How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  He suddenly faced the phone. ‘Yes.’

  A man’s voice came to him. ‘Re Bentley.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe he is in a bad way and likely to file his schedule any minute. At present he is away seriously ill. A nervous breakdown, they say. I am doing what I can to bring him to the scratch, but it looks pretty bad. I’d advise you to go right ahead and put the bailiffs in.’

  ‘Can’t you get in touch with him?’

  ‘No. He is in a rest home. They found him walking along the railway line one night, I believe. He doesn’t know what he is doing half the time.’

  ‘It looks as if we will lose the lot.’

  ‘We may get something if we act promptly.’

  ‘Well, will you go right ahead? I will O.K. any steps you think necessary. Do the best you can for us.’

  ‘I will see what I can do. I will let you know the result.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He replaced the receiver and said to Miss Trueman, ‘Bentley seems to have cracked up.’

  ‘Yes. Poor man.’

  ‘He had enthusiasm,’ said the accountant bitterly.

  ‘But no brains.’ She gave him a merry glance from her expresssive eyes.

  The accountant greeted it with a laugh. ‘What exactly do you mean by that look?’

  She smiled but didn’t reply.

  He said, with regard for her in his voice, ‘What do you intend doing after you are thrown out of here.’

  ‘I told you. I am getting married.’

  ‘So you are!’ he exclaimed, remembering the fact with a new interest. ‘May I come to the wedding?’ he added, eagerly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s an invitation,’ he pronounced. ‘I am anxious to meet this boy of yours.’

  ‘You will like him.’

  ‘I am sure I will.’

  ‘It’s nearly eleven o’clock,’ she warned him. ‘You said you had an appointment with the bank manager at eleven.’

  ‘Oh! those dishonourable bills,’ he cried, with mock anguish. ‘I must away to do some more dishonouring.’ He added in his normal voice, ‘And every one knows about them now.’

  ‘There was a letter for you in the post this morning. Did you get it?’

  ‘No. Where is it?’

  ‘On your table.’

  ‘Good Lord! So it is.’

  He opened it.

  At work.

  How’re ya Pal?

  The job is going marvellously. Sol is a dear. But I have told you all this before.

  How are you? Why are you? Where are you?

  I can speak on the phone, here. Ring me up and let me hear your voice again. I love your letters, but a voice — well — is a voice. A letter — well is a letter. Good reasoning, this.

  Who do you give your tobaccery pieces of chocolate to, these days? — Miss Claws? Fie, Fie!

  Your last letter was remarkably affectionate for a big-business man earning his—er — thirty guineas weekly. Haw! Haw! Surely I’m not as nice as all that, said she, all innocence. (You make me feel that I am, but us girls must finesse a little.) Please go on repeating the statements with a few new ones added.

  I must do some work. Don’t forget to ring.

  Coral.

  From where they were parked they could hear the traffic in St Kilda Road. He had stopped the car beneath some elm trees. Behind the trees across squares of grass were the vague darknesses of shrubs and bushes. The air was frosty.

  The smell of the hot saveloys, lying like large woodgrubs upon the paper on his knee, made them feel hungry.

  ‘What an idea!’ said the accountant. ‘God bless the hot-dog man! Split the rolls and let us tear at them cannibal fashion.’

  Coral took off her gloves. She pulled up her sleeves. ‘Stand back,’ she said.

  ‘Help yourself.’ He transferred the laden paper to her lap.

  ‘Not all these.’

  ‘Half each.’

  ‘Take yours, then.’

  He broke a roll and gripped a saveloy between the halves. Coral did likewise.

  ‘I suppose I should eat daintily so as to make an impression,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t bother. Hark to the champing of my jaws.’

  ‘What a pity we haven’t got any sauce.’

  ‘Yes. I should have asked the man for some.’

  ‘Do you eat the skins?’ she asked, with her fingers to her mouth.

  ‘No. Aren’t they tough? Let’s be natural and throw them overboard.’

  They tossed discarded skin and pieces of roll to the roadway. A patch of scraps appeared beside the car. The accountant, looking at it, said doubtfully, ‘This seems rather untidy.’

  Coral leaned across him and looked over the side. ‘It does look awful. What do you think? Will we get out and clean it up?’

  ‘Let’s leave it. It will be swept up in the morning.’ He felt in his pocket for cigarettes. ‘Like one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He placed his arm around her shoulders. The glow of her cigarette illuminated her face. She has a fine face, he thought, watching her.

  He commenced making love in a facetious fashion. She responded to his mood.

  ‘This is necessary, you know,’ he said. ‘Love-making is an outlet. It mellows one.’

  ‘That is old stuff,’ she countered. ‘I thought you knew better.’

  ‘Yes. It is old stuff, isn’t it. I was foolish to try it. Have you ever fallen for it?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘It is hard to be original. I can’t think of any new way to approach you. How do you react to pleading?’

  ‘I recoil.’

  ‘Good Lord! Anyway, pleading involves loss of dignity. My soul revolts at the thought. I really believe in direct action.’

  ‘I dislike direct action.’

  ‘Well, let’s talk seriously then. What do you think of the political situation in the Near East?’

  ‘I think it will have far-reaching effects.’

  ‘Hm! what is your opinion of the Shah of Persia?’

  ‘I dislike him.’

  ‘Good. What do you think of Rod McCormack?’

  She laughed. ‘Not much.’

  ‘Not so good,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again.’

  He kissed her. She strained from him, then with a murmur of capitulation moved closer. He taut, new lips rested uncertainly on his. His mouth moved across her cheek to her throat. She clutched his hands.

  ‘No,’ she whispered, her voice shaking.

  He withdrew his hand. She was trembling. He drew her to him, kissing her with passion. With eyes closed and strained, quivering body, she suffered his caresses.

  She suddenly doubled her body and pushed him violently away from her. She shuddered convulsively.

  ‘I loathe you,’ she whispered, an intensity of revulsion in her voice.

  She sat away from him, her bowed head resting on her hands. She made no sound.

  He held her hand firmly in his and gazed through the windscreen in silence, hating himself, He lit a cigarette, smoking with deep inhalations.

  She remained still, her attitude an accusation.

  He waited.

  Later, she raised her head. He looked at her. She smiled wryly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I was a beast,’ he said. ‘I had thought, from my knowledge of you, that you were experienced in this sort of thing and then, when I realised you were not, I continued as if you were. I’m sorry. You needn’t be afraid of me again.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you,’ she said, then added in explanation, ‘I have not been out with many men.’

  ‘I thought you had been.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it when I said I loathed you. I don’t know why I said it.’

  ‘I am glad you said it.’

  She moved closer to him. He placed his arm around her. They smiled at each other.

  They sat till after midnight.

  He drove her home and said, before she alighted, ‘I hav
e an idea. Let’s meet each week.’

  ‘I have a better one,’ she said, and laughed. ‘Let’s meet twice a week.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘I will ring you tomorrow. We will go to a show together.’

  ‘Ring between twelve and one.’

  ‘All right. Good night, Coral.’

  She raised her face to him. He kissed her gently.

  26

  ’Is that Rollow’‘s? asked Clynes, speaking on the phone. ‘I am sending down a girl this morning … You’ll find her easy to handle … What? … I’m doing the best I can … They’re waiting like wolves outside the factory every night. They took two off me last night. All the factories are after machinists … The day we close up I’ll bring down four or five … It’ll be all right. I’ll get them …’

  His face was twitching when he stood up.

  ‘Friday will see us out, I think,’ said the accountant.

  Clynes, biting his lip, exclaimed in an undertone, ‘Blast it!’

  He went out. Later, a girl came down the stairs. She opened the office door uncertainly. Miss Trueman nodded to her to go through. Before she stepped on to the street the accountant called her. ‘Phyllis.’ She came back. He signed to her to lower her head. He said, ‘Hang out for more than the award.’

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘Two pounds seven and six. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right. See that you get it.’

  He bent over his ledger again. She left him.

  ‘Another one gone,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘One by one. Why can’t we crash all of a sudden instead of breaking up slowly.’

  ‘It is like a disease,’ said the accountant.

  A woman at the door said, ‘Are you Mr McCormack?’

  The accountant looked up. The woman was thin with colorless lips that moved nervously.

  ‘I’m Rene Gaunt’s mother.’

  ‘Oh, yes! I remember you.’

  ‘They tell me this firm’s goin’ out for ever.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I can’t ’ardly believe it. When Rene came ’ome and told me that you was goin’ out for ever the tears ran down ’er face. She was cut up, she was. She’s been workin’ ’ere for nearly a year and now you’re goin’ out for ever. I can’t ‘ardly believe it.’

  ‘It is hard to believe. Can I be of any help to you?’

  ‘I’d like to see Mrs Bourke. Rene says she’s kind. I’m that there worried over Rene. She’s earnin’ the money, see.’

  ‘I will get Mrs Bourke,’ said the accountant.

  He rang through to the cleaning room and asked her to come to the office.

  She entered smiling, and raised her brows enquiringly. The accountant nodded towards the woman at the counter.

  ‘I’m Rene’s mother,’ said the woman.

  Mrs Bourke listened to her in silence. The woman talked quickly.

  She was afraid Rene wouldn’t be able to get another job. What would she do? Did Mrs Bourke know of any jobs?

  Mrs Bourke saw nothing to worry about. ‘Don’t worry over Rene. I can get her a job tomorrow. When she leaves here I will see that she starts somewhere else straight away.’

  The mother’s lips began to tremble. Her mind moved tearfully within her seeking words of thanks. The sudden lifting of strain and anxiety left her weak and presented Mrs Bourke as a benefactor beyond her gratitude.

  She murmured words, her eyes, looking into those of the forewoman, expressing what she could not say.

  Mrs Bourke smiled at her and said, ‘She is a good girl.’

  The mother found words at that and talked of her daughter, pleased that she suddenly seemed to be on an equality with Mrs Bourke.

  When she had gone, the accountant grinned at the forewoman. ‘Good work, Sister.’

  Mrs Bourke waved a deprecatory hand. ‘I haven’t got a job myself, yet.’

  ‘You will get one.’

  ‘How long now, do you think?’

  ‘There will be a meeting of shareholders on Friday.’

  ‘And after that?’

  The accountant jerked his open hands apart, palms upward. ‘All out, then. All our orders will be completed. The clickers go off tomorrow.’

  ‘Tch! Tch!’ she clicked her tongue. ‘My poor girls.’

  ‘It will go hard with the cleaners over twenty-one.’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned to go, but suddenly remembered. ‘Make up Bloom’s money tonight, will you? I’m putting her off.’

  ‘Good-o. What is wrong with her?’

  ‘Since she heard we were going bung she thinks she’s at a birthday party. She’s a ratbag. It’s hard enough as it is to keep the girls up to the mark.’

  ‘None of them seem to care, now.’

  ‘The men are the same. Shoes disappear out of my room every night, and it’s not my girls that take them.’

  ‘No. Thieving is going on in every room,’ admitted the accountant.

  ‘You know that paste you clean blue kid with, Mrs Bourke,’ asked Miss Trueman.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gould I have some in a tin? I’ve never been able to buy it in town.’

  ‘I’ll put some in ajar for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The phone rang. ‘Yes,’ answered the accountant.

  Mrs Bourke went into the factory.

  ‘About that bill returned from the bank this morning,’ said a voice at the other end of the wire.

  The accountant bit his lip. He could see the speaker sitting at a table striving to conceal the concern in his voice. He knew and liked the man. The man liked him. He knew that this man had been responsible for an extension of the dishonoured bill. He had extended it on his own initiative. His was the responsibility. He had extended it because of his regard for the accountant.

  When they had met their handshake was firm, and they looked into each other’s eyes, pleased at what they saw. Now they were not looking into each other’s eyes. They were the impersonal voices of factories, and their faces were averted. They were not meeting on terms of equality. The voice from the phone was the voice of a firm confident in its integrity. The accountant’s voice was the voice of a firm of which he was ashamed.

  He said in a characterless voice, ‘We intend holding a meeting of shareholders on Friday to discuss the position. Until then we can do nothing.’

  ‘Does it mean liquidation?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘I see.’

  Nothing more. Just, ‘I see.’ The accountant hung up and bent over his ledger.

  ‘Get him,’ said Fulsham.

  Clynes rose and left the office.

  ‘I’ll stop this thieving,’ growled Fulsham.

  The accountant, sitting at the end of the table, said, ‘They’re really not dishonest.’

  ‘Then what are they?’ snapped Fulsham.

  ‘Frightened of the future,’ said the accountant. ‘They are all anxious to have something to tide them over while they are looking for a job.’

  ‘They should have prepared for it by saving,’ said Fulsham. ‘I’ve worked on the bench before today. I never had to thieve.’

  The accountant didn’t reply. They sat in silence, thinking.

  Clynes returned. Behind him followed a workman wearing a dusty, black shirt open at the throat. His hands moved nervously. They strayed to his pockets then to the buttons on his shirt. His lips were dry. He licked them. He stood awkwardly, looking first at Fulsham, then at the accountant.

  ‘Stand over here,’ commanded Fulsham, pointing.

  The man stepped quickly to a position against the table and stood rigidly erect.

  ‘You have been thieving,’ barked Fulsham.

  The man’s mind scattered in panic at the words. He endeavoured to collect them like a stockman mustering sheep. He swallowed.

  ‘No,’ he said hoarsely. ‘No — er — I took some soles — er—’

  ‘We found them in your bag,’ interrupted Clynes excitedly.

  Fulsham stood up a
nd leant across the table. ‘Come, out with it. What else have you taken?’

  Words hurried from between the man’s uncontrolled lips. ‘Nothing else. It’s a fact. I took leather to sole the kid’s shoes. We’re going bung, they say. A bit of crop it was. The wife knew. I said we’re going bung. They opened my bag when I was working. I’ve never ever took nothing. I — ’

  ‘I’ll get the police,’ snapped Fulsham, watching him and reaching for the phone.

  ‘No,’ cried the man, flinging out his hand. He looked wildly round the room. The muscles in his throat moved up and down. ‘Just to sole their shoes,’ he begged. ‘There was never nothing else. I’ve worked here eight years …’

  Fulsham sat back in his chair and looked moodily at a square of white blotting paper. The man watched him with strained, unblinking eyes. The accountant looked away through the window. Clynes leant forward in his chair.

  ‘Make up his wages,’ Fulsham addressed the accountant, then turned to the workman. ‘Here’s a nice end to your eight year’s work — tossed out without a reference. You are lucky I never got the police.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ The man’s voice was shaking.

  The accountant rose to go. Clynes stood up and motioned to the man to follow him.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Fulsham, suddenly changing his mind. ‘You can stop on.’ He fumbled with papers on his table then looked up at the workman. ‘Let this be a lesson to you. You can go.’

  The man sagged within his clothes. He mumbled grateful words. Clynes pushed him through the door.

  Fulsham glared at the accountant and said defiantly. ‘Well?’

  ‘Good work,’ said the accountant sincerely.

  ‘Tell Miss Claws I want her, when you go out, will you?’ Fulsham dismissed them with a return to his usual brusqueness.

  ‘All right.’

  The accountant followed Clynes into the main office.

  A man standing before the counter beckoned to Clynes. Clynes walked quickly over to him, his manner an urgent request for silence. He leant towards him and whispered rapidly, ‘A pound each way Ohio.’

  The man made an entry in a note book. ‘You’re getting gamer and gamer,’ he grinned with a new friendliness.

  Clynes waved him away. The man went out.

  Clynes took his leather lunch-bag from beneath a table and carried it into the factory. He placed it in a corner of the cleaning room.