How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  They each shook her hand, each paid their tribute, and each turned away so as not to intrude on the leave-taking of the other.

  When they had gone, a nurse turning down her quilt for the night, said, ‘And so it is the one on crutches is it?’

  Biddy laughed. ‘How did you know?’

  The accountant called out, ‘Hey!’

  Mick jumped on to the running board and clambered in while the car was in motion.

  ‘How long have you been waiting?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘Not long,’ said Mick.

  ‘You have arranged for us to pick him up tonight, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve got to be there before half past eight.’

  The accountant wheeled the car and dodged through the traffic.

  ‘How is he now?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s cured. He’s not cranky now. He had the ta-ta’s pretty bad when he left, though. He went round waving good-bye to himself and that. He gave them hell out there the first week.’

  ‘Wanted to fight, I suppose.’

  ‘He was a bit windy, I think,’ said Mick. ‘I saw him a couple of days after we brought him out. He said, “It’s no use fighting here. They had five warders in my room but I didn’t take them on.” He was funny. He said, “I’m a wake-up to this joint. I’m not mad. But I’ll go mad in here. I’ll never get out.” He told me there was a cove there that he knew. “He’s mad,” he said, “I’m looking after him.”’

  ‘I like him,’ said the accountant.

  ‘So do I,’ said Mick, warmly. ‘He’s a cobber of mine. We went to school together.’

  ‘You go with his sister?’

  ‘Yes. She’s a great kid. She smokes a bit, but I know sheilas, high class sheilas, who smoke.’

  ‘Most girls do,’ said the accountant.

  ‘I’ll marry her some day,’ said Mick, searching in his pockets for cigarettes.

  ‘Here. Have one of these,’ said the accountant, handing him a box.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Mick. ‘I want to travel, though.’ He lit his cigarette. The accountant waved a truck to cross.

  ‘Big truck, that,’ Mick remarked. ‘My old man has been all over the world,’ he returned to the subject. ‘He was in the navy.

  He’s seen all the big stadiums in America.’

  ‘Did he ever fight in the ring?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘Only on the ships.’

  ‘Do you make much out of the game?’

  ‘Not much. It’s hard to get fights. You only get a quid or two in the preliminaries and you always get knocked about whether you win or not. A bloke wants to go to America. All the big stadiums are there. I think I’ll try the ships.’

  They talked of ships and of fights on ships; of stadiums …

  The accountant stopped the car before a doorway in a high, corrugated iron fence.

  ‘I will wait here in the car while you go in and get him.’

  ‘I won’t be long,’ said Mick, alighting.

  The accountant smoked. Beyond the gates through which Mick had passed, the buildings crouched in a restless darkness. The unquiet spirits of its inmates seemed to move in an aimless seeking beneath the trees that surrounded it. Sometimes there were sounds from within its walls, then a more pregnant silence.

  ‘They emerged suddenly. Ted carried a bag.

  The accountant leaned out of the car. ‘Whoopee!’ he cried. ‘Give me your bag, Ted. Hop in.’

  ‘Wait till I get some fresh air into my stomach,’ said Ted, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m glad to get out of that joint, by God I am.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Mick.

  ‘Hell!’ said Ted. ‘I feel good.’

  ‘Like a couple of rounds?’ asked Mick, his foot on the step.

  ‘Go on. Hop in,’ said Ted, putting his hand on Mick’s shoulder. ‘I want to talk. I’ve gone rusty from misuse.’

  ‘Like hell, you have,’ said Mick. ‘You’re always talking.’

  ‘Let’s all talk,’ said the accountant.

  ‘I was lucky to get out of that joint without a hiding,’ said Ted, looking back as the car moved away.

  ‘Pity you didn’t get one,’ said Mick. ‘It’d’ve done you good.’

  Ted laughed, enjoying himself.

  ‘There was a cove used to come there to see somebody,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t only well built or anything like that,’ Ted was ironical. ‘I was crook, see, and all for scrap. One day this chap chips me and I let him have one. He had a tart in tow — a nice piece — and when I crowned this bird she got the breeze up, and no bloody wonder. He got up and made a pass at me. I tonked him one where he hears. He bashed me in the molars and then slipped me one in the guts. I sat down … Christ! did I sit down. The warders came then and ran him out. His good sort told them off. Did she go crook … strike me! But, by God! that chap could scrap.’

  ‘I met a cove like that once,’ said Mick. ‘A big joker. He chipped a Judy I was with. Me cobbers were near and I whistled them up. We all took a crack at him and he cleaned the lot of us up.’

  ‘Let’s eat,’ said the accountant. ‘We’ll finish our talk in a cafe.’

  ‘I’m broke,’ said Mick. ‘I gave a bloke a couple of bob to put on Gay Crusader today, and he took the crash — the bastard.’

  ‘I’ve got enough for the lot of us,’ said the accountant.

  ‘Good on you,’ said Ted. ‘Let’s have a feed, then. I’m sick of eating with loonies, poor buggers.’

  12

  The accountant hung up the receiver. ‘Blue Henderson is dying,’ he said.

  Miss Trueman rose suddenly to her feet. She picked up her pen from the floor and sat down again.

  The accountant was putting his hat. ‘They told me to get in touch with his wife. I may be able to get her to the hospital in time. I will pick up his sister first and take her in, too. Will you arrange to get a wreath? Get Clynes to take up a collection.’ The accountant hurried out.

  The sister was stout, and climbed into the car slowly. When they were on their way, she said, ‘I’ve been through it. I know what it is. My husband died three years ago. But Liz is taking it hard.’

  ‘It is hard,’ agreed the accountant.

  ‘Liz went out to it beside his bed yesterday. The nurses worked over her for half an hour before they could bring her round.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ said the accountant.

  ‘She just lets herself go. She does it every time she goes to see him. I don’t know what she will do today.’

  When they reached Henderson’s house the sister went in to get her. The accountant watched two small children playing in the alley beside the house.

  ‘When I was sick I sucked something and it tells you your number,’ said the little girl, propping her rag doll beside the fence.

  Blue Henderson’s sister came to the door and called them in. Later she came out leading the wife by the arm. Behind his mother walked an overgrown youth of about sixteen. His face, untouched by a razor, was covered with a fine down. His hair was tousled and. strange to brushing. He wore heavy boots. The legs of his trousers were too narrow.

  He walked clumsily with one arm outstretched towards his mother. His lips were apart disclosing uneven teeth. Disturbed lines made clefts between his brows.

  When his mother had seated herself in the car he seized the door, and holding it open, leaned in and looked tensely at her face. She did not turn her head but gazed straight before her through the wind-screen. Her face was red and swollen. Her lips trembled continuously.

  The boy said, his voice urgent, ‘Now don’t break down, Mum. D’ye hear?’

  He kept his imperative eyes on her face, striving with all his will to impart to her some of his strength. She would not look at him. He still held the door. ‘Now don’t break down, Mum.’

  Dried marks of tears were visible on the down of his face. ‘D’ye hear me?’

  She turned wearily and looked at him. ‘I’ll be all right, dear.’

  He
held her eyes a moment searching her. He closed the door. He stood watching the car move away. His ungainly arms were hanging loosely by his sides. His mouth was open.

  ‘Her nephew is bringing in the wreath for you to look at,’ said Clynes.

  The accountant laid down his pen.

  The nephew placed the wreath on the table, pleased with the part he was playing. The wreath was wrapped in brown paper. Pins held the paper in place. The nephew carefully extracted the pins and placed them in his mouth. The accountant watched their removal with an expressionless face.

  Mary, who had been helping Miss Trueman, rose and came closer to the table. Miss Trueman stood behind the accountant’s chair.

  The nephew explained the widow’s reason for purchasing a wreath with the money collected. ‘She thought, instead of keeping all the money like they say, she ought to get a wreath.’ He looked around the group, the pins in the side of his mouth. ‘They look nice on the coffin,’ he added with the air of authority

  ‘They make lovely wreaths out at Ronsards in Brighton,’ said Mary, addressing Miss Trueman. ‘They are dear, though.’

  The nephew lifted the brown paper. Perfume filled the room … White stocks, jonquils, pansies, poppies … Invisible wires held them so that each flower looked upwards … A mass of flowers looking upwards …

  ‘Oo! aren’t they beautiful,’ exclaimed Mary. ‘Jonquils, too. I’ve never heard of jonquils in a wreath, have you?’

  ‘They have them sometimes,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘Aren’t the white poppies beautiful?’

  The nephew pulled a white card from among them.

  ‘They want you to fill this in,’ he said to the accountant.

  The accountant took the card. It had a black border. In the centre was a blank square. Around the square were printed the words: ‘A. Roberts, Florist. Wedding bouquets a speciality. Flowers for parties, etc. Wreaths supplied. Ring FR 1003.’

  The accountant read it carefully. He held the card in his hand a long time. He laid it on the table and wrote in the square: ‘From the employees of the Modern Shoe Co. as a tribute to the memory of a comrade.’

  He fastened it amid the flowers with the thin wire attached. The nephew rewrapped the wreath and bore it away smiling contentedly.

  13

  These boys won’t be out of their apprenticeship till 1940,’ said the accountant, sorting documents on his desk.

  ‘Doesn’t it sound sad,’ commented Miss Trueman.

  ‘All work is sad,’ said Mary pensively.

  The accountant, looking at her asked, ‘Have you ever been out of work, Mary?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘We may all be looking for a job soon,’ warned the accountant. ‘I have had instructions to reduce the office staff.’

  ‘Will I have to go first?’ asked Mary quickly.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Oo!’

  ‘It may not be for some weeks yet, but in the meantime keep your eyes open for a job. When you are put off, it will be without warning.’

  ‘I like working here,’ said Mary with a break in her voice.

  ‘And we like having you,’ said the accountant, kindly. ‘Perhaps, if things brighten up, we may be able to put you on again later.’

  ‘Would you?’ exclaimed Mary eagerly.

  ‘Sure,’ said the accountant. ‘Now run out and tell Mr Clynes I want him, will you?’

  ‘Right-o.’

  ‘I like your bedside manner,’ said Miss Trueman, when the door had closed. ‘You pass sentence of death well. Now, what about me?’

  ‘Yes, you,’ said the accountant, smiling. He laid down his pen and looking at the picture of the Duke of Gloucester. ‘I’ve thought quite a lot about your case, Miss Trueman. I’m still in doubt whether to sack you or not.’

  ‘Remove your mind of all doubt,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘Don’t sack me.’

  ‘I appreciate that advice, Miss Trueman,’ said the accountant with mock earnestness. ‘I will certainly take it.’

  ‘Always come to me when you want any advice like that,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘I like helping you.’

  ‘Do you want me?’ asked Clynes, entering.

  ‘These dockets …’ said the accountant, sitting upright.

  ‘Huh!’ Clynes got a chair and sat down beside him. ‘What’s wrong.’

  ‘We will never pull out with losses like this.’ He handed him a pile of dockets.

  Clynes laid them on the table.

  ‘Now you’ve heard me say our only chance is to specialise. I put it up to the big fellow a year ago. And what did he do? He didn’t do anything. The fancy lines we sell in the shops, we should buy from the manufacturers who specialise in them. We should concentrate on the plain, cheaper lines. Wiley and Hale buy out, and they have their own shops. I knew all this years ago. If they had only taken notice of me we would be making money now. But what can I do? My hands are tied. What with her running the place …’

  ‘What would you do if you were given complete control?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘I’d cut out the lines that are not bringing us anything. I wouldn’t make any more sandals. This cut-out work runs us a loss on every pair we make.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘They’re all the time yelling for “output”. That’s all right, but you have to sacrifice quality. They want both. Yet the big chap says to me, “Quantity first, then quality”. What the hell does he want? I’m always at the men. There’s Martin, now. He put 550 through on the pounder yesterday. He should do 600. I told him he would have to make up the extra fifty today or out he goes. He says it gets him in the back and shoulders. I told him he was doing them too good. He’s too careful. We will have to get another man there. There’s Dick been away sick for three days. I had to advertise for another man to take his job and that takes time. It meant a day wasted. These things always crop up and knock the dockets rotten. But the foremen will have to put more through their rooms. I’ll talk to them today. I roared Bert up this morning. He had his coat on after the bell went. I told him, I said “You should set an example to your men, Bert.” The foremen talk to each other, you know. We’ll have to stop that. There is too much collusion going on. They try and shield one another.’

  Clynes drummed the table with his finger.

  ‘How do you think we’re going? Do you think we’ll go out?’

  ‘It is quite likely.’

  ‘God! It is going to go hard with me. I’m not young any longer.’

  ‘It will be hard for us all,’ said the accountant.

  A smartly dressed man walked through the office and passed into the factory.

  Clynes leant towards the accountant.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s Wilby, the manager of British Oil. He’s a personal friend of mine.’

  ‘Now Mable has raked up a quid, too,’ said Sadie. ‘Did you get three?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leila weakly.

  ‘Well, that makes the fiver.’

  ‘Put it in your bag,’ suggested Mabel.

  ‘No. I think Leila should keep it,’ said Sadie. ‘She will have to do the paying. You keep it, Leila.’

  She handed Leila the notes. Leila put them in her bag.

  ‘When do I have to pay,’ she asked. ‘Do I pay when I go in?’

  ‘As soon as she says she will do you,’ explained Sadie.

  ‘She will do me straight away, though, won’t she?’ asked Leila anxiously.

  ‘Not all in one night. You will have to go again, I think,’ explained Sadie. ‘You get rid of it yourself, like.’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  ‘Hundreds go through it,’ said Mabel. ‘It won’t be so bad.’

  They were waiting for a tram. The rails began to sing. The tram rocked round a curve spearing light from its windows. Brakes grated. It stopped. Escaping air hissed from behind its wheels.

  The girls clambered in.

  ‘Well, we are
on our way,’ said Sadie, settling herself.

  The nurse’s house hid beyond trees. It was silent and sullen, and squatted in darkness.

  The three girls stood close together 011 the verandah. Sadie pushed the button. There was no sound of a ringing bell.

  ‘It is one of those bells that ring in a back room,’ said Mabel.

  Leila pressed her closed forefinger against her top teeth. She pressed and released it nervously.

  A light flashed on in the hall behind the glass-panelled door. The door opened.

  The nurse had a fat, round face. In the centre of her cheek was a small, brown mole. Three long black hairs grew out of the mole. She had thick lips that met with a firm softness. She opened her lips and four words escaped.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We want to see you for a moment,’ said Sadie.

  ‘What about?’ demanded the woman.

  Sadie nodded her head towards Leila.

  ‘She is in trouble.’

  The nurse looked at Leila suspiciously. Leila’s fingers twined one within the other.

  ‘Come inside,’ said the nurse standing aside to let them in.

  Sadie and Mabel waited in a room guarded by an aspidistra. On one end of the mantelpiece above the cast-iron grate, was a framed photograph of a little girl nursing a doll. On the other end was a photograph of a baby. The baby was laughing. It was naked and had a fat body. In the centre of the mantlepiece was a black, marble clock. The clock ticked and the sound of it seemed very loud in the room. There was no other sound in the house.

  ‘I don’t like the smell of this place,’ said Sadie, sniffing.

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Mabel. ‘But no place smells as nice as your home.’

  ‘This doesn’t smell like a home,’ said Sadie. ‘You smell it. It smells like a hospital.’

  They both sniffed.

  ‘Yes. It is a bit like a hospital,’ Mabel agreed.

  ‘I wonder what she is doing to Leila now,’ asked Sadie.

  ‘Poor Leila,’ said Mabel. ‘Won’t it be awful if she faints or something?’

  ‘We could get into a lot of trouble for this, you know.’