How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  She gasped. She moaned a little. She looked pleadingly up at Mrs Bourke with a dog-like expression.

  ‘No one can see you, dear. There are no men here. I have the racks all round you.’

  Annie returned with the ginger. Mrs Bourke knelt and held the glass to the little girl’s lips.

  She drank. She looked at Mrs Bourke gratefully. Tears were in her eyes.

  ‘Feeling better?’ asked Mrs Bourke.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Stop there a little longer and then you can go upstairs and lie down.’

  ‘Has any one seen me? Do the men know?’

  ‘No. No one knows.’

  ‘I feel better now. I could go up now.’

  She sat up. Mrs Bourke helped her to her feet. She began to cry.

  ‘It’s the walking …’ she said tearfully.

  ‘Fanny,’ called Mrs Bourke. ‘You go upstairs with Rene. Come on.’

  Fanny placed her arm round Rene’s waist. Going up the stairs she whispered, ‘If ever you get crook at home, put a hot plate on your stomach. It’ll fix you up. A hot salt pack is good, too, they reckon.’

  ‘I’m lonely,’ said Clynes. ‘I’d like some one to cuddle me.’ His eyes were directed at but did not see the shoe in his hand.

  Fanny paused with her hand resting on a card-board box. She looked at him sideways, calculating the length of which she might go in her reply without endangering her job.

  ‘Is that all you’re after?’ she asked.

  Clynes moved closer. He wanted to keep the conversation in these channels. He sought clumsily for a sly, suggestive answer.

  ‘I’d like more than that from you. How about coming out with me one night?’

  ‘How could I get out?’ Fanny evaded him. ‘The boy friend would want to know where I was going.’

  ‘Couldn’t you put him off one night?’ Clynes was eager.

  ‘You mightn’t be safe to go out with.’

  ‘Get out! I wouldn’t know what to do.’

  ‘You’d know all right.’ (The big fool. What does he take me for?)

  ‘You could teach me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ Her mocking glance denied her assertion.

  He swallowed and glanced furtively round him. ‘Come out with me one night, will you?’

  It’s too cold these nights. I wouldn’t be able to wear my scanties.’

  A pulse throbbed in Clynes’ throat. He could feel the beat of his heart.

  ‘I’ll take you to a room.’

  ‘My boy friend wouldn’t let me.’

  Clynes, thwarted, moved distressfully. Lust gnawed at his reason. No peace — the firm rocking — his wife complaining — no escape … No escape.

  Young girls that pressed their parted lips upon your neck; that said, ‘I love you. You are wonderful. How clever you are. How brave … Take no notice of those around you. You are greater than they. I love you … Take me … Crush me …’

  And the firm going bankrupt. And then no money. And no young girls for ever …

  ‘Come out with me,’ he demanded urgently, his voice trembling.

  ‘No.’

  He left her.

  She examined the shoe in her hand She said to Rene, standing at the next bench, ‘He should be looking after this crook suede instead of bullin’ round me.’

  Rene felt frightened. She giggled uncertainly.

  Clynes went into the office. The accountant was alone.

  ‘When you back a horse for a place and there are only six starters, do you get paid for third place?

  ‘No,’ said the accountant.

  ‘Blast it!’

  He stood biting his underlip. ‘I’m going to ring through a few bets.’

  ‘Good-o’

  He walked to the phone and dialled a number. ‘Is that Berwick’s barber’s shop? — Put me on to Mr Berwick.’

  He took a soiled piece of paper from his pocket and spread it on the table. He studied it gloomily. He suddenly spoke into the receiver.

  ‘Will you take these, please? — Two bob each way Gay Girl in the Handicap. Two bob each way Young Crusader in the Cup, and two bob each way Marana in the Steeple. — Good-o—’

  He hung up and said to the accountant, ‘They say Marana’s a moral.’

  ‘He is a good horse.’

  Clynes looked at his watch. With his watch in his hand he stood looking through the door that led to the factory. He stood very still, like a dog pointing.

  He replaced his watch. An exciting trepidation followed his train of thought. He walked quickly over to the accountant and, placing his hand on the table, bent so that his head was on a level with the other’s.

  He said, ‘I’m going down to Denver’s to see if there is anything doing down there. I heard that he is after a manager. It is every one for himself now.’ His voice became more intimate. ‘You know that little girl that knocks off at two — she is working half time. I think I will walk down with her. She goes as far as Gertrude Street. I think I will put it on her to meet me. How would I go about it? You know these things. What would I say? Do you think she would come out? She is married, you know.’

  The accountant stopped writing and laid down his pen. He was faintly excited as if he were watching a cat stalking a bird. Yet he felt suddenly sad.

  He said, ‘She probably would. I notice she smiles at you when she leaves.’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said Clynes, pleased. ‘I’ve noticed that. I don’t think she smiles at anyone else. Does she at you?’

  ‘No. She doesn’t smile at me,’ said the accountant picking a thread off his coat.

  ‘Well, what will I say to her?’

  The accountant leant back in his chair and looked at the picture of the Duke of Gloucester.

  ‘Oh! Tell her you have been most attracted by her appearance. Tell her that you have always felt that she is different to other girls.’

  ‘Different,’ repeated Clynes doubtfully.

  ‘Yes, “different”,’ said the accountant looking at him.

  ‘All right, then. What else?’

  ‘Then ask her what she does with herself of a night. Ask her if she will meet you and have a talk one evening.’

  ‘Do you think I had better say “have a talk”. She might misunderstand me.’

  ‘I don’t think she will misunderstand you,’ said the accountant quietly. ‘No, she will not misunderstand you. You can be quite sure of that.’ He lifted his hand and gazed at his finger nails.

  ‘I’ve a good mind to try it,’ said Clynes. ‘I think I will try it.’

  ‘She can only knock you back.’

  ‘Yes; but I don’t like getting knock backs. The girl has always got it over you. They slow up in their work.’

  ‘Well, that is one of the risks you will have to take.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so. She is a nice girl, isn’t she?’

  ‘She is so.’

  ‘It is after two now. She should be down. I will put on my hat and stand talking to you just as if I am going out.’

  He smoothed his hair with his hand and put on his hat. He brushed the lapels of his coat with his fingers. The accountant commenced writing.

  All hands ceasing work before the usual time had to pass through the office when leaving the factory. It enabled a check to be kept on their movements after they had stopped work and helped to prevent thieving. Employees carrying suspicious parcels were always questioned before being allowed to leave.

  The factory door opened and a girl entered. She looked quickly at Clynes, then smiled at him. Her smile was uncertain and contained no contribution from her eyes which remained apprehensive.

  Clynes turned to the accountant and said, in a loud, self-conscious voice, ‘Well, I must be going.’

  He left the office, following the girl.

  Twenty minutes later he returned. His face bore a sullen expression and he hung up his hat in silence. To the accountant’s enquiring look he replied, ‘Nothing doing. She is married
and is nuts on her husband.’

  He hurried into the factory. ‘Why in the hell haven’t these shoes been packed,’ he shouted at Correll.

  Mrs Bourke was a widow. She had reared two children on the money she earned as a forewoman of the cleaning room. She was paid two pounds ten shillings a week. She had never stopped to think of her value to the firm. She did not know her value because she had never applied for a position elsewhere. She was ‘used to’ the Modern Shoe Company. She had always worked there. The wages she received seemed adequate.

  Her two children were clean and healthy. The girl was thirteen years old, the boy eleven. The girl boarded, and was being educated at a convent. The boy attended a Christian Brothers school and lived home with his mother. His mother paid a pound a week rent for the house in which they lived.

  The Spring brought influenza. The factory employees swallowed aspros and fought the fever. Those who had to give in and spend days in bed had their wages docked. The men lost sixteen shillings and threepence for every day spent in bed. They put on extra clothing and tried to sweat it out of themselves before their machines. They could not afford to lose sixteen and three.

  Mrs Bourke had a bad cough; but she was not worried about that. Her little boy was ill. He had been running a temperature of 105.

  She said to the accountant, ‘I was howlin’ half the night. That’s no good to a woman of my disposition with work to do. But he is easier now. Could you run me home at lunch time to have a look at him? He will be lonely there all day on his own.’

  When the lunch bell rang, the accountant had the car ready.

  They drove down narrow streets and up alleys. They pulled up before a house crushed to breathlessness between terraced buildings. They went inside.

  The bedroom was very clean and tidy. He lay in a large double bed, and smiled at them as they entered. A small dog lay on the end of the bed. It had no tail. At their appearance it wagged its hindquarters with great friendliness and made whining sounds of delight.

  ‘How are you, dear?’ asked the mother.

  ‘I’m good-o, Mum.’

  ‘Did you drink your broth?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  A table beside the bed bore a thermos flask and a jug of lemon water. Some sandwiches lay on a plate. Mrs Bourke took the thermos flask and poured some broth into a cup.

  ‘Drink some of this now.’ She held it to his lips. He drank.

  The accountant said, ‘That is the stuff.’

  ‘This is Mr McCormack, Bill.’

  They smiled at each other.

  The accountant sat on the end of the bed. The dog made an attempt to lick his face. He held it in his arms and said, ‘When I was a little boy I had a dog like this. He slept on the end of my bed, too. I loved him. Will this chap bring things to you?’

  ‘He brings them but he won’t let them go,’ said Bill resting on an elbow. ‘He brings my socks but he sort of growls and hangs on to them. When you go to grab him he ducks off.’

  ‘Finish this, dear.’

  He drained the cup.

  ‘Cover yourself up,’ said the accountant.

  He leaned over and placed his hand on the boy’s forehead. ‘No fever now,’ he said.

  ‘I sweated it away,’ said Bill.

  ‘I hate sweating, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, too.’

  ‘Do you read comics?’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘I will send you along some tonight. Tomorrow will not seem so long then.’

  ‘I think I will shake up his bed,’ said Mrs Bourke.

  ‘Good idea,’ said the accountant, ‘I will wait for you in the car.’ He rose. ‘Good-bye, old chap.’

  ‘Good-bye,’ said Bill.

  The dog jumped from the bed and led him across the room. He carried one back leg raised and hopped along on the remaining three.

  ‘Hullo! Is he lame?’ exclaimed the accountant.

  ‘No. He always does that.’

  ‘I like that dog. He is one of the nicest dogs I have met.’

  ‘He is the best dog I have ever had.’

  The accountant bent and patted the animal, then left them.

  He sat smoking and thinking of Freda until Mrs Bourke appeared.

  ‘He is much better,’ she said as she got into the car beside him.

  ‘Yes. He will be able to get up tomorrow.’

  ‘I reared that boy myself,’ she said proudly.

  ‘He is a credit to you,’ said the accountant. ‘I like his face. It is frank and manly.’

  ‘I feel worried about his future. Everyone seems to think that the Modern is going bung. What will I do then? He will need looking after for a while.’

  I should deny that we are going bung, thought the accountant. He revolted at the thought of more deception. He said, ‘Keep your eyes open for another job, Mrs Bourke. Don’t talk about it but look up the ads each morning.’

  ‘Is it as bad as that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will my girls do? It is easy for machinists to get jobs. Cleaning room hands are not wanted. There is Ruth. She is the best Glosser I have ever had. She can gloss a shoe as smooth as an egg. She was out of work for two months before she got a job with me.’

  ‘They will have a hard time I am afraid.’

  ‘Hard! They always have a hard time. I wrote a poem about a factory girl the other night.’

  ‘Did you really?’ asked the accountant, interested. ‘I didn’t know you wrote poetry.’

  ‘I often write it,’ said Mrs Bourke. ‘I have the last one in my bag. Would you like to read it?’

  ‘I would so.’

  She took a folded sheet paper from her hand bag and gave it to him.

  ‘Can I keep it and read it this afternoon?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘Yes. I will get it off you tonight.’

  ‘I will bring it out after I finish it.’

  She said, absently, ‘I am worried about the future. I have had a bad cough ever since the summer. It’s that white powder I got on my lungs that done it. I should drink plenty of milk. It washes it off. I can’t throw off this cough. I used to cough up powder every night when we were on those white shoes.’

  The accountant was silent, comprehending but unable to contribute anything of comfort.

  At the factory she walked in ahead of him. He sat at his table and took from his pocket the folded piece of paper. It was headed, ‘The Factory Girl,’ and was punctuated according to a method of her own.

  Just as the dawn is breaking

  She creeps to her cosy bed

  Home from a ‘wonderful’ party

  But ‘Oh’ what a dreadful head.

  Tomorrow she will feel weary,

  And to work she will have to go.

  That’s mum calling from the kitchen

  It’s 7 o’clock

  I hope you know,

  She hurries through her breakfast,

  Afraid she will be late,

  Rushes to the station

  As the porter slams the gate.

  He knows what she is thinking

  So he gives her, a little smile

  Never mind your train, old kid,

  Just talk to me awhile.

  Then down to the factory she scampers

  Along a dreary street,

  Her hat and coat is on the peg,

  And she is in her seat.

  The machinery starts grinding

  She begins her toil again.

  Outside the sun is shining.

  Tonight will be pouring rain.

  Soon she has started dreaming of all last night’s fun.

  Then a stern voice is calling

  Come on there is work to be done

  At lunch she talks of boy friends and pictures she’s seen

  Of parties and dances and where they have been.

  The long day is closing

  ‘Hark’ there goes the bell

  Grabbing hats and purses

  With a little
excited yell,

  Come on, old bean don’t be long,

  You see I’ve got a date

  Put your lips on in the train

  You know it is getting late.

  The dancing feet have died away

  The day’s work is done

  Honest and straight to her firm

  And workers every one

  Their watcher stands and ponders

  There goes another day

  Tomorrow I must be stricter

  This room has got to pay.

  The week has nearly ended

  ‘Gee’ I haven’t a rag

  Sister Nell is out of work and so is Joe and Dad

  Suppose I’ll give my money home

  Never a chance to save,

  Will have to wait another week

  To get my permanent wave.

  ‘Now’ why do they condemn her

  This girl that is earning her bread

  She hasn’t got much freedom

  It’s work all day instead

  And so she hurries homeward

  Her hair she has to curl,

  Tea ready ‘Mum’ there ’s a dance tonight,

  That’s the life of a Factory Girl.

  By One Who Knows.

  The accountant refolded the sheet of paper and placed it in his pocket.

  Clynes thrust his head through the door and called to Miss Trueman, ‘Don’t forget to dock those four girls who are away with the flu.’

  22

  Clynes had said, ‘I saw your girl friend lying on a rug with Rollow down at the beach.’

  And he had laughed and said, ‘Yes. She told me about it.’

  His fingers clutched the steering wheel of the car. He shuddered violently. The car swerved. (God Almighty! what is wrong with me?)

  ‘On a rug with Rollow down at the beach.’

  ‘On a rug with Rollow down at the beach.’

  All day the beating of it in his brain. All day — and now the cool night, and still the beat …

  ‘On a rug with Rollow down at the beach.’

  He turned into Freda’s street. She would be waiting, standing in the dark. The darkness would be wrapped close around her, pressing against her face, snuggling in the soft indentation between her closed lips. The intimate contact of the night … Christ! …