He stood for a moment moved and shaken.
He had little enough to hand on. What he had was already given. On the way back to the ward he pondered this. The slight thread of life.
He could hear the voices of the men as they trooped back. Nine and a half pounds. Got a couple of boys. Cracked it for a girl. They were laughing and happy.
The men passed and he stood for a moment outside the door. Life was moving swiftly, now. Changes coming one on the heels of the other. Only in the Dyehouse the changes were slower.
He thought of the boy lying in his cot; of the strange, complex world into which he was born; of the struggles and battles that would confront him.
And he thought of the house, of the early train, of Renshaw, of the hydro and the cloth.
It might be easier for the boy, Barney thought. Sixteen or seventeen years is a long time. And the future could be different. Yes, a man could bank on that. The future would not be the same.
He pushed open the door. The boy would deal with the future. In a few years the boy would be striding through the world, pushing the future about.
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
At the Dyehouse the work was beginning to slacken off. Orders were still coming in, but the tempo was slower. There would be a breathing space before the year exploded into a last frenzy of labour for the Christmas stocktake.
The stand-down had not amounted to anything. One or two men had pulled out and Renshaw had not replaced them. The work had held, and he had been able to maintain the present staff. But he felt no real ease at the Dyehouse. There could be no real slackening for himself until he had replaced Collins.
He mentioned it to Larcombe.
‘That kid Collins looks like he’s not going to make the grade in the lab. I don’t know what’s come over him. He seemed keen enough at first.’
Larcombe looked at him.
‘He’s been doing pretty well at Tech.’
‘Maybe. Seems all right on paper. There’s more to this job than paperwork. He doesn’t like the manual work, mixing the dyes. I don’t know what it is. And I think he’s got a blind spot where colour’s concerned.’
‘We spent a bit of money on training him,’ Larcombe said. ‘Best part of twelve months down the drain. And I don’t know how Harvison will feel about it. He’s begun to take an interest in these kids going through the technical schools. I don’t think he’ll like it at all.’
‘Well, he can please himself,’ Renshaw said shortly. ‘My guess is that Collins will shoot through any time. He won’t be considering what Harvison thinks about the matter.’
‘Maybe we could talk to him. I think I’d let the matter ride. See what happens in the new year.’
Larcombe moved off. Renshaw watched him for a moment. Well, he’d met a few gutless wonders in his time. A few blokes that liked to be on both sides of the fence. Well, he’d told Larcombe. Let him know what was cooking. He could do what he liked about it. But the first likely-looking kid would be in there, weighing up the dyes. Larcombe could dither about like a piddling pup, but when the time came he, Renshaw, would act.
He walked across to the office, whistling to himself. Through the glass he could see Patty Nicholls. He picked up a pencil and began tapping his teeth with it.
During the winter and the busy season after the stocktake he had scarcely given her a thought. Scarcely noticed her. And when he had, she’d been looking pale and uninteresting. Beside Gwennie Verrendah’s dark, vivid colouring she had seemed insignificant.
But with the spring there was a change in Patty and not a subtle one. She had changed almost overnight from a tousle-headed youngster to a poised and thoughtful woman. With just a bit more grooming she could be arresting, almost beautiful. He would have a bit of back-pedalling to do to straighten out the Gwennie Verrendah affair. He must have been a bit soft to have fallen for that line. It might take a little time to get on-side with Patty again, but he had worked things before today. And he could wait. When it suited him, he could certainly wait.
Around the Dyehouse he let it be known that he regretted the interlude with Gwennie Verrendah. He talked about it to Goodwin in a sudden burst of confidence.
‘If you didn’t know the flaming cow,’ Goodwin said, ‘you could almost believe he meant it. I’m tipping he’s getting the stage set to make up to Patty Nicholls again. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. If she hasn’t had time to sum him up, she’s a lot slower than I think she is.’
‘Can’t altogether tell with women,’ Harrison said. ‘They seem a bit slow on the uptake sometimes. Try to do them out of sixpence and they’re awake-up straight away. But blokes like Renshaw seem to go down well with them.’
Renshaw gradually assumed an air of remorse. While the mood lasted he walked slowly past the workers, rarely criticizing, often inquiring after wife or children, handing out fatherly advice to the youngsters. Even Collins, trying to line up a job for the next year, came in for his share of assistance.
‘It can’t last,’ Collins said. ‘And I don’t want to be around when the bust comes.’
Renshaw’s interest in Patty was not the kind to include marriage. Marriage was a long way from his thoughts when he called through the door to Miss Merton.
‘Send Patty Nicholls in to me.’
Patty moved in quietly. She stood before his desk with a pencil and pad in her hand. She wore a smooth linen frock. It was longer than he remembered her frocks to be. And she had tied her hair back. He decided that the smooth, sleek hairdo had contributed most of all to her changed appearance.
‘Sit down.’
There was a chair in the corner and she drew it up. She sat down opposite Renshaw.
His eyes flicked over her. He remembered the nights in the corner of the park and smiled faintly. It had been a different cup of tea then. Well, maybe those days were not all over, either. If he did the right thing, maybe they would not be all over.
He picked up a sheaf of memos. They were all queries from Head Office. Renshaw was not really a paper-work man. The checking, querying and confirming of small, unimportant details infuriated him. More than once he and Cuthbert had joined battle over some detail that had not been double-checked or countersigned.
He picked up the sheaf of papers. He tossed them across to Patty.
‘Few wrong numbers recorded. Think you could trace them?’
Patty wrote in the particulars. She raised her head and met Renshaw’s steady, faintly smiling eyes. It was the old look. The dear, remembered look. She felt her heart suddenly thump in her chest.
‘They could be old numbers,’ Renshaw said slowly.
Old numbers. Patty wrote the words in carefully.
‘We went through a lot of old stock about the time that particular vat was dyed.’
Patty finished writing. She waited in silence with her heart thumping, and the colour high in her cheeks.
Renshaw picked up dye samples and weighed them in his hand.
‘What do you think of those?’ he asked abruptly.
He threw a handful of samples across to her. They were the colour swatches for Smith’s Worsteds.
‘The blue’s lovely,’ Patty said.
He looked at the cloth.
Suddenly he looked up. His eyes were appealing.
‘Are you still mad with me, Patty. Are you?’
She dropped her hands onto her lap. She knew what to say. She had thought of this opportunity over and over again. But her lips refused to frame the words.
‘It’s not enough to say that I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I’ve got around to wishing lately that we could be friends.’
He said it slowly. Even in his own ears it sounded sincere.
But he waited like an actor for the effect of his words. Patty raised her head and looked at him. It was a long, steady glance. Once before she had tried to sum him up. She should be saying all the words she had prepared. Letting him know exactly what she thought of him. What did she think about him, ev
en now?
‘I’d really like to tell you something,’ Renshaw said. ‘This Gwennie Verrendah. There wasn’t anything really. There was nothing. It was just a night…’
‘But Gwennie. I think it meant something to Gwennie. I think she might have really liked you. Perhaps she even loved you.’
Renshaw laughed suddenly.
‘Perhaps she did. My guess is that she didn’t. What do you think this being-in-love is anyway? Sitting down playing ladies? D’you reckon getting together isn’t part of this being in love?’ His face hardened, remembering Gwennie.
‘I was worried at the time. The work was piling up. It wasn’t serious, Patty. No more than a passing distraction. No more than other blokes are doing all the time and getting away with.’
She watched him steadily.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Patty said suddenly. Her voice was unsteady.
‘But you like me? Just a little bit? You don’t trust me, but you like me? Not a lot. But a little bit? Is that it, Patty?’
There was a weariness in his voice. The expression of his face altered. It was almost sad.
‘It’s a lot to ask, I suppose,’ he said.
He glanced down at the papers again.
They began to work.
And as the work proceeded, Renshaw kept bringing his mind back to Patty’s answer.
There was no real hurry, and he was good at waiting. They worked through the lists together. When the last query was straightened out he looked up and smiled.
‘Pretty smooth.’
Patty laughed. She felt suddenly easy. Her heart had ceased to pound. There were times when she enjoyed working with him. When his temper was under control he worked quickly and efficiently.
He stretched his arms above his head.
‘Things are hanging on,’ he said suddenly. ‘Orders still coming through. Bet you haven’t started to slack off on the records yet.’
‘No.’
She picked up her pencil and pad.
She was glad it was over. The opportunity had come and she had not availed herself of it. The carefully prepared lines were stillborn. And for Renshaw the first round was not altogether lost. He had talked to her about Gwennie. This alone had placed their relationship on a new footing. Not a lot of headway, but some.
At the door he called to her.
‘Patty.’
There was a look of amusement and tolerance on his face.
‘Yes?’
‘I forgot to mention. I’ve been hearing some pieces of interesting gossip.’
‘Gossip?’ Patty said. ‘About me?’
‘Well—about a certain young lady. Could be you. And a young cock on the dye vats.’
He means Oliver, Patty thought. She began to laugh.
Renshaw laughed too.
‘Just thought it seemed funny.’
Patty stopped laughing. Why had she laughed like that? She had a sudden sense of guilt. But there was something so droll about the idea of Oliver Henery.
‘He was kind,’ Patty said. She felt, suddenly, thoroughly ashamed of herself. ‘He was very kind to me,’ she repeated. She turned to go. She should not have laughed like that about Oliver.
Renshaw made no attempt to stop her. Things had gone along well enough. She had been flushed and embarrassed but she was not going to put him into the discard. He would keep out of her way for a couple of days; give her time to digest this day’s work. A week or maybe less. The thing to do was to avoid her for a while.
He picked up his pen and began to work.
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
In the street outside the maternity hospital, Barney came suddenly face to face with Cuthbert.
Cuthbert smiled immediately. The rule by which he lived included something about the recognition of men in the employment of the Company. He never forgot a face, and he never failed to show his recognition by a brief, impersonal smile.
For a second the men glanced at each other. Cuthbert noted in an almost clinical way Barney’s cheap coat and trousers, his shirt and tie, his thinning hair. The men passed and drifted along with the crowds leaving the two hospitals which faced each other.
As soon as Cuthbert was alone he glanced at his watch. It was four thirty-one on Thursday afternoon. If he walked smartly he would be back at the office in time to put through a call to the Dyehouse, before work finished for the day. His own visit to the general hospital was in the line of duty. He had been to see the Chairman of Directors, who was recovering from a minor operation. Harvison was feeling better, and after lunch he had phoned Cuthbert and asked him to come over with certain books and figures.
Cuthbert walked along smartly. There was nothing unseemly in his haste. His even gait brought him to the office door at twenty-two minutes to five.
‘You might get Macdonaldtown for me,’ he said to Miss Gregory as he passed through the outer office. He placed his hat on the rack. He took out the keys and unlocked the safe. He placed the documents in their correct order, then closed and locked the door of the safe.
The phone rang. The Macdonaldtown call was through.
‘Just checking on a bundy card,’ Mr Cuthbert said. ‘Number four seven three, B. Monahan. I would be interested to know just what time he checked out today.’
In the Dyehouse office, Miss Merton hung onto the phone. She glanced at the clock. Just on twenty to five. Five minutes to go.
She thought for a moment of Barney sitting before the switchboard, of the deep tone of his voice as he answered the phone, of the brief moment of happiness when Patty Nicholls had looked in at the door. Barney had left the Dyehouse about one o’clock. And now here was Cuthbert, cool, polite and courteous as ever, waiting on the end of the line. He was asking questions about Barney. As though he knew something.
‘Barney Monahan?’
‘Yes—what time did he clock out?’
‘I’ll have to check. I didn’t notice.’
She walked to the bundy. Number 473 was empty. No card on the Ins, none on the Outs. She found it at last, pigeonholed with Oliver Henery’s. She smiled to herself. Renshaw must know about this, too. She stood with the two cards in her hand, pondering. So Renshaw had turned a blind eye to Barney’s afternoon off. It was ironical that Cuthbert should have got to know about it. She saw Renshaw walking across from the mangles, and she beckoned to him and waved the cards. He came up slowly. He looked tired. His fair hair was dishevelled.
‘It’s Cuthbert,’ Miss Merton said. ‘I think he must have met Barney somewhere. He’s on the line. Wants his card checked.’
‘OK. Put him through to me.’ He took Barney’s card. Miss Merton slipped Oliver’s card back into its slot on the In section.
‘Good day,’ Renshaw said good-humouredly. ‘Don’t you blokes have anything to do in there but ring up checking up on times? It’s nearly time for us to knock off.’
Cuthbert made a thin, cold noise. It was the closest he ever got to really laughing.
‘Ran into that chap on the vats and the mangles. Monahan. Struck me as being funny that he should be about at four thirty-one.’
There was silence while Renshaw thought.
‘Where’d you see him?’ he asked finally.
‘In Missenden Road. Near the hospital. Couldn’t be mistaken. Recognized me, too.’
‘Yes,’ Renshaw said guardedly.
‘What time did he clock out? Take him a while to come from Macdonaldtown.’
Yes, it would take a while to come in from Macdonaldtown. But not all that long. If a chap cut along, tied up with a train, jumped a tram, he’d be at the hospital in thirty minutes. He could be running down the steps from the stockroom at three o’clock and walking up the hospital steps by three-thirty. He could spend an hour with his wife and be leaving at four-thirty. Renshaw picked up his pencil. He totted up the times on his blotter. Then he wrote 3 p.m. on Barney’s card and initialled it.
‘I marked him out at three o’clock. Noticed the time as he went through.’
&nb
sp; ‘You want to crack down on them if they fail to clock off. Lucky you noticed. Get away with murder, some of them. Don’t suppose he’ll make a sick-pay declaration?’
‘Not likely,’ Renshaw said slowly.
‘Well, I just thought I’d let you know,’ Cuthbert said. ‘How are things with you?’
‘Never any different. Seems to be holding. Orders still coming in.’
Cuthbert put down the phone.
Renshaw sat holding the card. He had done what he could for Barney. He’d lose about a couple of hours’ pay in any case.
Oliver Henery put his head inside the door.
‘You see Barney’s card?’ he asked.
Renshaw picked up the card and handed it to him.
‘Put it in the bundy and don’t bother to clock it,’ he said sharply.
Oliver noticed the pencilled figures. Three o’clock. Must have left about one, Oliver thought.
He joined the men at the queue near the bundy.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
It was late when Miss Merton reached her cottage.
It had been a warm day, almost oppressive. Out to sea lightning shimmered behind the clouds. The thunder was muted by distance.
It had been a heavy enough day, despite the interlude with Barney and Patty. Renshaw had been chasing figures, working out comparisons, turning up dye and chemical consumptions for the previous year. The costs were up; there was no blinking the fact. Prices had been rising steadily, but the consumption was up, too. With Hughie’s hand off the helm the wastage had risen steadily.
Miss Merton took out her key and opened the white mailbox set in the low picket fence. She took out the letters and carefully clicked the lock. Then she opened the front door and stepped into the darkened living-room.
The Dyehouse Page 18
