Often, after the name and number of some individual more independent or aggressive than the rank and file, Renshaw instructed her to write: ‘Never to be employed again by the Company’.
But that didn’t mean much.
For Renshaw, moody, strange and unpredictable, could about-face with ease, and many men dismissed with this final stigma were now back at the Dyehouse. Words didn’t always mean what they said—unless, of course, it was a Company directive.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Work began early each Friday.
On the vats the cloth was pushed through, so that it would reach the hydro and dryer in time to be dried out before the whistle blew. The vats were finished just after four, and the men began hosing down and cleaning up.
Hughie had the empty casks ranged near the dock. Renshaw had instructed him to take no deliveries unless the driver picked up the returnable empties.
In the lab, Marj Grigson was fiddling with last-minute jobs. She was cutting two-inch samples of cloth with pinking shears and pasting them into a sample book with Perkins’ Paste. It was a tedious job and she was not very interested in doing it. But any time after four Renshaw was likely to come stamping into the lab and turn back the pages in order to look up the samples of the day’s dyeing.
It was quiet as she worked. The experimental vat had ceased to clang and in the main vat area the machinery had ceased turning.
In the storeroom Oliver Henery was straightening the dye tins. The shelves were dirty. He was brushing them down with a dilapidated banister brush. It was part of the Friday clean-up.
Oliver had been promoted to the vats. Not that it meant much. The loading was heavy and the wet-money poor.
‘You don’t want to look so sad,’ Oliver called through the door to Hughie. ‘You want to count your blessings.’
Hughie came and stood, leaning his shoulder against the door, watching Oliver moodily.
Oliver grinned. He was standing on an upturned cask, waving the brush about. His naked chest was smeared with ochre-coloured dye. His black hair was banded Indian-fashion with a couple of bright-coloured strings.
‘Me, I don’t care. For all I care this dump could burn down tomorrow.’ He flicked the dust off the shelf and held up a rusty tin. The label was stained and discoloured. Hughie had been trying to straighten out the labels and get the dyes ready for the monthly stock count. The reckoning with Renshaw was never an easy one.
Oliver leapt to the floor with one graceful movement.
‘You take too much from Renshaw, Hughie,’ he said. ‘Coming in here, throwing his weight around. Pushing you about. When he starts that sarcastic stuff again you want to clock him. Hit the bastard in the guts. You can’t handle a bloke like Renshaw with kid gloves.’
He stretched. His stomach was flat and hard, and his damp shorts clung to his hips.
He looked at Hughie thoughtfully.
‘You don’t want to take everything that Renshaw likes to dish you out,’ he said. He tossed the brush into the corner and picked up a piece of waste cloth for a towel.
Hughie grinned weakly.
‘Why you bust your gut in this hell-hole, Hughie?’
Oliver looked around, then slowly back at Hughie.
‘I been here a long time,’ Hughie said. He was silent, thinking of his early days at the Dyehouse. Tommy Peters. Old Perry coming over in person to inspect the rolls. The night he and Peters had worked back and got onto that new yellow.
‘I been here a long time,’ he said doggedly. And then the final truth. ‘I like the dyein’.’
He looked almost shyly at Oliver. ‘I like making up these colours, working on a new range.’
Oliver flicked the cloth through the air. It made a splash of brilliant colour. He put it over his shoulder.
‘Some blokes don’t have to work,’ Oliver said. ‘Some bastards have money sunk in dye places just like this. Sit on their fat arses all day and make statements. They don’t like the forty-hour week. These blokes don’t know how it feels to work hard forty hours.’
He went through the chemical store to the showers.
The fireman had finished up. He was washed and dressed in clean grey trousers and a striped shirt. He was collecting the money for the diddley-dum. He kept rattling the box and laughing, marking the names off in the squares.
Through the glass doors Oliver could see Renshaw talking to Miss Merton, and across the way Patty Nicholls sitting quietly, stacking up cards. She kept putting them together and then pulling them apart. She looked tense and nervous.
It was good under the shower. The water ran from the points of his dark hair.
All the men were talking easily today, planning for the weekend.
John Thompson was finished with the diddley-dum when Oliver clocked off. ‘Got something lined up?’ he called across the street to Tommy, who was polishing up his jalopy.
Tommy made voluptuous curves in the air with his hands. Oliver grinned and made an impolite gesture.
Girls passing from the factories looked at him with interest.
He smiled, raised his eyebrows and winked. He gave a lengthy wolf whistle. The girls giggled and stopped. They looked back over their shoulders.
He walked on down Richmond Parade whistling and thinking of the dog that he and Jackson had coming up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Patty Nicholls had spent the weeks following Renshaw’s visit to Wentworth Parade in an aura of happiness.
Routine jobs like checking the production, writing up the dyebooks, checking the PG cards against the shipping books, were suddenly invested with joy and interest. Swinging along on her high heels, her knee-high skirts fanning out over her roped petticoats, her fair hair gleaming and silken on her shoulders, she moved like a bright-coloured moth through the misty Dyehouse.
Miss Merton, looking at her over her reading glasses, sighed.
She was vaguely worried over Patty. More than once she had thought of speaking to Renshaw about it. But it was surely none of her business.
Renshaw himself was tired of the affair. But he was too skilled to bring it to an abrupt conclusion. He had taken Patty out once or twice since the night he had driven her to Barrington Terrace, and although the relationship had been intimate he had not broached the question of marriage.
To Patty the matter seemed settled. Renshaw had said they would be married, and in the Dyehouse it was now accepted that she was Renshaw’s girl.
She ran happily round the presses, picking up the tickets, twitching her skirts and smiling at the single men.
‘Saw you over at the park,’ Oliver Henery said.
He was pushing a load of wet cloth from the mangles to the dryer. He was stripped down to his shorts and wore a pair of rubber boots. He had a string of crimson swami tied round his head.
Patty looked at him thoughtfully.
Wisps of damp hair protruded from the rough bandeau on his head. His brows, arched and dark, gave his face a satanic look that was offset by a crooked, humorous smile.
‘I must say,’ he said, ‘you seemed to be enjoying it.’
His smile was knowing without being malicious.
‘Must see you some time.’
He leaned on the truck, smiling at her.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Patty said.
But she turned quickly, stepping daintily over the pools of water, and headed back to the office. She could hear Oliver’s jeering laugh as she crossed the warehouse.
It was a fortnight now since Renshaw had taken her out. In the office he was friendly, and in the lab where she had encountered him alone he had lifted her up and kissed her with some passion, but had returned immediately to his reading of the Dyers’ Journal that her entry had interrupted.
But on Friday, after the pays were given out, Renshaw looked in at the office. He’s going to take me out, Patty thought. He’s going to ask me.
She sat at her desk tidying up her papers, putting books into shelves, stacking cards into ne
at heaps.
He was joking with Miss Merton. Telling her some funny story about two men and a car. It was a very decent story. He was laughing and looking pleasant. Patty stole a quick glance at him, but he was engrossed in his conversation.
There were ten minutes to go. Patty polished her nails on her skirt, waiting for him to finish talking.
They were going to alter the set-up in the office and put in a new machine.
Suddenly Renshaw looked up. He saw Patty sitting quietly at her desk.
His glance was cool and friendly.
‘No need for you to wait, Patty,’ he said. ‘You cut along.’
She rose slowly, gathering up her bag.
He would stop her on the way out. He would say, I’ll pick you up at 7.30, corner of the Parade. He would say, There’s a good show on tonight at West’s; or, What about that grassy spot near the oval? He would say, That ring—I’ve bought it for you, Patty.
But he only nodded as she went out through the vestibule to the front door.
Tommy Sanders was polishing up his dilapidated jalopy, and someone had painted a sign, ‘The Love Nest’, on its back. Girls were clattering past from Graham’s factory. Girls in pink frocks, spotty frocks, gay frocks in flowered patterns; girls in high-heeled shoes, old run-over hand-me-downs, slippers or sandals.
They were all going somewhere. Maybe to West’s. Maybe to the park. Someone was going out in Tommy’s jalopy. Somewhere a girl was parting her hair, shaking out her frock, thinking of Tommy.
On this lovely evening everyone was going out with someone. Patty smiled wanly.
After the door closed she stood for a long time thinking. She had waited eagerly all day for Renshaw. Listening for his step in the warehouse, waiting for the door to open, hoping to hear his voice. Now she stood on the step outside the Dyehouse, trying not to cry, watching Tommy through blurred eyes as he worked on his jalopy.
The trains were coming through from the city. It was peak time. She could see the loaded carriages as the trains flashed past. She tried to think about them. About the strange people passing so swiftly, rushing past the Parade, scarcely taking it in. They were all wrapped up in their own problems. Thinking about the weekend fun. The girls they would take out, the boys they would meet, the games they would go to, the surf and the sand.
‘Want a lift?’ Tommy called across to her. He had finished with the jalopy. He was revving it up, trying it out.
She shook her head.
He backed, then turned. Patty watched as the car disappeared up the Parade.
Then she started to walk slowly. It was a fortnight. Last weekend he said he was going to be busy. The new range was coming up. He’d be tied up over the weekend working on it. Patty hadn’t minded last weekend. The work was urgent, and it seemed right.
But tonight.
She put the thought far away.
Oliver Henery was standing on the edge of the pavement when she turned the corner. He was singing, loud enough for her to hear. It was a bawdy number to which some promising Dyehouse balladist had added a few apt verses.
He fell in beside Patty, still humming to himself.
He didn’t really like her. She looked cheap enough with all that blonde mess of hair on her shoulders and the powder streaky on her face. She looked as though she had been blubbering.
Blonde and dumb. Not even smart enough to recognize the skids when she was on them.
She had her top teeth caught over her lower lip, holding it tight, as though she were trying to stop the sobs from leaping out. She didn’t look pretty. Her lipstick was smudged and it gave her mouth a grotesque, lopsided look. Oliver stopped singing. He stifled the wisecrack that was almost on his lips. He went as far as he was able to comfort her.
‘You want to wake up, baby. Blokes are always after what they can get. You don’t want to make it so easy. When you find yourself looking with an easy eye on some bloke, you want to make sure you’ve got your pants on. It’s just plain stupid to come across to the boss.’
She let go her lip. She put her hands up, straightened her hair, and wiped her mouth with her handkerchief.
So Oliver knew about it. Perhaps they all knew about it.
They walked along in silence. The lights were coming on in the terraces. The youngsters were gathering up the boxes from the centre of the street where they had been playing cricket. A small mongrel dog crept out of a lane and began following them. Oliver bent down and patted it. It wagged its tail, opened its eyes. It put out its tongue, slobbering over his boots.
‘Poor little bastard,’ Oliver said. ‘Bet it hasn’t had a feed in months.’
The dog recognized the friendly tone and continued following them.
‘You like dogs?’ Oliver asked.
For the first time Patty laughed, and Oliver was surprised at how nice she looked.
‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we ever had enough over to keep a dog.’
In a house across the street a wireless was on loud. Someone was singing a sentimental ditty. A sailor passed with his arm around a girl. She had her hat off and her head was nestled close to his shoulder. Every so often they stopped. The sailor was kissing her to some purpose.
Oliver turned and walked back towards the terrace in which Patty lived. The dog was still following.
‘You going to keep him?’ Patty asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘You like dogs?’
‘Some dogs.’
‘You like this dog?’
‘I like all homeless down-at-heel bastards. I like no-hopers, and blokes that always get it in the guts. I like this dog.’
Oliver began to whistle.
They were walking past the semi-detached cottages with the little garden strips. They were almost to the terraces with their overhanging balconies and doors with blistered woodwork and steps incongruously gleaming with black paving paint.
‘How you come to work in this dump?’ Oliver asked. He gestured with his thumb at the Dyehouse chimney-stack that dominated the landscape.
‘I wanted a job,’ Patty said. ‘Jobs aren’t that easy to come by.’
‘Could a’ done better,’ Oliver said.
‘I got a mother,’ Patty said. ‘Hasn’t walked about in years. Haven’t got that much time to be choosy.’
‘Hard-luck story,’ Oliver said. ‘What did you reckon you were going to get out of Renshaw? You’re too easy. The dames that make the grade with Renshaw keep their pants up.’
‘You’re cheeky, aren’t you?’ Patty said. ‘You’re bloody smart. You want to watch out. You’ll fall over the gutter one of these days.’
Patty stood staring up at him. They were almost to the door. Oliver was swinging a string in circles. He was watching it.
‘I suppose,’ Patty said, ‘that you haven’t got a girl.’
Oliver shook his head. He was watching the string, but he started to smile.
‘You’re so right, sister.’
‘That’s pretty queer,’ Patty said. ‘Haven’t you ever had a girl?’
Oliver stopped playing with the string. His face was a leer.
‘I had my share,’ he said, ‘if that’s what you mean. I’ve had a stomachful of them. You start taking out some little sheila, and the next thing you know she’s got a mortgage on your future. Head down and arse up for the rest of your days.’
Patty was silent. She was thinking of Renshaw again.
‘I don’t mind a bit on the sideline,’ Oliver said. ‘But I’m not in the ball-and-chain stakes. I wouldn’t knock anything back if it was offered to me.’
He put his hand out and squeezed Patty, but let her go quickly.
‘I don’t know why I waste my time with you,’ Patty said.
‘You weren’t, for instance,’ Oliver said, ‘thinking of handing out a few favours tonight? But no, I can see the answer in your cold blue eye.’
He bent down and patted the puppy.
‘You’re a bit of a heel,’ Patty said. ‘A no-
hoping good-for-nothing. Why, I wouldn’t have you…’
‘Don’t run out of words,’ Oliver said, ‘they sound so nice. Don’t you know when you’re having your leg pulled?’
‘Just the same,’ Patty said, ‘I wouldn’t like to trust you.’
With the key in her hand she hesitated.
Now that Oliver had stopped speaking, the thought of Renshaw returned.
It would be Monday before she could hope to see him again. Friday night, the long Saturday, Sunday stretched before her. It was not that she distrusted him. Oliver didn’t really know about her and Renshaw. He didn’t know about their secret pact. But the weekend seemed interminable. Oliver had turned away when she called to him.
‘Well?’ he asked.
He was sick of her. He’d helped her out, stopped her blubbering, taken her home. He felt hungry and the dog was whimpering.
Patty hesitated. His friendliness seemed gone.
‘I thought we might go out,’ Patty said. ‘Go out somewhere.’
‘You thought we might go out?’ Oliver said. ‘Well listen, sister, you better think again. Haven’t I told you? I’ve had a bellyful of dames, exactly as I said. Besides, I got to walk a dog for a bloke tonight.’
He came back and looked down at her.
‘What’s eating you, Patty? You’re all tied in knots over Renshaw, and now you’re trying to date me. What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ Patty said. She was crying again. She turned and put her face against the wall, her misery overflowing.
‘Break it up,’ Oliver said gruffly. ‘I can’t take you out, Patty. I got obligations. I don’t want women nosing in.’
Patty turned around.
There was a light in the room behind them. Against the lighted window she could see Oliver’s dark face, the black straight hair, the pointed brows, the wide mouth twisted into a perplexed scowl.
She wiped her nose and dabbed her eyes.
‘You look a mess,’ Oliver said. ‘All that stuff smeared across your face and your nose red from crying. I can’t take you out. You better try and pull yourself together.’
The Dyehouse Page 6
