‘O.K.,’ said the accountant. ‘Hold on! Wait till I see if there are any confirmations here.’
His fingers flicked a bundle of orders.
‘They haven’t got that woman yet,’ said the carrier.
‘What woman?’
‘She stripped herself naked and jumped into the Yarra yesterday.’
‘Good Heavens!’
‘She can’t be very old. Her mother was there yesterday howling among the police. They had the hooks out. She must have been game, you know. I couldn’t have done that.’
‘I wonder what made her do it.’
‘Out of work, so they reckon. That’s one, isn’t it?’ He pointed to the orders. ‘You just passed it.’
‘Did I? So I did. I missed that one. There may be more. Half a jiff.’ The accountant’s fingers continued their search.
‘Yes, she must have been game all right,’ murmured the carrier.
‘There’s an order here for boxes a week old,’ said the accountant. ‘They can’t be here yet. See that we get them this afternoon, will you?’
‘Excuse me,’ said a smartly dressed girl, lifting the counter.
‘Certainly, Miss.’ The carrier stood aside.
‘Good morning, Miss Trueman,’ said the accountant.
‘Good morning, Mr McCormack.’
‘I’ll fix that up,’ said the carrier. ‘You’ll get them this afternoon.’
‘Well, is it going to rain today?’ asked the typist. She smiled at the carrier as she removed her hat.
‘Oh, I don’t know!’ said the carrier. ‘Those thunder clouds have gone over; there is a north wind rising. It’s going to be a scorcher, I reckon.’
‘No more,’ said the accountant, replacing the orders on their clip.
‘I’ll go through, then, will I?’
‘Yes, Correll will fix you up.’
When he had gone, the typist said, ‘I always notice that that carrier always gives you the right weather. The others when they come in say, “Nice day, isn’t it” or “Cold, isn’t it?” It really means nothing. But that fellow thinks it out first. He’ll only say it’s wet when it’s raining or it’s hot when the sweat is pouring off him. He goes into details for the uncertain days.’
The accountant did not take his eyes from her face. He listened with interest, his lips slightly apart.
‘That’s a fact,’ he said, relaxing and looking at the floor. He said it slowly with great pleasure as if there had been revealed to him a truth for which he had been seeking.
The typist looked at him. He makes you think that everything you say to him is clever.
The door of the managing director’s office suddenly opened. Mary looked through. ‘My father can tell the weather wonderfully. He goes by the clouds. He —’
‘Step on it, Mary,’ said the accountant. ‘You’re late already. They’ll be waiting for you over there. Hurry.’
‘I’m nearly finished.’
‘How are the statements going?’ said the accountant, looking at the typist.
She had dark brown hair. It v/as fine and soft, and suggested fragrance. Her eyes were large and brown. She had a level, clear regard that attempted no concealment.
‘I’ll have them all out tonight.’
‘Mr Fulsham wants to go over them before they are posted.’
‘Has he been in this morning?’
‘Yes. He and Miss Claws came in early. He went out again later. Miss Claws wanted to get here before the girls came in. She went over the cards. Someone is making mistakes.’
‘I wonder if it is Miss Davey.’
‘Probably.’
‘I hope she doesn’t put her off. I like her.’
‘So do I.’
They heard the sound of boots crushing grains of gravel against the floor. A door closed. The springs of a revolving chair creaked. Mr Fulsham settled himself with many movements.
He spoke, ‘Am I in the way?’ His voice had a caressive quality.
‘No, I’ve finished now, Mr Fulsham.’ Mary appeared carrying a duster and a handful of crumpled’ paper. She dropped the paper in the typist’s wastepaper basket. ‘Here!’ exclaimed Miss Trueman.
Mary spoke to the accountant. ‘I think that’s all.’
‘Yes. Clear off.’
She went out dusting her clothes with her hand.
The accountant opened a ledger. There was a timid knock on the counter. He looked up into the frightened eyes of a little girl wearing a red beret. Her lips parted. She turned her head then faced him again. Her throat moved as if a crowd of words were struggling there.
‘Is there any work?’ she said, at last.
‘Just a minute,’ said the accountant. He pressed a button on an automatic phone. It was labelled, ‘Cleaning Room.’ ‘There is a girl over here, Mrs Bourke. A beginner. You want one, don’t you? All right.’ He hung up the phone and went on writing.
A forewoman opened the office door. A smile of friendliness passed between her and the accountant.
‘How is your little boy?’ he asked.
‘Not too good. I wish they’d tell me what it is. His throat is terrible. I know a doctor. He’s a sort of cousin of mine. I’m going to take him there. Half of these doctors don’t know as much as they think they do.’
‘It’s a fact,’ murmured the accountant.
The forewoman walked to the counter. A thin woman had appeared behind the little girl. The forewoman looked from one to the other.
‘How old is she?’ she asked.
‘Fourteen last month,’ said the woman.
The little girl stood tensely in the background. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Her glance wavered between the mother and the forewoman. Her shoulders sloped steeply from her neck to her upper arms. She glanced out on to the street where the warm sun lay on the pavement.
‘Has she got a permit?’
‘Yes.’ The woman fumbled in her bag. ‘Here it is.’
The forewoman took the form and handed it to the accountant for filing.
DEPARTMENT OF LABOUR
Government Offices
Spring Street, Melbourne
17/2/35
Permission for Girl between 14 and 15 years of age to work in a Factory.
I hereby grant permission to Rene Gaunt of 84 Carey St, Richmond, a girl of 14 years of age on 12/1/35, who is not required to attend school under the Education Acts, to work in a Boot Factory.
L. Currey.
Chief Inspector of Factories.
‘Can she start right away?’ she asked. The mother’s eyes rested quickly on the little girl as if flinging invisible arms protectingly around her.
The little girl drew a deep breath. She looked unwaveringly into her mother’s eyes, seeking strength.
‘Yes,’ said the mother. She smiled encouragingly at the little girl.
The forewoman motioned the latter through the door. A look almost of anguish came into the little girl’s eyes. She was powerless to look away from the steady understanding of her mother’s regard.
‘I will send your lunch round,’ the mother said.
The forewoman stepped back to the wall. She smiled down reassuringly at her new hand. The accountant raised his eyes from the ledger. There was silence. The mother bent and kissed her daughter.
The little girl walked through the doorway. She waited uncertainly in the office. The forewoman closed the counter behind her. She fastened the bolt … Click. The little girl closed her eyes a moment. The forewoman placed her hand on her shoulder and guided her across the office. The little girl continued past the door leading into the factory. The forewoman pulled her back and, opening the door, let in the low, unceasing roar of machinery.
It overwhelmed the little girl like a wind. She paused as if from a buffet before passing through.
The factory manager’s name was Ralph Clynes. He was thirty-nine years old. He had a full, bloated face. His white dustcoat, donned each morning at seven forty-five, clung to him lik
e a skin.
He stood, looking down the factory, biting his under-lip. His arms hung closely to his sides. He was soured by the conviction that Fulsham wanted to get rid of him. He had no proof. He just felt it. Fulsham was beginning to make decisions without referring to him. He called foremen into the office and discussed their work with them.
Clynes lifted his chin. He stretched his neck to free it from the irritation of his collar.
Fulsham had no right to go directly to the foreman. He should come to him. Fulsham had called Harry into his office and criticised the stitching on his welts, and Clynes had to walk up and down not knowing what was going on while Harry was being questioned. Then he had to ask Harry what the big fellow had wanted him for, and it made him seem an equal with Harry.
How could he get the costs down with Fulsham taking his foremen off their work?
Curse Fulsham. What did he think he was? His fingers opened and closed rapidly.
He walked across to a bale of lining and stepped behind it. He took from his pocket a small bottle. He unscrewed the cap and shook three aspirins onto his palm. He raised the other hand to his forehead and moved troubled fingers slowly across his brow.
The three white tablets lay silently on his suspended hand. He placed one back into the bottle reluctantly. He flung the other two into his mouth.
A man cried out, ‘Right-o.’ The thump of the big press shook the floor.
Clynes stepped from behind the bale and walked down the room. He moved his body restlessly as he walked.
Jack Correll stopped him. ‘When’s the meeting?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Eight o’clock?’
‘Yes. I’ll see you later about it. The tall fellow is in the office.’ He nodded towards Fulsham’s door. Correll glanced swiftly round. He walked purposefully towards his bench.
Clynes walked through the making room. Correll was right. The Douglas Credit had to come. If it would only come soon!
His tongue clucked from the roof of his mouth with a sound heard only by himself.
There was his wife spending so much. Say if he got eight pounds a week, now. Four, even. Yes, say four. It was all so simple. The Capitalists couldn’t always have their way. Release of credit … That’s what was wanted.
He recalled each specious argument propounded by Correll over the last four weeks. There would be money for everybody. His mouth slowly filled to a flow of saliva. He swallowed.
He became unconscious of his surroundings. He was driving a car. Its polished bonnet was incredibly long. It had thick glass windows and large, white tyres. It rocked over a gutter. The back rose and fell. It glided forward. He saw the Hodgkinsons from next door. ‘How are you?’ He leant over the side, smiled, and waved. ‘How are you?’ He inclined his head. They watched him disappear down the road. They would call that night, but he wouldn’t make a fuss. Their refrigerator … Pshaw! ‘Have a drink before you go, Mr Hodgkinson. Champagne!! Oh yes. I’ve got quite a nice cellar.’
A girl walked from the stores office holding a card.
‘Anybody seen Miss Claws?’
Clynes crushed a leaflet in his pocket. He felt a sudden spasm of fear. It passed. Hatred like blood flowed through him. Miss Claws! He would be free from that bitch. His lip lifted a little. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. She would pimp on him no more. Money to burn, eh!
This meeting he was going to have in his home. Correll said Atkins was a splendid speaker. He must get as many converts as possible. He walked with purpose in his step. He mounted the stairs.
In the machine room the forewoman was bending over a young girl. The girl’s face was strained and anxious. Her lip was quivering. She sat before a sewing machine. She moved an upper beneath the needle while the forewoman watched her.
Clynes did not notice the girl. He said to the forewoman: ‘What do you think of this Douglas Credit?’ He smiled as if the question were casual.
The forewoman stood upright. She instinctively put on her most agreeable expression and a scurry of ideas all planned to humour and please him stepped smartly to the front of her mind, waiting for an opportunity to do their subtle work.
She said, ‘I think it’s good-o.’
Clynes didn’t hear her reply. He said, ‘What is money? It is only a book entry. A man gives another man a cheque for a thousand, and the bank makes two entries in its ledger. What’s to stop them giving unlimited credit?’
‘Nothing,’ said the forewoman solemnly. She was thinking of her invalid husband. If she could get to the phone without Fulsham seeing her, the accountant would let her ring the hospital. But Fulsham didn’t like the staff speaking on the phone. Well, damn him, anyway, it was a case of sickness.
‘It’s got to come,’ said Clynes.
‘I was only thinking the other day,’ said the forewoman, ‘what we want to do, is to do away with governments. Say, “Get out. We’ll govern ourselves,” and then we could run things properly … make our own laws. I just thought of a solution this morning. We should all work six hours a day. Less would be produced and more employed. Over-production is the trouble. I can’t make out why I didn’t think of it before. It just came to me all of a sudden.’
Clynes was irritated. What the hell! … It’s Douglas … She should … Ar! the bloody fool!
‘Yes,’ he said. He walked away.
The forewoman turned to the girl. ‘Keep going’, she said. ‘You are not as fast as Rose, and Rose started on the same day as you. I’ll be putting you off.’
The accountant closed his ledger. He stretched himself. Miss Trueman was speaking on the phone.
‘Good-o, well … I’ll see you tonight, well … Ta-ta.”
She hung up the receiver slowly. A smile was on her face. She sat very still, looking at the office wall. Her eyes were soft.
She certainly loves that chap, thought the accountant.
There was a knock at the doer leading to the factory.
‘More shoes,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘This will be the eighth pair I’ve tried on this morning. Come in.’
The pattern cutter entered. He was a slow, heavy man. He carried a silver kid sandal in his hand. The typist took a size four and had a perfect foot. All new designs were tried on her before being placed on order.
Miss Trueman crossed her legs. She pulled a plain, black-kid court-shoe from her foot and drew on the sandal. She sat back, her head on one side, looking at the shoe. Her leg was stretched out in front of her. She moved her foot from the ankle, bending it from side to side. She straightened her instep.
The glittering silver sandal, moving at the end of the rounded silk-clad leg, was magically endowed. It transformed the office into a ballroom. The accountant could hear music. Ghosts of women in bright colours floated before him. They smiled at him over their shoulders. They swayed with white arms outstretched.
Miss Trueman placed a piece of paper on the floor and stood up. The pattern cutter dropped to one knee. He pressed the shoe with his fingers.
‘How is it?’ he asked.
‘The strap seems a bit tight.’
‘Yes, it does on you. You have a high instep, though.’
‘Ye-e-e-s.’ She gazed frowningly at the shoe. ‘The heel has a tendency to go over on these open shank shoes. It’s not joined to the front, sort of.’
‘They dance on their toes,’ said the pattern cutter ponderously. He again pressed the shoe with his fingers. ‘It seems a bit tight across here.’ He moved a thick finger along the strip of leather binding her toes.
‘After I try on a few pairs my feet sort of lose their feel. I can’t tell whether they are bad or not.’ Miss Trueman pulled the sandal off. ‘It should sell later on in the year.’
‘Yes,’ said the pattern cutter, looking thoughtfully at the shoe in his hand.
Miss Trueman thrust her foot into her black court shoe. She turned to her table.
A girl walked in from the factory. She carried a wooden box and a brown paper bag. She pl
aced the bag on the accountant’s table.
‘Biddy Freeman says to leave that with you.’
Her hair was magnificent. Dark curls with a copper gleam in them. They shone with healthy life and rioted on her head like loud cries of acclaim. Yet her face was thick and lifeless, her voice coarse.
‘Thanks,’ said the accountant. The girl placed the box on the floor, end uppermost. She laid a piece of paper upon it. The paper was kept in place by the weight of some coins.
The pattern cutter held the door open for the girl. He followed her out.
The accountant seized the paper bag. He opened it. It contained four buttered scones. He gazed at them with a puzzled expression.
There was a note in the bottom of the bag. He opened it:
Mr McCormack,
I heard you say to Mr Clynes that you never enjoyed your lunches because bought lunches were never as nice as home-made ones.
Would you take these scones? I made them all myself especially for you. They are a bit yellow, but that’s too much soda. I hope you like them.
Yours sincerely,
Biddy Freeman
P.S. I hope you don’t mind me doing this.
The accountant gazed at the note with pleased surprise. He suddenly folded it, and put it in his pocket. Everything seemed good to him. He wished he could repay her in some way.
He said, ‘If anybody wants me, Miss Trueman, I will be in the machine room.’ He slipped his crutches beneath his arms.
‘The lunch boy will be here in a minute,’ warned Miss Trueman. ‘Write down what you want before you go.’
‘I only want an apple today,’ said the accountant. He swung round to the box. He took the slip of paper. It was the order for lunches from those girls in the machine room who didn’t bring their own.
He placed a penny with the rest of the coins.
‘Here’s the lunch-boy now,’ he said. He nodded towards the counter. Miss Trueman rose. The accountant went out.
The man at the door had a face pitted as from smallpox. The skin was white and poreless as if it had been dipped in fire. He was employed by the little corner shop that made up the lunches.
‘Mornin’,’ he said. His voice was high-pitched and broken.
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 2