‘Must have been a bit off,’ Barney said. ‘But I’ve seen blokes really wrapped up in their jobs before. There’s Bob Mayers. There’s a bloke really likes his job. Got a feeling for metal. Likes nutting things out and then making them.’
They were quiet for a while, thinking.
‘But there’s plenty of jobs in Bob Mayers’ line. Plenty of scope too. The trouble with Hughie was, he liked this dyeing. He could do it and he knew he could. But it’s a pretty close field. How often do you see blokes advertising for dyers? Not too bloody often. And then Hughie hadn’t qualified. I think he felt he’d reached the end of the road.’
‘He got it pretty rough here too,’ Oliver said. ‘Renshaw always bouncing him.’
They changed soberly. There was no hurry. Renshaw was still running around in circles, Collins uncertain about the dyes. Presently, someone gave the signal. The machines were turned on and the men moved slowly to their positions.
After Hughie’s body was removed and the cement cleaned and hosed off, Mr Mayers went through to the boiler-house. He had been late in, that morning. Larcombe, petulant and full of complaints, was in the office with Renshaw. There had been a constant stream of visitors to the boiler-house, and John had told and retold the story. About picking up his billy; about whistling as he crossed the warehouse floor; about standing at the tap and watching the water flow into the billy; about watching the heap of white under the lift-well. Re-enacting the drama, to the moment of realization: the spilled water, the sharp cry, the running steps. The realization that this was no heap of clothes, but a human body.
‘Can’t understand it,’ John said. ‘He could have done anything for a while. While there’s life there’s hope. He had a happy little set-up. Good wife, nice home. Never owed a penny.’
‘Hard to get inside another man’s mind,’ Mayers said. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know just why or when he decided to do it; whether he was thinking about it when he walked down the street; whether it was in his mind when he opened the door.’
‘Gives you a weak feeling round the guts,’ John said. ‘Maybe he slipped. Maybe he went to grab the hoist and toppled over. Maybe he thought he’d hook the trolley onto the crane.’
‘There’s not a chance. There were no ropes there, anyway. Nothing to hook onto. Goodwin dropped the ropes down the lift-well the night before. He was going to take them up first thing in the morning.’
They sat back, silent, looking at the boilers.
‘Bit of a backhander for Renshaw,’ John said. ‘I think those coppers really shook him. He looked wrung out when I saw him. Scarcely able to curse the men for standing about, or Collins for not getting the vats under way.’
It was hot and oppressive in the boiler-house. John opened the window and the fresh air came streaming in.
‘Gave me a bit of a jolt when I saw the door open this morning,’ John said. ‘I thought old pussy-foot was over. Old Sneaking Jesus, checking up on the quiet.’
John looked at Mayers. But he didn’t rise to the bait.
Clashes between Harvison and Mayers were not uncommon.
Leaning back in his car as it sped through on the way to the city, the Chairman of Directors never failed to glance across at the Dyehouse, to take comfort in its great sprawling breadth, in the imposing height of the chimney-stack rising from the boiler-house, and to trace the track of the smoke as it eddied into the murky air that blanketed Macdonaldtown. On odd occasions he had accosted the engineer, intimating that excessive belching of black smoke meant cash lost to the Company. The BTU’s had fallen.
Mayers was not the man to be outdone by a mere Chairman of Directors. He reasoned, fairly enough, that old Harvison had made his way up via accountancy, had never served his time, and was sketchy on the British Thermal Unit. Mayers would hold forth and endeavour to dazzle old Harvison with science. But he was a cagey type, was old Harvison. He only saw the black smoke, and black smoke meant that the Company was paying out money unnecessarily.
It was half-past three. The children were beginning to pass on their way home from school. Their shouts drifted through to the boiler-house.
‘New crop coming up,’ Mayers said. ‘Another year or so and some of these kids will be working here. Starting out. Makes you think a bit.’
The phone rang. Collins was calling from the laboratory. Two more vats. John moved to the boiler and opened the door. The heat rushed into the boiler-room. He closed the door, walked to the pump, checked the gauges.
‘Be the last vats tonight,’ he said to Mayers. ‘Patty Nicholls won’t get corns on her behind writing up all the tickets that will come off the production bench today.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
At four-fifteen the phone rang. It was Cuthbert. His voice was curt, colourless, but polite.
‘About those bundy cards.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Merton.
‘I want you to make sure every man bundies off. Not much chance of checking up on the latecomers today. Will you see to that? You might make a point of waiting until the last person bundies off. They’ll have to pass your office.’
Miss Merton put the phone down.
‘What did he want?’ Renshaw asked. He was leaning against the door-jamb, looking moodily into Miss Merton’s office. ‘Did he want to know anything about Hughie Marshall?’
‘Just rang about the bundy cards. Wants to make sure everyone bundies off.’
Renshaw had the evening papers in his hand. There was a picture of the Dyehouse, and in a circle a picture of the loading dock. And at the top a picture of Hughie, stiff and unyielding in his best navy-blue striped suit. It was a younger Hughie, taken more than fifteen years ago. Alice had taken it with an old box camera that had been a Christmas present.
‘I wonder what the old man’s going to say when he reads this,’ Renshaw said. ‘But I can’t see how I can be held responsible. This was Cuthbert’s pigeon.’
‘We got an instruction,’ Miss Merton said. ‘The advice was printed and underlined in red. They pay a lot of attention to the loss of these keys.’
Miss Merton picked up the paper and began to read.
‘What can they do, when you really come to think about it?’ she said at last. ‘You’re the only one who understands the dyeing. Collins is only starting. There’s really no one else.’
‘That’s right,’ Renshaw said. How right you are, sister. Right on the bullseye. Who else is there? When you get down to taws, who else? He was in a better position than Larcombe. A stronger position. The more you considered it, the stronger his position looked. Still, he was not anxious to cross swords with Larcombe. Not yet. But the time might come.
If the papers would let well alone, the thing would blow over.
He walked suddenly into Patty’s office.
She saw him coming, and sat quietly transferring figures from the Shipping books.
‘You haven’t let up for a long time, Patty,’ he said.
She pointed to the pile of books and smiled.
‘It’s always at my heels,’ she said. ‘I scarcely clear up one book, and another’s ready.’
He noticed that the old books had been cleared from the shelves.
‘You got rid of the rolls,’ he said slowly.
‘I thought I’d take a risk. Make out cards if the rolls come through.’
The day wore itself out. At twenty to five the men began to troop up the stairs to the showers. Some stood for a while in the loading dock, talking and gesticulating, looking at the spot where Hughie’s body had rested. But finally it came, the long-drawn-out whistle, the two shrill screams that denoted the end of the day’s labour. The men and women passed slowly. The bundy whirred. In the outer office, Renshaw was still talking to Patty Nicholls, his head bent low over her. They seemed to be enjoying the conversation. Now and then Patty smiled.
Oliver, coming from the showers, saw the two heads close together. He smiled fleetingly, but his face darkened. She’ll cop what she’s looking for, he though
t. If you really hunt it up you get it. And Renshaw’s just the chap to push it along. You don’t play games with a tiger-snake.
He shoved his card into the bundy and clocked off.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
The days that followed were not easy ones for Renshaw. The inquiry into Hughie’s death took place. Cuthbert wrote to Alice. The men took up a collection. Miss Merton bought a wreath and a card. Life settled down again.
Harvison had not spared Larcombe over the matter. He had no defence. There was nothing to do but stand listening to Harvison’s cold summing-up of the situation. It was no good blaming Renshaw. Who could have foreseen the result of Renshaw’s carelessness over the keys?
But he’d better start getting a grip on the reins. One or two blues of this nature and he could be out. He’d better really start gathering up those reins, see that they were eased out of Renshaw’s hands. He could find himself in the cart if he didn’t pull up his socks. And no one had ever accused old Harvison of being a sentimentalist.
Harvison leant forward in his chair. He was not shooting up his eyebrows. He was not smiling. His mouth was set in a thin, hard line.
When it came to a showdown, Larcombe was right out on a limb. And Harvison wasn’t the man to scruple about cutting him down.
‘How often do you go to the Dyehouse?’ Harvison asked coldly.
He went often enough. Whenever he thought it necessary. Was there any need to sit on the bloody doormat? Watch every piddling little job? Why did they have Renshaw there? Did he have to supervise every vat? Direct every load that hit the presses? Dot every i, cross every t?
‘How often?’
Larcombe raised his eyes. He looked warily at old Harvison leaning forward in his chair. If he said this, or this…He ran his tongue along his lips.
‘How often have you been out during the past month?’
‘Well—I ring. I ring pretty often.’
‘How often have you been out?’
‘Once—maybe twice a week.’
Harvison put his hand into a drawer. He drew out a folder. It contained a list of the names of all senior Staff personnel, together with their salaries.
‘This be you?’ Harvison asked. He looked at Larcombe with fury, almost hatred. ‘This bloke here—the one drawing down this figure? Do we pay you that for going to Macdonaldtown once, twice a week and attending a party with Best-Yet?’
Larcombe was silent. Thoughts tossed through his mind. There was plenty he could say. If he wanted to, he could lean forward and grab the small, lean neck between his fingers. He could shove a few home truths down his neck. He could tell him a thing or two. This little Caesar in this piddling little backwater, thumping the desk and yelling. But instinct warned him to be quiet.
‘I could have your money made up now. Maybe you could find a better job. One more suited to your peculiar talents.’
The blood drained from Larcombe’s face. He lifted his eyes and looked at the old man. The old man looked back at him, his eyes cold and implacable.
‘How do you think this company was built up?’ he asked. ‘By chaps going to Macdonaldtown once or twice a week? We’ve got more useless ornaments on the payroll than we can carry as it is. Too many tall poppies waiting to be cut down. Too many people wasting their time drinking tea.’
Suddenly his face changed. The change was subtle. He placed the folder back in the drawer. He put his hands together.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m prepared to accept that this was an accident. I’m prepared to accept your explanation. What I’m not prepared to accept is your loafing about, letting things drift along in the hands of an imbecile like that Renshaw. There’s going to be changes, you can mark my word.’
Harvison picked up a pencil and wrote briefly on a sheet of paper.
‘I want you at Macdonaldtown at least once every day. Understand? I expect you to have a grip on everything that’s going on. Is that clear? I want these tea parties kept to a minimum. I don’t want to be told every time I ring a bell, or get onto the phone, that you’re drinking tea with Best-Yet, or Newtogs, or Smith’s Worsteds. And I want you to exercise some control over people like Renshaw. Right. So Renshaw knows the dyeing. That’s what we want. He can handle the Macdonaldtown people. Knows them. Right again. But never let the day dawn when he runs you. We pay you big money to have everything at your fingertips. So you get on well with the customers? So what? We all do. We’ve got a quality product, and they know it. I’m paying you big money, and I want results. You’re not going to get them going to Macdonaldtown once a week. And I don’t want to see you shining the seat of your pants on that chair every time I come in. If we want you, there’s always a line to Macdonaldtown.’
Larcombe drew his breath. It was over. He had survived it. He lived again.
Harvison threw down his pencil.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can go.’
Larcombe stumbled from the room.
He had scarcely said a word.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
At the Dyehouse things settled down gradually after Hughie’s death. Collins was tired of the laboratory. The wet, dripping ceilings and the constant clanging of the experimental vat oppressed him. But most of all he hated mucking about with the dyes, hated weighing-up, hated thinking about colours, hated the constant care and watchfulness involved in the processes.
Renshaw was edgy too. With Hughie out of the way and Collins openly uninterested, he was obliged to spend more and more time in the lab supervising the work.
Larcombe was terse and disinclined to be friendly. Still, he had said little enough about the keys, in the end. He said he could see Renshaw’s point, but that they would have to tighten things up.
‘Who opens up now?’ Larcombe asked. Renshaw watched him warily.
‘John Thompson.’
‘Not a Staff man?’
‘No—but he’s got to be in early.’
Larcombe pondered this. Yes, someone had to be in. Someone had to get up steam.
‘He break the seal?’
‘I suppose so. How the hell—’
‘He give the code?’
‘Well, what would you think?’
‘We had an instruction about this,’ Larcombe said.
‘About what?’
‘About passing on the code. Remember?’
‘I’m not Jesus Christ,’ Renshaw said. ‘I can’t be in two places at once. I work back every night, and I’m not coming in early to open up.’
‘What about Bob Mayers?’ Larcombe said. He was thinking slowly. If anything went wrong with this they could all be in the cart, every man jack of them.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Renshaw said. ‘John’s been here for years. He’s no fool. Do we have to dig someone out of bed?’
‘Oh, well. Let it stand,’ Larcombe said.
He would mention it in his report. That would put him in the clear. If Harvison thought fit to question it, he could soon change the set-up. He would toss it right back into Harvison’s lap.
‘Don’t you ever watch what you’re doing?’ Renshaw said to Collins. ‘Haven’t I told you over and over again that a dyer has to be extra careful, and clean? Clean overalls. Clean hands. No dye lying about on benches. Back of every good dyeing job everything is like that. Wash. Everything. All the time. Benches, jugs, stands, test tubes, pipettes. You’ve got all the gear, all the hot water. Even a girl to help you. Yet look at this!’
Renshaw took the pipettes from the stand. 5 cc, 20 cc. All dirty, all clogged with dye.
‘You’ve been using them as stirring sticks. Haven’t I told you to use the rod?’
Collins looked from Renshaw to the metal jug on the bunsen burner. There was a pipette lying beside it. It was thick with dye. Renshaw had put the dye in the beaker. He had been stirring it with the pipette.
‘I’m telling you,’ Renshaw said coldly. ‘When you’ve been dyeing as long as I have, you can please yourself. I want those pipettes cleaned up, and if I ever c
ome in and find you using one for a stir stick, you’ll cop plenty.’
Collins was not going to make it. He hated the work. As long as he had him in the lab, he’d never be free from worry.
Sims was doing well on the vats.
Renshaw thought of Collins again. What was wrong with the kids of today? He’d given this bloke a chance, and here he was throwing it away. Probably wanted to be a postman, or an engine driver, or a mechanic.
‘Do you like the work?’ he asked finally. ‘Do you find even the least amount of interest in creating these colours? Any sense of satisfaction at all? Does it mean anything to you to watch a length of cloth change from greige to crimson?’
Collins stood woodenly beside the pipette stand. He was not going to commit himself. He was not going to make statements about this and that. But when the time was ripe, he would be out. In the meantime there was this cleaning and scouring; this careful measuring and weighing; this collecting of data and writing up of books.
He took out a clean set of overalls and put them on. He ran the squeegee over the floor. He stacked the beakers in the stainless-steel sink; the test tubes, the pipettes, the enamel jugs. He collected the soft brushes for the cleaning. He scoured the beakers and jugs. He worked for a long time on the pipettes. Those that would not clean he threw into the garbage disposal. He wiped the laminated plastic tops of the benches, scrubbed the pipette stand.
And as soon as this was finished, they’d expect him to start organizing the dye stocks. To work on the labels. To try to keep the rusting old tins neat and clean.
He wondered how Hughie had faced it day after day.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
The new girl reported for the wrapping table.
The Dyehouse Page 15
