Hughie thought of the new range. The colour of the bark, of the yellow drifting leaves; the dense green of the sward, the warm colour of the sandstone, the jewel of the late-flaring bud. He would open the paper and make a pretence of reading it. Catastrophes. People making statements about this and that. People wanting clerks, cleaners, salesmen, canvassers. The dyers’ jobs were few and far between.
He took out his reference and began reading it again. He leaves of his own accord. It is with regret…And for a moment it seemed that it was so. He seemed to have forgotten about Renshaw. He put the reference back in his pocket. The leaves drifted down. His quick eye noted the stains, the flecks, the changing shades.
It was dark when he got to Ring Street.
‘No luck, Mr Marshall?’
‘None, Mrs Marsden.’
‘Better luck next time.’
‘That job’s still open,’ Tom Waters said. ‘It might suit you as a fill-in. Isn’t always easy to fall onto just what you want. Especially in your line. Kind of specialized.’
The inquiring eye was friendly.
‘Just thought I’d mention it.’ He was apologetic.
‘I’ll think it over,’ Hughie said.
Alice was at the door. He took off his hat, hung it on the stand, and put the paper under the flounce of the settee.
‘I wouldn’t go every day,’ Alice said. She was alarmed at the pallor of his face, the signs of strain around his eyes.
She put her arm round his shoulders. His body was tense and resistant.
‘Sit quiet,’ she said. Her voice was gentle with a quiet, crooning note. ‘Sit quiet, my love.’
After the dishes were done they sat in the little room with the lace curtains and Hughie’s brown leather chair drawn up to the fire. Hughie picked up a catalogue, and for a moment the colours caught his eye. Then he dropped it to the floor.
He sat curiously idle, with his hands hanging between his legs. Alice was making a cardigan in warm heavy-weight winter wools. She had meant it for Hughie as a protection against the chills of the Dyehouse.
‘Let’s go away,’ she said. ‘We could easily afford a fortnight by the sea. And you need it, Hughie.’
‘I need to be left alone. I don’t want seasides and fussing. I want to be left alone to work things out for myself.’
‘Sorry, Hughie.’ She pressed her lips together. She was offended, but too worried to care much about it.
‘Tom Waters offered me a job on a baker’s cart.’ He began to laugh.
‘He means well,’ Alice said. ‘But he doesn’t understand.’
‘Should I take it, Alice?’ His voice reflected his uncertainty.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of jobs you can do if nothing turns up. I wish you’d relax and rest for a while, Hughie. You won’t be fit to start on a job soon, if you don’t let up a little.’
But there was no resting for him. Alice, waking in the night, felt his body tense and drenched with sweat.
‘Be quiet, Hughie,’ she would say, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘Be quiet and rest.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Good morning, Patty,’ Miss Merton said. She was smiling, glancing over her glasses.
‘Good morning.’
Miss Merton settled to her desk and for a moment there was the clacking of typewriter keys. Miss Merton typing reports. She was not typing quickly. Rather slowly and purposefully.
Patty picked up a duster and flicked about among her books. She had piles of dyebooks on the shelves. Some were old and the pages were mended with Durex tape. It was time most of them were dumped. If the card system was properly run, she could dump the whole lot in the garbage.
She flicked through the old cards. Rolls of cloth still in stock that should have been dyed and out years ago. She pulled out a fistful of old numbers. If she was managing this dump, she’d pull out every card that was more than three years old, and she’d want every roll found, assembled and assessed. All these numbers should be cleared out. She’d talked about it to Miss Merton one day.
‘You can’t run a business on these lines.’
Miss Merton had agreed. But the business seemed to be going along all right.
‘They get a little upset when these suggestions come from us,’ Miss Merton had said, ‘especially Mr Renshaw.’
‘I can’t get rid of this rubbish,’ Patty said now. ‘All these old dyebooks. Some of this stock goes back to the Flood. While I’ve got these old numbers in the card system I can’t throw out the books.’
She was swishing and flicking the duster aggressively.
‘If I was Mr Cuthbert, I’d see that all stock up to a certain date was shifted, before new rolls could be picked out. Just look at this. And this and this.’
Miss Merton looked at the numbers. Patty turned up the production sheets.
‘Six years old,’ Patty said. ‘The stuff must be rotten. They ought to tie it up in bundles and send it to Paddy’s Market, and let me get the cards out and the dyebooks dumped.’
It was a perennial question.
Miss Merton smiled at Patty as she flew about, disturbing the dust and grumbling.
‘They seem to like things as they are,’ Miss Merton said. ‘We have things flowing fairly smoothly, Patty. But those books are a nuisance, though.’
‘I think I’ll ask him,’ Patty said. ‘Only six rolls, and it would clear up the cards and give me a bit more room on the bookshelves.’
Besides, it would give her the opportunity of speaking to him.
Goodwin was picking out rolls on the fourth floor. He was throwing them aside, pulling off the tickets and roughly calculating the weight of each roll. When he was ready he would take the tickets to Patty. She would record the numbers in the dyebook together with the respective weights, and then add up the totals. Renshaw would write in the dyers’ instructions. Patty would take the instructions to the laboratory, and the tickets to Barney at the dryers’ bench.
Goodwin worked swiftly and quietly. There was no one up here to talk to. Most of the new greige stock had been lifted up to the fourth floor at last stocktaking. Now it had to be picked out, loaded onto a trolley and lowered from the loading well to the ground floor.
When the trolley was loaded, he sat back. There was a sign that said ‘No Smoking’, but Goodwin pulled out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette. He lay back among the rolls for a brief smoko. Presently he heard footsteps. It could be Bluey, tired of waiting for the new vat, up to investigate. He peered cautiously round the corner of the stack. It was Renshaw. Goodwin put out the cigarette, crushing it in his fingers. He judged it best to lie low.
Renshaw settled himself on the edge of a table.
He was not far from Goodwin, and Goodwin crouched low, cursing himself for a fool. There was no need to hide himself. He was concerned with a legitimate job. But having embarked on this line it was too late to change course. Renshaw would want to know what he was doing, why he had hidden himself away. He’d take a set on him and follow him about, waiting for him to make a slip. He’d have no chance for a quiet smoko. He’d be hounded like other blokes he knew.
Goodwin heard the door open again, and the clatter of feet. He listened. A woman’s footsteps. Perhaps someone to tell Renshaw he was wanted on the telephone. People were always ringing him up. Dye salesmen, and woolly-headed sheilas who seemed to see something fascinating in him. Goodwin hoped it was a sheila. It could put Renshaw in a good mood for days when a dame rang him up.
He raised himself cautiously and peered over the stacks. It was Gwennie Verrendah, the new sheila on the wrapping bench. A quiet little piece with soft brown eyes and smooth fawny hair. Religious, he’d been told.
God Almighty, Goodwin thought, what’s she doing up here?
He looked impatiently at his watch. Any minute now Bluey was likely to come screaming up the stairs in search of the cloth for the new vat.
Renshaw was shifting rolls, stripping off tickets and handing them to the new
sheila. Goodwin began to crawl along on his hands and knees. There was a door at the other end of the room. If he could edge towards that, with a bit of luck he could be through it. He could come racing back, up the other stairway, and boldly wheel the trolley to the lift-well.
But as he edged along, he kept wondering why Renshaw had the girl up here. No need for him to be stripping off tickets, and there was plenty of work on the wrapping bench. As he neared the door he rose, lifting his eyes just above the level of the stacks. Renshaw had stopped working. He had handed the girl a bundle of tickets, but he was still holding them and looking down into her eyes. The girl was looking up at him. Her eyes were serious, perplexed. Then Renshaw took her hand in his. He looked at the tickets, then raised her hand slowly. He bent his head. Before he reached the door, Goodwin saw Renshaw’s lips touch the girl’s hand.
If that doesn’t take the biscuit; kiss my arse, he thought. The hypocritical bastard! Waiting outside the Sunday School to get them. Someone ought to give him a toe in the place that it hurts most.
‘Where you been?’ Bluey asked. ‘Does it take you half the day to pick out a vat and load up a trolley?’
‘I’ve had a front seat on a bit of interesting scenery. A preview on our next act. I been cut off, Bluey. Renshaw’s got a sheila up on the fourth. I was sittin’ down having a quiet bit of a smoke, when in comes Renshaw and sits himself down on the bench.’ Goodwin raised himself on his toes and wriggled his backside. ‘And up toddles that never-been-kissed little dame from the wrapping. Renshaw starts pulling tickets off rolls, pressing them into her hands, and wrapping his slimy fingers round her wrist at the same time.’
‘Well?’ Bluey said.
Goodwin hit himself on the chest.
‘Next thing Renshaw gives his dial a real wrench like Bogart when he realizes that he’s got a bit of the real twenty-two carat. Sort of sad look. And then, so help me, if he doesn’t bend over and kiss the sheila on the hand.’
Bluey grunted. Sims was waiting on the rolls for the new vat. He was interested, but too busy to wait any longer.
‘Well, she’ll want to have her hand on her sixpence if Renshaw ever gets her to the park. They tell me he never fails.’
Patty picked up the six cards. She shuffled them about in her hand. As she walked across the warehouse floor, she saw Goodwin going up the front flight of stairs. He was about to run up to the fourth floor, push open the stockroom door, and wheel the trolley to the lift-well.
‘Seen Mr Renshaw about?’ she asked.
Goodwin hesitated. He wondered if he should tell her. You’re living on borrowed time, sister, he thought. I wonder if you really like that bloke. If you’re sold on him. Might be better if you’re not. Better for you.
Well, she was bound to get it in the guts sooner or later, and the sooner the better. He was conscious of the drama. Patty confident of her position. The door opening. The little dark-eyed girl in Renshaw’s arms.
He let it rest there. What would Patty do? What, in fact, could Patty do?
‘I think he’s on the fourth.’ Goodwin went leaping up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
Patty waited until Goodwin reached the fourth floor. The creaking of the winch told her that the trolley was on its way down. She gave Goodwin enough time to get down the back stairs before she began walking up.
It suited her that Renshaw was on the fourth floor. There would be no interruptions. Everything that she had wanted to say over the past weeks clamoured for expression. How lonely she had been! Even walking through the warehouse, twitching her skirts at the men or talking to the girls, she was lonely. But the memory of their past meetings rose up to reassure her. All the times he had begged her. When she had played hard to get, and hadn’t meant it. And later, when she had let him have his way.
She would tell him today. Really talk to him. It must have added up. If things added up at all, it must have meant something to him, too.
Patty leaned over the barricading around the lift-well. Goodwin had got the trolley down. He was taking the hooks out of the ropes. The door leading from the loading dock to the lift-well was open. The sunlight streamed in and made a bright, warm patch on the cement. Patty looked at it for a moment. It reminded her fleetingly of the world outside the Dyehouse. Of the beaches, the sundrenched parks.
She opened the door quietly and looked down along the stockroom. The lights were on. After the sunlight down the lift-well, the room seemed dark. The lights were on, but the room looked shadowy. Even so early in the morning it was shadowy.
The tables were all laid out, all tabulated.
Table A. Table B. Table C.
And the stacks were all numbered.
Stack 1 Table A. Stack 2 Table A. Stack 3 Table A.
She was looking at the tables, and at the stacks. A stack had fallen over on Table 3.
She began walking along the room slowly. Each time she took a step it sounded hollow in the quiet warehouse.
Renshaw was there. She could see him. And although she moved towards him, she tried not to look. She noticed the whitewash peeling from the wall, the stain where the water had seeped in under the flashing. But suddenly she stopped. With an effort she raised her head and looked at him. The small, slim girl fled in alarm. She was crying as she ran past Patty to the open door.
Renshaw put the tickets carefully on top of the stack.
Well, it was bound to happen. It had been hanging fire for a long time. He should have hit her with it weeks ago. It never paid, this going soft and sentimental. When the time came, the knife was always the easiest. Love’s young dream.
But he felt vaguely sorry for her. Perhaps it meant something to her. Well, time was a healer. It took care of it all.
‘You were kissing that girl,’ Patty said. ‘You were pulling her about.’ She looked as though she might cry, but her voice was quiet and composed.
Renshaw was conscious of a deep feeling of relief. No hysterics. No tantrums. She was going to be rational. Cold, haughty, offended. ‘Come off it,’ he said.
‘You were mauling her about.’
Renshaw looked at her. He began at her feet, and his eyes travelled leisurely to her head. Then he smiled, a cold, repellent flexing of the lips.
‘You’d better get down off that pedestal. Maybe get down a little closer to the earth. You and I are old friends, and we’ve been about.’
There was a subtle change in his expression.
‘We’re not old friends,’ Patty said slowly. ‘We were lovers. You said you’d marry me. You told me you were going to marry me.’
‘Oh, well,’ Renshaw said, ‘even lovers, and husbands for that matter, have their little outside interests. You didn’t expect…’
He began to laugh.
‘You’re a bigger fool than I thought you were, Patty.’
‘You promised me,’ Patty said. Her voice was suddenly unsteady. ‘You couldn’t lie, just like that.’
‘You’re building it up,’ Renshaw said. ‘If it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. You had a good time while it lasted. I took you out. Bought you things. It’s not much use kicking now. There’s a few warm-blooded bucks about Macdonaldtown, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll do something about it,’ Patty said wildly. ‘I’ll get some advice. I’ll see a solicitor.’
The smile was wiped suddenly from Renshaw’s face.
He leant over and grabbed her by the arm. He screwed it up behind her back and pushed her over onto the table.
‘You’ll see a solicitor?’ he said. ‘When I’ve finished with you, you might be glad to see a doctor. I’ve met a few bitches…! You’ll see a solicitor!’
Suddenly he dragged her to her feet and propelled her along the room until they were opposite the lift-well.
‘It’s a long way down there,’ he said. ‘The cement’s pretty hard if you hit it, and accidents happen.’
He let her go. Patty stood looking down the lift-well. When she looked at Renshaw the savage expr
ession had left his face. He was bland, almost friendly. It seemed to Patty that it might never have happened.
‘Yes, it’s a long way down,’ she said quietly. ‘A long way down.’ The clock opposite the lift-well said ten fifty-five. She looked at it stupidly. Ten fifty-five. How long did it take to pull down the world? Ten fifty-five. It was less than fifteen minutes since she had bounced confidently up the stairs and pushed open the stockroom door.
‘How did you get on?’ Miss Merton asked. ‘Any luck?’
Patty shook her head. She had left the cards on the stockroom table. It didn’t matter now. She would make cards out if any of the rolls came through. She took up the books and put them into the garbage. Then she began mechanically entering up her work.
At four o’clock she put down her pen, pushed the book to the back of the desk and straightened the cards. She had not been bothered further by Renshaw. He had disappeared to the laboratory. But the curious glances of the girls as they charged rolls in the warehouse told her that the story had grapevined around. Renshaw was finished with her. Well, she had been riding for a fall. Maybe some of the girls would be sympathetic. They would debate it and take sides over it. And plenty of them would say she was a bloody fool anyway. But mostly they would be sorry for her. They would say that she was only a kid, and it was a shame. And then they would forget about it. They would go on charging rolls, and tossing banter about, and forget all about her. It didn’t really mean anything to anyone else. Only to her.
The little brown-eyed girl worked silently at the wrapping table. She had heard the talk about Patty and Renshaw, and she was conscious of the drama that was taking place around her. She saw them suddenly as she might see figures flashed upon a screen. They were going together. That meant the long glances, the quiet brushing together of the lips. Her knowledge of life was limited and circumscribed.
The Dyehouse Page 10
