‘Oo! I saw that the other night,’ said Mary. ‘He’s always fighting tigers and lions and things. But that’s nothing. He kills a rhinoceros sort of thing. He’s a fine build of a chap though, isn’t he? He’s too good looking for a man; like as if he were painted up. His face is kind of soft.’
‘He is a bit that way,’ remarked Miss Trueman. ‘The other picture was better. It was one of the old fashioned type.’
‘Was it from history?’ asked Mary.
‘No. Not exactly,’ replied Miss Trueman. ‘It showed negroes labouring on the wharves. It had a Virginian setting.’
She turned to the accountant. ‘Do you remember Paul who used to work here?’
‘Yes. I remember him.’
‘I heard last night that he has been working down on the wharves during the strike. He made a lot of money. They call them — er — what’s that they call them?’
‘Scabs,’ suggested Mary.
‘Volunteer workers, that’s it.’ Miss Trueman ignored the remark.
The phone rang.
‘Answer that, Mary,’ commanded the accountant. ‘If it is a creditor, tell him I’m out.’
‘Hullo,’ called Mary bending over the phone on the table. ‘Yes.’
She placed her hand over the mouthpiece and said to the accountant, ‘It’s about that order you put through last night.’
‘Tell them we are waiting on it.’
‘We’re waiting on those,’ called Mary into the phone … ‘Yes. If possible give us them as soon as possible. It will be early will it? Well, if we get some before lunch that’s what we want because we are waiting on them terribly. Good-o.’
She hung up. ‘They will be in before lunch.’ Her tone changed. ‘Gee! That girl on the phone was tough. She almost spits,’ said Mary with some resentment.
‘Heil Hitler,’ said the accountant, facetiously.
She commenced sweeping vigorously. She stopped suddenly and turning to the accountant asked, ‘Who’s Hitler?’
‘Chancellor of Germany.’
‘No. Not that. Is he for the country or against it?’
‘Against it, of course,’ replied the accountant.
‘Dad thinks Hitler is awful,’ said Mary. ‘I heard him say to mother last night, he said, “Hitler is awful.” Dad’s got no time for him. Neither have I.’
‘We’re buggered,’ said Clynes savagely. ‘I’m not a fool. Do you think I haven’t seen it coming? They can’t hide it from me any longer. Why is Fulsham never in? Because he doesn’t want to meet the creditors hanging round the door after a cheque,’
‘Bert reckons he goes out to the races with Miss Claws,’ said Correll, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the bench.
‘Yes. He is trying to pull out of it with a big win. And he’ll only get us further in the soup.’
Clynes stepped nearer to Correll and, waving his hand, raised his voice above the clamour of the machines.
‘Well, they’re not going to pull me down with them. I’ll get another job, and blast them. Why don’t they confide in us. Because they think we’re bloody fools, that’s why. Well, they’re mistaken. I’ll get another job. They can shove this one.’
He stood glaring at the floor, lips tightly closed, breathing deeply through his nostrils which contracted and expanded with each breath.
‘The whole factory will know about it today,’ said Correll, looking round the cleaning room, ‘After you told Bert, he told everybody.’
‘And they ought to know,’ said Clynes sullenly.
‘They’ll know,’ said Correll, pondering on the most dramatic way of conveying the news to Mrs Bourke.
Clynes was beating on walls within his mind. Power! Power! To make people come to him for things. Yes, Sir … No, Sir … To disdain. To humiliate. To ignore. Like Fulsham, to whom people crawled … And Fulsham was out at the races.
And the foremen looking at him as he passed. Obeying him with reluctance and resentment. And Fulsham out at the races—and his car—and his money—and women …
He had always been faithful to his wife, though envying Fulsham his courage in drinking from every well.
The monotony of his days made bearable by his ambition. And now the crash and all the women he could have had and now would never, never have. And a factory of his own … A factory of his own …
‘We’ve been too honest in this firm,’ he said savagely. ‘You’ve got to be tough in business … Tread over those in your way …’
He spoke with bitter relish as if he were even then tramping down those who disregarded him, who did not seek his advice, who did not take him into account.
‘There is no sentiment in business,’ he went on rapidly. ‘If your brother is working for you and you can get a better man, sack him. You don’t want to study anyone. If you can put one over anyone, do it. I don’t mean, to be dishonest; but work it so that you never give a point.’
He straightened himself defiantly. ‘They’re not leaving me behind. I’ll be on the map again. You get a lot of experience from a thing like this,’ he ended vindictively.
‘Our shares,’ said Correll. ‘They’re preference shares. We’ll get paid back for them, won’t we?’
‘No fear, we won’t. When this company goes, our shares go with them.’
Correll was disturbed. ‘Er —r—r—. But they’re protected … I mean they’re preference. Our houses, see. They’re security.’
‘Preference or no preference; house or no house; bang goes the lot.’ Clynes found pleasure in emphasising to Correll the finality of the disaster.
‘If only the Douglasites were in power,’ commented Correll bitterly.
He pushed his fingers through his thick hair. ‘Isn’t there some law …? I mean — we’ve always thought they were so safe. — E — r — r—. That money must mean something.’
Clynes laughed harshly. ‘It means a hell of a lot to all of us, but that won’t help any.’
He watched one of the cleaning-room girls stacking boxes.
He left Correll and walked over to her. She increased the speed of her working. He watched her for a moment with a foolish, self-conscious smile upon his face.
The girl watched him warily from beneath her brows.
He essayed familiarity with an awkward effort to appear skilful and at ease.
‘You look as if you had been out with the boy last night.’
The girl was anxious to impress. She glanced at him with an expression of guileful suggestion. ‘Too right I was,’ she lied.
When Clynes had left her she said to the girl working at the next bench, ‘What’s happened to old Pain-in-the-guts today? He’s never come at that before.’
16
B-r-r-r … have you heard? … they say we are going bung … clang-clang … well, it won’t be long now … r-u-u-mble … look out there … now we know where we are … b-z-Z-Z- … bloody mismanagement … thumpa-thumpa-thumpa … are we all going to stand this … Whiz-z … what did I say; with her there … clatter clatter — clatter clatter … I tipped this three months ago didn’t I say this three months ago? … m-m-m-wh-z-z-z … no new frock for you, baby, if this is true … bang bang … does it mean we get the sack? … oo-OO-oo-OO-oo … they say we’re going bung … ss-p-ss-p-ss-p … ten years’ work for nothing, eh, and me with a family … crash-crash-crash …
‘I’d be obliged, Mr McCormack, if you would let us know if there is a danger of us going out. I owe a lot on my house. I could be advertising to sell it.’
‘Who told you we were going out, Clarkson?’ asked the accountant, looking at him penetratingly.
The foreman moved uncomfortably on his feet. ‘Well, — er — they all know,’ he said.
‘No one knows whether we are going out or not,’ said the accountant. ‘There is the possibility. We are in a bad way. But we intend giving it a go. Even if we do go out it won’t be for several months yet.’
‘Thanks, Mr McCormack,’ said Clarkson. ‘You know how it is, what with
one thing and another. You know …’
‘Yes, I know. How is your rheumatism these days?’
‘Not so bad since I been taking that soda mixture you told me about. It’s good, that stuff.’
‘They say it is,’ said the accountant.
‘I used to drink a lot of milk, but the nightwatchman told me that his wife had read that milk was bad for rheumatism. I cut it out. But I think it is standing on me feet that does it. I’ve had to work the Consol the last few days, and just coming on lunch each day I get pains in the heart and the centre of the back.’
‘The Consol is one of the worst machines of the lot to work, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’ve been doing four hundred pair a day on it. That makes it bad. You have to hold the shoe steady to resist the blow that drives the tacks home. It takes it out of you. I think it’s bad for rheumatics.’
‘Yes. It sounds as if it would be,’ murmured the accountant.
‘How about us taking a ticket in “Tatts” together?’ suggested the foreman. ‘In case the firm goes out and that. Will you?’
‘Too right.’
The accountant drew some coins from his pocket.
‘How much?’
‘Give me two and nine. That will pay for half of it.’
The accountant handed him the money.
‘That’s right. Thanks.’
The accountant made his way to where Correll was putting dabs of iodine inside shoes.
‘What is the big idea?’ he asked.
‘It helps to sell them,’ said Correll. ‘They buy them like hot cakes as soon as the salesman opens the lid and they get a whiff of the iodine.’
The accountant took one of the shoes in his hand. In the insole just above the curve of the arch, three V-shapes openings were punched, revealing an underlay of red flannel. The underlay did not continue throughout the shoe as the glimpse of the red flannel suggested. Only a small patch of the material was used, and it was pasted directly beneath the cuts.
On the white leather insole of the shoe just above the heel was stamped in gold lettering the words, ‘Doctor Baddock’s Arch-support shoes. Andrew Bentley, Sole Distributor.’
‘But haven’t we been calling this shoe “Doctor Martin’s,” ’ asked the accountant.
‘We call it “Doctor Martin’s” in our own shops,’ explained Correll. ‘We had to think of another name for Bentley’s order.’
‘Who thought of the iodine?’
‘Clynes.’
‘Do you dab it down near the toe?’
‘Yes. Where they can’t see it. It is the smell of it that sells the shoe.’
‘This shoe has a big sale among women with rheumatics, hasn’t it?’
‘My word. They think the red flannel is good for rheumatics.’
The accountant returned the shoe to the bench and stood looking at it in silence.
‘I heard a rumour that we are going out.’ Correll’s head was bent to the shoe in this hand, but his eyes, turned in the direction of the accountant, looked intently at the floor.
The accountant, deep in thought, was still gazing at the doctor’s shoe.
‘The trouble is we’ve been too honest in this firm.’ Correll repeated Clynes’ pronouncement with finality in the closing of his lips.
A girl pushed a rack laden with shoes towards Correll’s bench. She manoeuvred it round another rack and left it standing beside him.
He gazed at it sourly. ‘Over-production is the curse of the age.’
He tapped the accountant on the arm. ‘Do you know, brother, that the boot factories of Australia could, by working full time for six months, produce ample footwear for Australia’s needs?’
‘I daresay they could,’ said the accountant.
‘It’s the bloody system.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Well, why don’t you join our movement and help to remedy it?’
‘It would be impossible to remedy your movement,’ said the accountant, grinning.
‘I mean the existing system,’ explained Correll, exasperated.
‘Oh!’
‘You’re blind, brother. Blind.’
‘Three blind mice, three blind mice,’ chanted the accountant as if to himself.
Miss Trueman came to the office door and looked round the factory.
The accountant raised his hand and, catching her eye, formed the word ‘me’ with his lips. She nodded.
Andrew Bentley was in the office. There were dark areas beneath his eyes. His face was strained.
The accountant sat down. ‘Well. How is business?’
Bentley leant forward in the attitude of one about to impart a confidence. His eyes moved restlessly, evading those of the accountant.
‘Bad,’ he said. ‘I only took seventy pounds last week. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Hm,’ said the accountant.
‘This week is terrible, too … Five pounds, Monday. Four pounds, Tuesday. Ten pounds, Wednesday. And then you’ve got to drag them in by the teeth. They seem to be getting it in the city, but not out in Richmond. It doesn’t seem to be a matter of price, either. Unless the chain stores are getting it. Wiley and Hales are reducing, though. They had to put a boy off. And they’ve got that Crash-Bang sale on, too. They’ve got courts and ties, blacks and browns at five and eleven; men’s at seven and three.’
‘Ridiculous prices,’ said the accountant.
‘We’ve got one competitor less in the street, anyway. Young is getting out.’
‘Couldn’t keep up with competition, I suppose.’
‘Their stuff was too good … Reilly’s, Brooks, Cameron’s …
All these lines. They’re absolutely useless in a working-class suburb. You’ve got to stock rubbish for the working man. Their wages are not big enough to buy anything else. I’ve got too much good stuff.’
He was silent, frowning at the floor.
‘All my good stuff is lying in the shop looking at me. You can’t live beside Wiley and Hales. I put in a cheap window and pushed it up for a day, but what’s the good of that — a day?’
‘You know that your account with us for stock is now over the hundred, don’t you?’
Bentley drew a deep breath as if he were about to plunge beneath water.
‘Yes.’
‘I realise how difficult trade is at present,’ the accountant went on. ‘But that does not release you from your obligation to at least make an attempt to reduce our account. Do you realise that you haven’t paid us one penny on account since you bought the place? That is five months ago. We cannot possibly let your account run on any further.’
‘That’s what I want to speak to you about,’ said Bentley hurriedly.
His tongue moved across his lips. He raised his head and looked at a spot high on the wall, then lowered it again and looked at the floor. Then to a normal position from where he looked directly at the accountant with an expression full of resolve.
‘I am going to give you fifty pounds in a fortnight and the balance next month.’
The accountant gazed thoughtfully at his date pad. Will I accept it or not? But what can I do? The poor beggar has nothing.
‘That will be satisfactory to us,’ he said. ‘But what puzzles me is how you intend raising the money. After deducting expenses from your takings there is very little left … That is on the figures you have given me.’
‘I’m going to sell my house,’ explained Bentley. ‘I’ve talked it over with the wife. We both think trade will look up towards the end of the year … Then I’ll buy another one.’
The accountant raised an open hand to his forehead and hid beneath its shadow. Hot blood flowed through him in a wave of shame.
17
Dark teatree limbs drooped above the car. A twisted trunk beside the bonnet writhed up into the darkness.
They could hear the sea quite plainly. Little waves slapping the beach and retreating with a chuckle.
The accountant was smoking. At each draw his
cigarette glowed and illuminated for a moment the live, warm face of Freda poised in the darkness close to his own.
She lay in the crook of his arm, her head against his shoulder. He listened to her breathing feeling its insignificant contribution to the sea’s sound transmuted into something precious.
She turned to face him. He threw away his cigarette and wrapped his arms around her. Words and expressions surged within him like crestless waves powerless to break into words.
He could only murmur incoherently.
She sought his mouth and finding it was one with him. Her lifted body, and the night, and the sea …
He thought, this is a Moment. Without a doubt she loves me. This is a Moment.
She held his face between her hands so that she might look at him.
‘I know you love me,’ she said. ‘I felt it when you kissed me then.’
He said, ‘I do.’
‘I love you, too,’ she said.
Their rapt expression slowly changed to smiles, and each delighting in the observed movement of feature, continued silently watching.
Content, he said: ‘Every life has high spots in it. I call them Moments. You never forget them. They seem to have the ring of truth in them. A girl told me once that her boy friend often told her he loved her; but she was never really convinced. Then one night when he had his arm around her he exclaimed, with a sort of rapture, “Ah! Judy,” and she could have shouted with joy. It was a Moment. She knew he loved her. I felt that way when you said you loved me just now. It was a Moment.’
She rubbed her cheek up and down against his sleeve.
A murmur of voices came from a sedan car that had drawn up in a clump of teatree beside them. A woman’s voice, rich, musical … ‘The trouble is that I love you and you only like me.’ A man’s voice, importunate, pleading, indistinguishable. The woman’s voice … ‘No … No …’ Then tragically, ‘I gave in to you before and I’ve been sorry ever since.’
Afraid of his reaction to the voice which played on him like music, the accountant stirred uncomfortably. The voice in the next car, he thought, and he repeated it again in his mind — The voice in the next car. Always charmed by the voice in the next car.
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 18
