‘What the hell!’ Barney said.
So she was sick. She was really sick.
‘She going to get better, doctor?’
He felt a sudden sense of panic.
‘I think it will go all right,’ Dr Peters said. ‘We’ll do everything to see that things run a pretty even course.’
Barney’s mouth was dry.
‘We’ll arrange to get her in early,’ the doctor said. ‘It could be pretty delicate, and they’ve got everything at hand.’
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
After work, Oliver took a short cut through Ring Street on his way to The Crescent. Hughie was out, and he stopped a while to talk to Alice.
‘I’m worried,’ Alice said. ‘Not so much about Hughie being out so long, although that’s a problem, too. I’m worried about his condition. If I can’t talk him into going to see a doctor, I’m afraid I’ll have to take things into my own hands and get someone to call to the house.’
‘Oh, well,’ Oliver said. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. Blokes get off-colour when they can’t get into a job. Morose. They begin to feel there’s something wrong with them. He ought to take something as a fill-in.’
‘I think so. But it’s no good. I’ve talked to him. It’s all he ever wanted to be, and I don’t suppose he’ll change now.’
All the way to The Crescent Oliver thought about Hughie. He thought of him—clean, neat, courteous, tramping into city offices; into suburban textile offices. It should not be so difficult for Hughie to get into a job.
When he got to The Crescent, he went on until he reached the last house. It was a drab, unpainted place, built onto the street. Someone had broken the glass in one of the lower windows and a sheet of heavy cardboard had been fixed in its place. It was fastened with long nails and pieces of gummed paper. The heavy door, almost denuded of paint, sagged on its hinges.
Oliver knocked loudly.
Someone moved inside, and presently the door opened.
‘Come in,’ said Brother Martin.
Oliver threw his hat into the corner. Brother Martin and Joe Henderson were bending over the open fire. They had a billycan suspended from a hook hanging over the blaze, and they were stirring a savoury mess in a black pot.
The dog rose from the hearth and leapt joyously.
‘Well,’ Oliver said, ‘this looks all right. Smells good, too.’
He spread the newspaper on the table, put down the cups, plates and cutlery.
‘How’re you cooking, Brother?’ he asked.
Brother Martin looked up from the fire.
He wore a faded grey vest and grey trousers. His collar was fastened at the back. No one quite knew why. One day he came back from the office, carrying his briefcase, smiling a shy, introspective smile. He said he was Brother Martin. He began wearing his collar the wrong way round. He was harmless, and no one was concerned with his change of personality.
Joe Henderson worked when it was necessary, sometimes at the Dyehouse. At other times he sat about indulging in political discussion, earning a reputation for shrewdness and knowledge, in and around The Crescent.
The three had formed a partnership more than two years ago. Oliver and Joe paid the rent and bought the food. Brother Martin cooked it.
‘Called in to see Hughie on the way home,’ Oliver said.
‘Still out?’ Joe grunted. ‘There’s a bloke would have sold his mother. Couldn’t do enough in a day. Did they place any value on that when the time came?’
Oliver ate silently. He was thinking. The spring was merging into summer. It was time for him to leave the Dyehouse behind, to strike out for a job in the heavy industries. By November the textile trade would flatten out, maybe go into a tailspin. They’d be laying men off, with little chance of them being picked up by other industries. After November, bosses thought a lot about the holiday pay; they were loath to put new men on. He would soon have to try the factories to the north, maybe take out a sickie or two.
Brother Martin left the table. He stirred up the fire and placed the pot of tea near Oliver.
‘You feeling all right?’ he asked.
‘Fine,’ Oliver said. ‘Never better.’
‘Got a bit on the liver,’ Joe said. ‘Gypped by that pert piece from the Dyehouse.’
‘Speak no evil,’ Brother Martin said.
‘I was thinking about that Gwennie,’ said Oliver. ‘She wasn’t in today. Mightn’t mean much. Blokes are saying that Renshaw gave her the one-two-three over the weekend, and she’s out.’
‘She didn’t need anyone to tell her about Renshaw,’ Joe said. ‘She knew his type. She knew she was going under Patty What’s-her-name’s neck. We can’t shed tears of blood over these dames. If you look for it you get it. Best thing could happen to these women would be for them to get some education.’
‘She was a pretty well-set-up little piece. Sixteen when she left school. Kept at Sunday School and church.’
‘I said education. The role of women in society. Money—what it stands for. Constitutional barriers to…’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
‘Anyway,’ Joe said, ‘I’ll bet she lives in a world of make-believe. And I’d like, I’d just like to know what action they’d take against Renshaw. They’d be too frightened—too bloody frightened. People might talk. They’re so respectable, they’d be raped and keep mum.’
‘Careful, brother,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Keep watch on your tongue.’
Joe looked at him, leaned over, patted him on the arm and smiled.
‘Money speaks all languages,’ said Brother Martin suddenly. He smiled at Oliver and Joe.
‘It should be our servant,’ said Joe. ‘It stands for things. We should be able to control it.’
‘Some blokes can,’ said Oliver. ‘Some blokes look at a number. Say, twenty-seven. That’s Jeremy Stein. Right. They pick up the number, Jeremy Stein mind you, drop it in the can. Sorry, can’t carry any dead wood. Sure the warehouse’s bulging with stock. Sure the dough will be rolling for a long time yet. And sure you made the rolls. Dyed them. Pressed them. But you know what? You put our payroll up about thirteen smackers a week. We’ll see you when things pick up. Six weeks or so. After Christmas. What are you going to use for money over Christmas? Don’t ask me, brother. Don’t ask me. Been in a job all the year, haven’t you? Taken home your thirteen smackers regular? Ought to have something put by.’
‘Bastards,’ said Joe. ‘I get the gutsache just thinking about them.’
‘They won’t get me,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ll take to the track first.’
Joe turned and looked at him.
‘You could take to the track, and what would that prove? During the last big depression, blokes took to the track in thousands. Slept in dignity under bridges, in parks, in dog kennels, pigsties, cattle stalls. Don’t get far by running.’
‘No,’ Oliver conceded.
He thought suddenly of Patty, and of the night they’d walked together to the park. It didn’t matter where you ran. The place might be different, the people different, but the pattern was the same. You had the same thing to sell wherever you went. And in the long run you weren’t much different from any other cattle offering for sale. And the boss knew it. Sure he knew it. What’s that on his application form? Thirty-three years? Like bloody hell he is. Take a look at his teeth. This cock won’t see forty again. The grey’s sprouting pretty thick at the edges, there. Beginning to get that broken-winded look, too. We’re going to pay out good money for this, real dough! That young rooster at the door might just fit the bill. Looks strong in the arm and thick in the skull. Sorry, mister, the job’s just not tailored to your measure.
‘We might learn something from that group that Danton’s running,’ Joe said facetiously. ‘Upperclass bitches sit around and talk of social heritage. Got all the cures for the world’s ills. Only don’t disturb them. “The working man,” that’s us, “needs special guidance.” Wonder how they’d go doing Leila’s job on the brusher, or
lumping those rolls up the ladders to the top fixtures?’
‘I’m getting out of there,’ Oliver said. ‘Another four or five weeks and we’ll be in to November.’
Brother Martin stoked up the fire. He filled the kettle and put it over the blaze to boil.
Oliver unwrapped a parcel, lifted out some meat, and put it down for the dog. Then they gathered up the dishes and began on the washing-up. It was the last chore of the evening and they were glad to have it over.
The light was out. They sat around the fire, gazing at the flames, suddenly silent. Brother Martin had his fingers together, repeating some prayer remembered from childhood.
‘We’re lost,’ he said sadly to Oliver. He peeped almost fearfully into the shadows of the room. ‘We’re all lost.’
Oliver put his arm around his shoulder. He patted him reassuringly.
The dog had eaten the last of the meat. He stretched, nosed in between the men and curled up on the hearth.
Oliver switched on the light. The shadows fled. The fear left Brother Martin’s face. He looked round the familiar room and smiled.
‘Things will have to change,’ Joe said. ‘The common man’s not likely to take too much more. Where’s the justice of this automation?’
‘Well, it’s bound to come. Don’t think the textiles will feel it for a while.’
‘But the justice, man! Consider. All the accumulated labour and ideas. Men working and working. Then all at once it’s there, the thing we’ve dreamed of, bright and rosy and shiny. What happens? Some shiny-arse walks up. Looks at it, takes out his bloody money. Money, mind you! Buys up the accumulated ideas and labour. Buys it for money. Shoves it into his office or factory. See a picture of him smiling in the morning paper, pulling the handle to prove that even a dumbbell can operate it. Anything about making things easier for the men he employs? Chopping down on hours? Raising wages? You can bet your sweet life there’s nothing. “Mr Stripper says this machine will do the work of sixty men.” They don’t print the bit about the blokes getting the pay-off on Friday, or how the blokes feel, or how their wives feel. Mr Stripper feels like Jesus Christ. He rings up the Chamber of Manufacturers. He has a discussion. His face is set against any reduction of the working week.’
‘We should be getting in early,’ Oliver said. ‘Before we feel the real impact. We should be working shorter hours now, cracking down on overtime. These places should be made to carry us for a while. All the Christmas stock dyed and ready. Blokes who worked their insides out, ten or twenty or so, got to go down for six weeks. Cost next to nothing to carry them. They made the stuff! It’s in the fixtures. The trucks are carrying it out as fast as they can load it.’
‘You ought to start something.’
‘Not me,’ Oliver said. ‘I know the score there. Nearly all unskilled men and easily replaced. Before the axe drops I’ll be off. Noticed some of the engineering firms up north advertising for men already.’
‘Not running away?’
Oliver sat up and looked at Joe. He felt irritated and perplexed. There was nothing to be gained by stopping. Four weeks at the outside. Better to beat the rap. Might end up like Hughie.
‘Not running away,’ he said. His face was thoughtful. ‘Looking after Number One.’
Joe looked at him for a long time. He shifted his position, putting his feet on the chimney-breast.
‘I tell you, I’m no Sir Galahad. And what could I start? God Almighty, Joe, you want to think. You ever heard of the blind leading the blind? I tell you, I know the score. Everyone so frightened he’s got the gutsache. Everyone working like hell. Thinking about his wife, and kids, and rent, and maybe the instalment on the kitchen cabinet or the TV set. Wondering what will happen if he can’t pay. And working like hell all the time. Hoping that Renshaw will notice and maybe say, “Johnson, now—I can scarcely afford to let him go.”’
‘Well, no good getting involved,’ Joe said. ‘Every man for himself when the ship’s sinking.’ There was a careful note of sarcasm in his voice. ‘But it could straighten out,’ he added. ‘Funny game, the textiles. Jumpy.’
‘Don’t think much of its chances.’
Oliver went to the door and opened it. He looked up at the night sky. He could see the Dyehouse chimney. It brooded over the landscape like a gigantic god, its dark shadow stretched out over Macdonaldtown. All around it the cottages were huddled together. Soon the people would be sleeping. All around the Dyehouse the people would be sleeping. In Richmond Parade, in Ring Street, The Crescent.
He came back into the room. He caught a glimpse of Joe’s bright, questioning eye. He sought for the word, the phrase that would confound him.
He knew all this claptrap. Better than Joe. Better than Joe could ever know it. Joe usually worked the heavy industries. It was different there. The attitude of the men was different.
‘I tell you,’ Oliver said, ‘everything’s right. Cuthbert’s not the bloke to stick his head out.’
‘Or his heart, either.’
‘Well, you know how accountants are. You don’t need me to tell you. He’s got the law on his side, and never mind the rights of things. The law’s with him. The most we could do would be to get a guarantee of preference for the men he’s standing down. There’s no law forces a firm to keep on men they can’t use.’
‘Well,’ Joe said, ‘you could holler. Make noises like you were hurt. Make noises like you were human beings.’
There was silence. Oliver looked across at Joe. It was hard to explain how he felt to a man like Joe. He wasn’t afraid. He’d drop Renshaw any day, and get out. Quicker than Joe, perhaps. But then Joe would start that medicine-man stuff. That putting of one fact alongside another. Tying them up. He’d get meetings on the job and spruikers out. He’d be in the middle of it and liking it. And if he hit the pavement, he wouldn’t worry. Joe liked involvement, he really liked it.
‘Oh, well,’ Joe said. ‘I suppose you know where you’re going.’
He took out his paper and started reading. Brother Martin’s lips were moving. He was repeating something under his breath. Oliver continued to stare into the fire. When he finally looked up he smiled. He had been thinking of Patty. Well, a man could be a fool. All kinds of a fool. But not as big a fool as all that. No, sir. He bent over and patted the dog. But his mind swung back to the Dyehouse. He began thinking about Hughie and Barney and young Sims. ‘Want my brains brushing,’ he said to himself. ‘Must be getting addle-brained.’
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Something woke Hughie. Something like a deep gong struck somewhere and he sat up in bed, looking into the thick darkness that shrouded the bedroom, roused by its insistent call. With nerves strained and taut he looked into the blackness, listening. But there was nothing. The curtains stirred gently in the lazy breeze; Alice slept, breathing softly; the clock ticked quietly on the bedside table. The illuminated dial showed that it was three o’clock. Yet something had sounded. A deep, unmelodious clang. Even sleeping he had heard it, and he had struggled up.
He sat, fighting a sense of panic, holding onto the side of the bed. Still only the curtains moving at the window. He got out of bed cautiously, taking care not to disturb Alice. He went to the window, pushed the curtains aside and looked out onto the street where the sleeping houses lay one against the other. Overhead the sky was dark, pierced by pinspots of light. But there was nothing strange, nothing different.
The gong. The strange, harsh note that had invaded his sleeping! It was unfamiliar here, but still a known sound.
The gong on the back door of the Dyehouse! The unmusical clangour made by impatient carriers anxious to off-load their cargo and be on their way.
The Dyehouse gong.
Hughie shook his head. He had isolated the sound, and he breathed easier. That was it. He had dreamed it, the harsh, demanding call.
He had been dreaming. It was quite a step to the Dyehouse, and no carriers called at this hour. The sound of the gong would not carry so far, anyway. It was pa
rt of his dream.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shivering.
He would compose himself for sleep. Lie down. Do the relaxing exercises exactly as he had been told.
But he went to the wardrobe and opened it quietly. The clothes were in neat heaps. Singlets, pyjamas, shirts. His hand groped and found the thick drill. Four sets of clean white overalls, washed, pressed and neatly piled. He took out a pair, smoothed the stack and closed the door.
He would go out for a while. Put on something warm and walk as far as the corner. Perhaps as far as the Dyehouse. He pulled the overalls on over his pyjamas. When he was finished he bent down and smoothed the thick, familiar material over his knees, his thighs, his waist.
Alice still slept in the dark morning.
His slippers were handy. He put his feet into them and tiptoed again to the wardrobe. He took out the cardigan he had been wearing the day he hit Renshaw, his work cardigan. He had not worn it since.
He looked at the clock. It was three-fifteen.
He went quietly into the hall. Here he listened. Alice slept on, her breathing deep and even.
He opened the front door and stepped into the dark morning. It was quieter than he remembered it and he frowned, wondering when he was last up at three-fifteen. To the south lay the Dyehouse. He looked up. Against the deep, star-studded sky the chimney rose dark and immense. But he turned his back to it and walked down past The Crescent to the park. All was quiet. Under a heap of newspapers in a corner a vagrant lay sleeping. The seats, the light poles, the rotunda for the band, all looked strange, unfamiliar in the dark morning. He began walking down Wentworth Parade. Past the pub, now quiet; past the terraces wrapped in slumber. In one house a light gleamed on the lower floor. Hughie drew back into the dark to watch the picture framed in the light.
An early worker. Hughie could see his blue denim overalls, his thick wrists with the leather straps round them, the red of the woman’s dressing gown, the food on the table. She was getting him ready for work. Fussing with sandwiches, putting food from a saucepan onto a plate. Working quietly, efficiently. The man picked up his bag; the woman reached up her arms and drew his head down towards her.
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