewoman was not there some talked rapidly to each other. Others worked in silence.
Leila’s face was lifeless and still. The sun beat on the iron roof over her head. The metal flung waves of heat upon her. The torrid air rested heavily on her bowed shoulders.
Her large dark eyes moved restlessly.
Tonight she would tell her mother.
At the thought a mad commotion welled within her as if her soul was striving frantically to escape and dash screaming through the roof. Dark shadows of fear clouded her eyes.
At intervals during the morning realisation seized her pitilessly. A surge of released suffering would rise within her, bursting through a face striken into a momentary immobility. Its escape twisted her features. The machine hummed on.
Tonight she would tell her mother.
But she had loved him, did love him. Oh, Ron, why did this happen to me? The dirty stain of black leather upon her hands. It was filthy. She was filthy. But every girl did it. They told her. Ron told her. She had slipped. That’s all. Slipped! Oh Jesus! And it was hot and she felt giddy sometimes. And tonight she would tell her mother.
And words like black marbles streaked from girl to girl and passed her eyes.
‘How did you get on?’
‘All right. He’s a member of the W.H.S.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Wandering Hand Society.’
And sudden silence. And the forewoman’s tread.
‘Ron, oh Ron! (It wouldn’t take much for us to live on. I could work for a while and the baby would have a name then.)’
‘Oh Ron!’
‘That old bitch should carry a whip.’
She was giddy. The machines joined hands and frolicked around her. Then clarity. And Sadie Bryce on her right. The licking of caked red lips remembering the night’s kisses … Smell of hot bodies and cheap powder — filthy — and tonight she would tell her mother.
(I love you, Leila, you know that. But you must keep taking those pills, won’t you?)
I love you, Leila — you know that.
I love you, Leila — you know that.
I love you, Leila — you know that.
‘Ron, Ron, I want to die. I will kill myself. Tonight I must tell my mother.’
‘And I am giddy, and I did take the pills, Ron.’
Her pale hands floated before her. They had an existence apart from her body. Entirely of their own volition they hovered over irregular pieces of black leather, grasped them, moved them in curves, straight lines, angles. She watched them, fascinated. Their thin, hard outline softened and blurred and they became pale white creatures of many legs. They floated obscenely over the soft uppers like deep sea things with waving antennae, foraging for food. They grew in size before her eyes. They became large and fat and loathsome.
By an intense concentration of will she could bring them back to their original shape: but she couldn’t hold on — she couldn’t hold on …
They floated away again, living some foul life of their own.
Everything is filthy. She hated her hands. She hated her evil body.
She jumped suddenly from her stool. It tumbled drunkenly to the floor.
She cried out and watched with horrified eyes the twistings, turnings and pluckings of her hands mauling each other in some mad conflict. They stopped as if with sudden realisation of her anguish. They flew to her face in penitence. She wept softly into their curved protection.
She suddenly sank to the floor and lay there, her face staring upwards, white as a summer shoe.
The forewoman hurried up.
‘Get Martin,’ she called out to Biddy. Biddy sped away.
The girls wavered in their work. The forewoman, bending over Leila, looked up fiercely. ‘Go on with your work, girls.’
The faltering machines bayed afresh.
Martin hurried in holding a bottle of sal volatile. He knelt beside the girl, placing his thick, hairy arm beneath her head. He slipped a hand within her blouse.
‘Her heart’s goin’.’
The sal volatile brought her round. She tried to sit up, but he held her there.
‘Steady now, you’re all right. Steady …’
Her face coloured. She looked at him confused, afraid …
He bent his head near hers and whispered urgently: ‘How long y’ been this way? Come on, y’ can tell me?’
But Leila sat up. Her head drooped forward. She rested it on her hands.
‘You’ll be all right. Take a stiff dose of epsom salts.’
He helped her to her feet,’ keeping his arm around her waist.
‘Let her sit on her stool for a while,’ said the forewoman, leaving her examination of a new cut in a completed upper.
‘Would you like to go home, Leila?’
‘No thank you, Miss Richards. I’ll be all right in a minute.’
Martin picked up the stool.
Leila sat down. She lifted her head valiantly and smiled at them both.
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Martin.
When they had gone Biddy Freeman, who throughout the morning had been experiencing sharp pains in her side, leaned over. ‘Don’t worry. Just you sit quietly there for a while.’
‘Oh! Biddy, I feel ill.’
‘Yes, I know. Go over to the lav in a minute. I’ll come across. I’ll get you a drink.’
‘Thank you, Biddy.’
She rested her head on her hands.
She could never tell her mother.
Clynes, lunching in the office beside the accountant, said ‘I think I’ll put that girl off.’
‘What girl is that?’
‘I put on a vamper this morning. Miss Richards says one of the girls told her she’s married.’
‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’
‘They’re not as good a worker as single girls. They’ve always got kids waiting round the corner for them. Their minds are not on their job. They keep thinking of their kids.’
‘I reckon they would work better,’ said the accountant, lighting a cigarette. ‘Their job means more to them — that’s if their husbands are not working.’
‘I know them,’ said Clynes a little petulantly. ‘They come from work to work. After they finish up at home they’re tired. Then into it again at night. They don’t get the figures in the machine room. We want results. Single girls with a bit of flesh on them are the sort.’
The accountant took a long draw at his cigarette. He exhaled slowly, his eyes on the picture of the Duke of Gloucester. He did not reply.
She rose and searched her bag for sixpence.
‘Waste of money,’ said the accountant, observing her.
She wrinkled her nose at him and walked out.
Clynes slowly and carefully rolled a cigarette.
‘It’s marvellous the things you come across,’ he said. ‘I was reading a doctor’s book the other night — I have one at home — and it said that anybody suffering from a weakness of the bladder should never smoke before going to bed. It reckons it makes it worse. Of course I don’t know whether it’s right or not. It was in a doctor’s book. It ought to be. But it just shows you what you find out when you read a bit. It’s marvellous.’
Correll opened the office door and looked in. He was carrying a newspaper. He glanced around the office, then stepped through softly, and on his toes, as if he were entering a church.
‘What did you think of Lloyd George’s speech?’ he said eagerly, looking at the accountant.
‘He’s in his second childhood, poor bugger,’ said Clynes.
“I haven’t read it yet,” said the accountant.
‘Did you read The Machine Age I gave you?’
The accountant looked down into the wastepaper basket.
‘You didn’t destroy it, did you?’
‘Well, yes, I did,’ admitted the accountant.
‘You’re blind, brother, blind. You would have learnt something from that.’
‘You told me all about it,’ said the accountant.
‘Yes, but you should read these things.’
‘That’s right,’ said the accountant, looking at notes on his date pad.
‘It explained how money is cancelled out of existence by consumption,’ went on Correll.
‘I see where they say mutton bird oil is a sure cure for consumption,’ said Clynes.
‘Eh?’ exclaimed Correll.
‘Just listen to this verse,’ said the accountant, holding his date pad. ‘It’s rather good:
The rain it falls upon the Just
And on the Unjust fellers:
Bui mostly on the Just because