How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

‘Yes, I know. I wish they’d hurry. The quicker I get out of this place the better I’ll like it.’

  ‘Les would look if he saw you coming out of here,’ Sadie giggled.

  ‘Oo! wouldn’t it be awful to be seen by anybody?’

  ‘Have you found out whether Les is married?’

  ‘No,’ replied Mabel shortly.

  ‘You watch him. We don’t want you coming here, too.’

  ‘Is it very awful?’

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible. It hurts like anything, and sometimes it takes days, and you are always frightened of something happening. Then you come back to them and they finish you. Do you remember little Nora Smith?’

  ‘No. Who was she?’

  ‘She must have worked at the Modern before you started there. It happened to her one day when she was working. It was awful. They carried her home in the boss’s car. She got the sack over it.

  ‘What about Leila? She has got to work.’

  ‘Yes. We will have to watch her tomorrow.’

  ‘If her old man found out he would kick her out. Her mother would take a fit, Leila reckons.’

  ‘They won’t find out,’ Sadie assured her.

  The nurse entered. Leila followed behind her. Her face was white. The marks of tears were on her cheeks. She smiled at them valiantly.

  ‘Up there!’ said Sadie, returning the smile.

  ‘Tomorrow night at nine,’ said the nurse addressing Leila.

  ‘Yes.’

  She showed them out to the dark verandah. They escaped from her through the trees. On the street they drew deep breaths.

  ‘God!’ Mabel blew through her lips.

  Leila’s machine tore at the leather. She watched the row of stitching fleeing from the needle’s darting point … Following the prick marks put on in the clicking room. Lifting, stitching and putting down … Lifting, stitching and putting down … Upper after upper …

  Her teeth were set. Waves of giddiness made panic grip her heart. Then into a backwash of weakness and the slow inevitability of her pain.

  She sat with her knees pressed close together, hardly daring to move. Her mind waited with a painful intensity for signs of her body’s approaching distress, waited defiantly, prepared to dispute the control of this painful occupant who wished her prostrate before her room-mates.

  Upper after upper … (‘Remember, Leila, any machinist worth her salt will machine fifty pair of plain shoes a day.’) Upper after upper …

  Every little while Sadie raised her head and looked at Leila. During these glances the b-r-r-r of her speeding machine did not falter. Sadie was a star.

  Mabel often passed Leila’s bench on her way to the lavatory. (‘I have the runs today, Miss Richards.’) Mabel was a star.

  Sometimes during the afternoon Leila had to hold on to her machine. Sadie glanced at her more often.

  ‘Miss Richards, don’t you think Leila should lie down for a few minutes? She doesn’t look well.’

  ‘What in the devil is the matter with that girl!’

  ‘Are you sick, Leila? Perhaps you had better lie down for a few minutes.’

  The couch on which the girls ‘lay down’ was in the lavatory. It confronted the cubicles. Girls seated therein spoke to Leila.

  ‘God! you look white. What’s wrong?’

  ‘What you want is a good, stiff gin.’

  ‘Snap out of it, Leila.’

  In twenty minutes she was back at her bench.

  Lifting, stitching and putting down … Upper after upper …

  At five o’clock Sadie helped her down the stairs.

  ‘Atta boy!’ she said. ‘Tomorrow you will be sparking on all six. Mabel and I will meet you tonight at the same place.’

  At eleven o’clock they helped her outside. Her face was white and sunken.

  ‘My baby is gone,’ she whispered, and they said, ‘Don’t talk about it. Put your arms around our waists.’

  ‘My baby is gone,’ she whispered, and they said, ‘Don’t talk about it, Leila. It is over now.’

  She sobbed in the shadow of trees while they stood sheltering her.

  ‘I would have had a baby — and it is gone.’

  14

  It was a cold winter. The box under the accountant’s bed was full of briquettes.

  ‘Move your legs,’ he said.

  Biddy raised her legs on to the bed and looked down as he drew it forth.

  ‘I’ll put four on,’ he said.

  Biddy looked at the glowing fire and said, ‘You will make the room too hot.’

  ‘Then I will put three on.’

  ‘Put two on.’

  He drew the box beside the fire and put two briquettes on the coals. The stirred coals glowed and his face emerged from a background of darkness.

  There was no other light in the room.

  Biddy, with her knees drawn beneath her chin, her arms clasped round her legs, watched him thoughtfully.

  He went to her and she lay beside him on the bed. He bent over and kissed her mouth. He withdrew his head and looked at her. She smiled up at him.

  They could hear the landlady washing dishes in her kitchen, occasionally a tram bell.

  ‘So you are going to marry the pineapple man,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t say I was. I said he asked me to. I’m to let him know on Sunday.’

  ‘Hm,’ said the accountant.

  He stroked her cheek with his finger.

  She continued looking into his eyes.

  ‘Well,’ she said.

  ‘I liked that man,’ he said.

  ‘You like everybody.’

  ‘I liked him.’

  ‘I suppose you only “like” me, too.’

  He laughed and kissed her.

  ‘Couldn’t you ever love me?’ she asked.

  ‘I do in a way,’ he said restlessly. ‘Love doesn’t only mean a desire to marry a person; or to be intimate with a person, for that matter. You see, our idea of love has been developed by the reading of romantic novels and by pictures. It is possible to love a score of persons, each one of them differently. There is no standard. There are degrees as in every emotion. I love you, but it would be a most unsatisfactory love as far as marriage is concerned. It does not exclude other loves. I don’t want to pretend with you. If I married you I would be unfaithful with monotonous regularity. I hate the thought of marriage because it suggests a curtailment of freedom. My love for you is of the sort that even finds pleasure in seeing you with another man. That is disastrous from a marrying point of view. Psychologists can explain it quite simply; but who gives a damn for psychologists, anyway.’

  He altered his position. ‘I’ve often worked it out myself; but it makes me uncomfortable. You say you love me; but do you in the way you imagine? I seem to see the shadows of a score of men and women flit between us — others we have loved. They brand us as imposters. We act love and do it so well that it appears real, ultimate feeling, even to ourselves.’

  ‘My love for you is real,’ she said.

  He was silent a moment.

  ‘Then I am the actor or the imposter or whatever it is … but I don’t know. My feeling towards you, whatever it is, is genuine. Let me tell you about an experience I had a month or so ago.’

  He turned to face her.

  ‘One Saturday afternoon I felt restless and I took the car and drove down to the sea. And I looked across the sea and wished I could travel. But it didn’t seem enough, somehow; I still felt a longing and a discontent. And the people passing seemed to be enjoying themselves so much — couples arm in arm and laughing; and people taking dogs for walks and the dogs trotting along and looking back at them. And people in cars passing swiftly; and young men in sports clothes; and everyone seemed to have something to live for …

  ‘So I imagined myself in the position of each of them. But the thought did not satisfy me. I thought of wealth and wondered, if a man were to offer me a fortune, whether at that moment I would be happy. But, no …

  ‘Then
I suddenly realised what I wanted, and do you know what it was? … It was a friend. I wanted a real friend in the car beside me. I wanted to talk to you …’

  He was silent, thinking.

  He turned suddenly to her, smiling.

  ‘Let me look at you.’

  She slid her arm slowly round his neck. Her face was still. It looked up into his with a passionless intensity. Her spirit spoke to him from her eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  He searched her eyes sadly, then bent and kissed her.

  She clung to him, pressing her wet cheek against his and murmuring words.

  A sudden glow from a breaking briquette illuminated the room for a moment. Darkness retreated reluctantly and hid beneath the table and beneath the bed. The photographs of four girls looked down on him from the mantle. They accused him silently. He lay breathing the fragrance of her hair and watching them. They withdrew into the darkness again. Biddy’s lips moved slowly across his cheek. The landlady passed their door on her way to bed. She walked slowly. She was tired — tired of picking threads from silk shirts and pyjamas.

  He worked his fingers through the thickness of Biddy’s hair.

  ‘You told me once that you had no money,’ she said. ‘Is that one of the reasons why you don’t want to get married?’

  ‘One of them, yes.’

  She reached out her arm and took her bag from the chair against the bed. She opened it and took out a pass book.

  She handed it to him and said, ‘An uncle of mine left me two hundred pounds when I was a little girl. I never told anyone, but there it is. We could start on that and I could keep on working.’

  The accountant did not open the book. He took it from her and put it back in her bag. He drew her to him and kissed her.

  ‘You do the most wonderful things,’ he said.

  He was silent, his face against hers. ‘It is not money.’

  ‘You have been going out with Miss Beveridge, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here’s where I marry the pineapple man,’ said Biddy, as if to herself.

  The accountant made no comment.

  She laughed a little shakily. ‘One thing: I will be able to read the books I like, now, and not the ones you give me.’

  He said: ‘I have only started you. You will keep going.’

  ‘I will try,’ she said.

  ‘Good girl.’ He caressed her arm.

  ’But I will not meet you again.’

  His breathing became deeper. ‘No. Perhaps it would be better.’

  ‘I will leave the Modern next month. I have a lot of my sewing to do at home.’

  ‘When will you be married?’

  ‘Bill wants it to be in about two months. I haven’t promised him anything. I was waiting to see how I got on with you. Now I know where I stand I won’t waste any time. I should be married. Bill wants to rent a house in Ivanhoe. The people are going out soon.’

  ‘Bill and Biddy,’ murmured the accountant, pleased with the picture the words created.

  ‘Two B’s,’ she said dryly.

  The murmur of voices came from the alley beyond the window. The accountant turned his head and looked intently at the black square of glass. The sound of a girl’s voice could be heard.

  Satisfied the accountant resumed his position. ‘Jim and Ethel,’ he said.

  ‘Are they the ones you invited through the window last week?’

  ‘No. I don’t think you have met these two. Ethel’s mother won’t let her meet Jim.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I believe he gets drunk now and then. He is a nice chap. Ethel’s mother wants her to marry a young fellow who works in the foundry down here.’

  ‘Who do you want her to marry?’

  ‘I want her to marry Jim.’

  Biddy chuckled. It was a delightful, spontaneous sound. The accountant always remembered her chuckles whenever he thought of her.

  ‘The things these mothers have to put up with,’ she said.

  ‘I think I will heat up those beans,’ he decided.

  ‘Are you going to ask Jim and Ethel in to help us eat them?’.

  ‘Not tonight.’

  The accountant rose and proceeded to prepare their supper. He put a tin of beans in a saucepan full of water and placed it on the gas ring.

  He watched it a moment.

  ‘It is a wonder these tins don’t explode,’ he said, turning to Biddy who had seated herself on the side of the bed.

  ‘Yes. You come over here.’

  ‘It says to leave it on for ten minutes.’

  ‘You should have pierced a hole in the tin.’

  ‘It doesn’t say to do that.’

  Biddy walked over and stood beside him. They watched the saucepan.

  ‘I’ll make the coffee,’ Biddy said.

  ‘I’ll take this tin off in a minute. The coffee is in that tin, there.’ He pointed.

  She moved to and fro singing softly to herself.

  The accountant took the tin from the saucepan and placed it quickly on the table. He bent and read the label gloomily.

  ‘It says here,’ he explained, ‘“All canned things when opened hot are liable to spurt. Wrap a cloth round the tin before opening.’”

  He stood erect and looked round the room as if seeking a cloth.

  ‘I wonder will it spurt much?’

  ‘Here. Use this,’ said Biddy holding a tea-towel towards him.

  ‘Perhaps a handkerchief would do. I don’t want to dirty that towel. It is the only one I have.’

  He opened the small top drawer in the chest-of-drawers and rummaged among collars, ties, and old letters for a handkerchief. He selected a shabby one and wrapped it round the tin.

  Biddy made the coffee. The accountant opened the tin and tipped the beans on to a plate. Steam rose from the grey-red heap.

  ‘Did they spurt?’ asked Biddy.

  ‘Not much.’ He held up the handkerchief. ‘I don’t think I left them on long enough.’

  He placed two chairs before the table.

  When they had finished eating they washed the plates and put them back in the box on the table.

  ‘Well, that’s that,’ said Biddy.

  She walked to the mirror and commenced to arrange her hat.

  ‘I will miss you,’ said the accountant, watching her.

  ‘Very much?’ She looked back over her shoulder, her head tilted to one side.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  He opened the door for her. She tip-toed ahead of him down the passage.

  In front of the landlady’s room she turned, and placing her finger on her lips, rolled her eyes and whispered, ‘Sh-sh.’

  When the car had started, she said, ‘Our last ride together.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  At her home he alighted and held open the gate for her.

  She held out her hand,” smiling gallantly.

  ‘Good-bye Rod McCormack.’

  ‘Good-bye Biddy Freeman.’

  She ran down the path, her hand to her face.’

  15

  Well, this is your last day at the Modern, Mary. How do you feel about it?’ The accountant was sharpening a lead pencil.

  Mary stopped sweeping and said, ‘I feel rotten.’

  ‘I feel a bit rotten about it myself,’ said the accountant, blowing the shavings from his desk.

  ‘George says not to mind,’ said Mary. He doesn’t care whether I am out of work or not. Talk about worry, though. George is sick. He’s in bed with the influenza. Mother went round yesterday morning with the eggs. She was there. She said, “It’s that daughter of yours upsetting George.” Mother said, “Excuse me.”

  ‘But she took no notice. She still doesn’t talk to George. But she was rather nice after. She brings him in lemon drinks. George said, she said to him, “It’s a wonder your girl friend hasn’t been round to see you” — sort of sarcast
ic like.’

  She looked at the accountant and added, sadly, ‘You see, I’d go round but George wrote and told me not to.’

  The accountant stroked his chin and looked at the picture of the Duke of Gloucester.

  Mary leant on her broom and looked thoughtfully at the floor.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t put one over me by making bad over something about what I’ve said.’

  ‘You want to warn George that she is likely to do that,’ suggested the accountant.

  ‘George doesn’t like me running her down like that,’ said Mary plaintively. ‘He’s got to like her.’

  She walked slowly round the office moving chairs. ‘I missed my train this morning to see if I could catch his father and hear how he was; but he had gone.’

  ‘Look, Mary,’ said the accountant. ‘You go down and see George. Take no notice of what any of them say. Have a long talk to him. And take my tip: beware of that stepmother of his. And marry George as soon as you can.’

  ‘You mean ,’ Mary looked straight at the accountant for a moment.

  ‘Yes,’ said the accountant, closing his ledger with a bang.

  Miss Trueman entered. With her hand raised to remove her hat she said, ‘Wasn’t that a ghastly plane disaster? Four people killed. I can’t help thinking about it.’

  ‘Terrible,’ said the accountant. ‘It must have hit the water with terrific force.’

  ‘So close to land, too.’ She walked to her table and resting her hands upon it looked out of the window. ‘I wonder what they did when they were going down. They would catch hold of each other ‘

  ‘I was out with a boy once,’ interrupted Mary, ‘and I thought the car was going over and I grabbed him. It was terrible. It would be worse in a plane, though; but I did get a fright. Alf, was the boy’s name.’

  The accountant with his head resting on his hand had been thinking.

  ‘They would scream and struggle and then there would only be ripples,’ he said.

  ‘Oo! You are awful!’ exclaimed Mary. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Have you seen Clark Gable in Wife versus Secretary?’

  The accountant moved purposefully, but suddenly thinking, it’s her last day, he relaxed in his chair again.

  ‘I was at the pictures last night,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘I saw a stupid Tarzan picture.’