How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  ‘Do you still go with Phil?’ asked Mabel, leaning forward so that she could see round the girl in the blue jumper.

  ‘I’m just going round with him till I meet someone else. He wants me to track square with him. To look at him you’d never think he could talk seriously. He talked for a long while about tracking square.’

  ‘You should see the swell line that lives over at Annie’s place,’ said a little girl, busily knitting. She constantly hummed ‘Love in Bloom’. The girls called her ‘Bloom’.

  “Im! I know ’im,’ said the girl in the jumper, scornfully. ‘I met ’im at a dance. ’E’s a couple of left legs; a real lead boot. ‘E trod all over me.’

  ‘He’s good looking, anyway. I don’t care if they can’t dance,’ said ‘Bloom’ decidedly.

  ‘I wouldn’t go with a boy that couldn’t dance,’ said Gladys.

  ‘What’s Phil like on the toe?’ asked Mabel.

  ‘Aw, he’s not bad,’ replied Gladys. ‘The chap I was going with before, though, he used to enter for competitions.’

  ‘How do you get them all?’ asked Mabel.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Gladys, airily.

  ‘I’ll bet I do,’ said the girl in the blue jumper.

  ‘You shut up,’ said Gladys.

  They all laughed.

  Several girls emerged from the door of the opposite factory. They wore blue linen uniforms and were self-consciously carrying a new basket-ball. They tossed it from one to another. They laughed embarassedly at each other as if they were conscious of acting childishly.

  ‘Gord! Look at them,’ said the girl in the blue jumper.

  ‘Get inside, you lairs,’ she bawled across the street.

  One of the girls playing turned and poked out her tongue at the seated group.

  The girl in the blue jumper glanced quickly at her companions with her mouth slightly opened. Satisfied that her reaction was justified, she raised a curved hand to her mouth and yelled. ‘Yah, ya lair. Boo hoo! ya lair.’

  ‘Shut up, Elly.’ Gladys was annoyed.

  ‘Who do they think they are, anyway,’ growled Elly, withdrawing into a disgruntled contemplation of the players.

  ‘You make yourself cheap, yelling like that,’ said Gladys, looking up and down the street.

  ‘What do you think of that new girl sitting next to Biddy, Gladys?’ asked Mabel, noticing Leila Hale walking with Biddy Freeman and Sadie Bryce.

  ‘She’ll be all right when she wakes up. I see Ron Hughes eyein’ her off.’

  ‘Him,’ sniffed Mabel.

  ‘Well, you went out with him.’

  Mabel was silent.

  The three girls passed. Mabel jumped up and joined them. They walked slowly down the street.

  Sadie was talking. ‘He has waited at the corner for me every night for nearly a fortnight.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you then?’ asked Biddy.

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Mabel, interested.

  ‘The chap in the car that waits for Sadie after work. He wants to drive her home.’

  ‘I’d go with him quick,’ said Mabel.

  ‘Oh yair! and walk home,’ said Sadie.

  ‘He can’t do anything in the daytime. You feel safe when it’s early.’

  ‘That’s all right; but he wants to take me to tea first.’

  ‘He must be in the money,’ said Biddy lightly. She kicked an apple core off the pavement.

  ‘He looks as if he would be a good spender. I think I’ll chance it,’ decided Sadie.

  ‘Aren’t you afraid?’ asked Leila Hale timidly.

  ‘Afraid!’ exclaimed Sadie scornfully. ‘Afraid, nothing.’

  ‘How is your affair going, Mabel?’ asked Biddy.

  ‘Oh, Les! He’s all right.’

  ‘How often do you meet him?’ asked Sadie.

  ‘Every Wednesday night.’

  ‘Doesn’t he see you any other night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then he’s married.’

  ‘He is not.’

  ‘Did he say why he doesn’t meet you oftener?’

  ‘He said he’s working.’

  ‘Oh, yair! That’s what they all say.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s not married.’ Mabel was troubled.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘About thirty-three.’

  ‘He’s married all right. That’s the chap I saw you with last Wednesday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He looked married to me. He’s worn. Does he ever take you to a show?’

  ‘He doesn’t like pictures.’

  Sadie laughed derisively. ‘Married men never do. They’re frightened of being seen. Where does he live?’

  ‘Footscray.’

  ‘Do you know the street he lives in?’

  ‘No, I never asked him. He’d tell me, though.’

  ‘You ask him for the street and number. Tell him you might like to write to him some day. I’ll bet he puts you off.’

  ‘I’ll bet he doesn’t.’

  ‘You try him.’

  ‘All right. I will.’

  The girls turned and began to retrace their steps. At the factory door they stood talking while they waited for the first bell. A second ring was given five minutes later. They must, then be standing before their machines.

  From where she stood, Biddy could see the accountant sitting with a group of men in the packing room. She leant against the wall so that she could watch him as she listened to her companions.

  The accountant was smoking and listening to Jack Correll.

  ‘We can trace back all the troubles of the world — except sexual troubles — and a lot of it too — to the stupid, bloody financial system. This bloke was going crook about buying from Japan. I said: “Of course we ought to buy from Japan. We’ll give them all the credit they want.” If the Japs are content to do all the work, let them. We could all hunt. We could turn Australia into one big hunt club.’

  The accountant took his cigarette from his mouth and bending down to the youth sitting on the box at his feet said, ‘Have you still got your ferrets?’

  ‘No. I sold ’em. They stunk the place out.’ He was an alert, thin-faced boy employed by the Modern Shoes Office to help Miss Claws.

  ‘Strange, that smell,’ murmured the accountant. ‘Must be some form of protection in their wild state.’

  ‘Great Britain is the greediest country in the world,’ said Correll.

  ‘That be buggered!’ said the foreman.

  ‘Look at India. They have slaves in India the same as Abyssinia.’

  ‘We’re all slaves,’ said a young workman; ‘wages slaves; and Douglas Credit or any other credit will never free us.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you, brother,’ said Correll. ‘You know you’re a slave yet you do nothing to put in a system that would free you from your chains.’

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said the workman. ‘Unemployed labour suits the Capitalist. When a man’s belly is empty he can’t argue about conditions or wages. He’s forced to take anything. I’m on half time here. So are most of us. Well — it’s got to change.’

  ‘That’s what I say,’ said Correll. ‘Douglas Credit is the answer. You’d like a car wouldn’t you, brother?’

  ‘I don’t want anything for nothing,’ said the workman. ‘But I don’t want to work under fear of the job. I want security. I don’t get it now and Douglas Credit won’t give it to me either. What we want is a workers’ government. That’s all there is to it.”

  ‘There goes the first bell,’ said the accountant.

  The men gathered up the papers that had wrapped their lunches. Leather bags closed with a snap. Men rose stiffly. Boxes were pushed back. A young workman stretched and said: ‘Well, at it again.’

  Correll picked up his Sun from the bench. He tapped the accountant on the shoulder and pointed to a picture of a ploughed paddock. ‘Look at that country. Look at that soil. That’s wealth for you, brother. They talk
about Russia. Why half the bloody country is covered in ice in the winter time.’

  The accountant smiled.

  He turned and watched the hands making for their positions. Biddy Freeman passed on her way to the stairs; she looked into his eyes (Oh! I wish … I wish …). He met her gaze calmly. The faintest of smiles curved his lips.

  She was followed by Leila Hale. Ron Hughes mounted the stairs two steps at a time and caught up to Leila. ‘Meet me tonight, will you?’ He kept with her. ‘Just for a little while. I won’t keep you late. Come on; be a sport.’

  Leila coloured and averted her face. Her heart was pounding. When she looked into his insistent, brown eyes she lost all power of will.

  ‘I don’t — know,’ she faltered.

  ‘Where do you live?’ he demanded. ‘Quick. Here in Collingwood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then meet me in front of the Town Hall at eight o’clock.’

  ‘Oo! — I don’t know whether I can. Mother …’

  ‘Sneak out for a little while. I’m mad about you. You be there now. At eight o’clock. Say “yes”. Quick.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said faintly.

  He bounded ahead of her.

  The factory stirred as if awakened from sleep. It murmured with the switching-on of its motors. It growled. It rumbled. A crescendo of sound filled its open spaces. Belts leapt upward and fell thwarted. The walls trembled. Pulleys sped into blurred circles. Louder … Louder … Till its bray was consistent like a running hound.

  Standing silently before their machines the workers waited. The second bell rang through the factory’s voice. Machines clamoured their answer … The complaining cams of the rapid stitcher … the scream of the pounder … the snarl and tear of furious needles … the gnashing teeth of the consol laster … the rumble of racks pushed along the wooden floor … Hop into it, lads …’

  5

  Rene,’ called the forewoman of the cleaning room. The little girl hurried from the bench, wiping the socking paste from her fingers with her apron.

  She stood before the forewoman apprehensively. The forewoman smiled reassuringly.

  ‘Well, how do you like it?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Rene. She gazed into the forewoman’s eyes as if her own were rendered powerless.

  ‘That’s good. Now one of your jobs is to wash up the dishes in the office each day after lunch. You run in now and ask Mr McCormack what to do. He will show you. And don’t be long over them. The quicker you work the better I’ll like you. Off you go.’

  Rene made for the office, walking with short, quick steps. She knocked timidly. The accountant called out: ‘Come in.’ She entered and stood before him.

  ‘Mrs Bourke sent me in,’ she said.

  ‘Hm!’ said the accountant. He leant back in his chair and looked at her, his eyes amused. ‘And what did she send you in for?’

  ‘To wash up.’

  ‘Do you like washing up?’

  ‘Yes, I like washing up.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Rene.’

  ‘Rene. And how old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Well, Rene, switch on that kettle over there. I think the water is almost boiling now. There is a dish in the corner. After you wash the cups and plates, put them in that cupboard.’ He nodded his head towards a closed cupboard standing against the wall. ‘There will be some in Mr Fulsham’s office. Just knock at the door and go in and get them. And if there anything else you want to know, just ask me.’

  He dismissed her with a wave, and turned his books.

  Rene walked swiftly to and fro. She gathered the cups and plates and piled them on the corner of a small table. She placed the dish beside them. She brought a laden tray from Mr Fulsham’s office. She filled the dish with steaming water.

  She felt important. She was in the office. She felt superior to the other girls in the factory. The office had seemed a remote, inaccessible place to her. Now she worked in it. She had talked to the accountant.

  As she lifted each cup carefully from the dish she watched Miss Trueman typing. She had never been so close to anyone typing before. (‘She’s got such lovely hair, Mum, and the accountant spoke to me, and everything.’) In here they both lost their exclusiveness and became more approachable. She resolved that some day she would be a typist and always work in an office. She would have lovely dresses and walk up their street each morning carrying a handbag and a book. If ever her father hit her mother again, she would take her away and they would live in a house with a lawn, and on Friday nights they would go shopping in Smith Street.

  As she lifted the last cup from the dish it slipped from her fingers and crashed on the floor. Its shattering filled all her world with sound. She stood motionless looking at the pieces. She waited for the accountant’s angry voice.

  ‘That’s hard luck,’ he said. ‘Pick up the pieces and throw them outside.’

  She gathered them in her hands and carried them silently through the door.

  The accountant raised his head and looked after her. He smiled to himself.

  ‘I’ll bet her heart is thumping,’ said Miss Trueman.

  ‘I’ll bet it is,’ replied the accountant.

  Rene returned. She hung up the towel and emptied the dish.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked, tremulously.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ said the accountant, looking round the office. ‘You may go.’

  She stopped when she reached the door and, turning, said to the accountant in a voice akin to tears, ‘I’m sorry I broke the cup.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ smiled the accountant.

  She opened the door. The noise from the factory filled the office.

  ‘Notice how the machinery always seems to get louder in the afternoon,’ said Miss Trueman, as the door was closed.

  ‘Does it?’ questioned the accountant, bending his head to listen. ‘I’d never noticed it.’

  ‘I always think it does.’

  ‘Come in,’ said the accountant to a knock at the door leading to the factory.

  A girl entered. She walked towards the accountant with short, mincing steps.

  The accountant did not wait for her to speak. He opened a drawer in his table and took out a bottle of Aspros.

  ‘How many?’ he asked, unscrewing the cap.

  ‘Four,’ answered the girl.

  He put four into her outstretched hand. They lay on her palm like eggs in a nest.

  What a child’s hand.

  ‘The girls up there must live on Aspros,’ said Miss Trueman, when the girl had gone.

  ‘They certainly go through a lot,’ said the accountant, holding the bottle up to the light. ‘There is only a half a bottle left. When did we get this?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘Good Lord!’

  ‘I was at the pictures last night with Phil. I was standing in the foyer waiting while he bought the tickets. That girl was standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for her boy. I thought: Hullo! there’s the little girl that comes down for the Aspros. Her friend came up then, and she nudged him to look at me. She must have said: “Don’t look straight away,” because he turned his head gradually. They bumped into each other on the stairs. I just looked straight back at her. She got confused. I was sorry I hadn’t looked away.’

  ‘She always seems very self-conscious,’ said the accountant. ‘I can understand her being anxious for her boy to see you. A girl from the office and that sort of thing … It would make her work seem more real to her boy. What were the pictures like, anyway?’

  ‘Oh! not much. Madeleine Carroll was on. I forget the name of the picture. There are some wonderful war scenes in it. Isn’t war terrible? I never thought … They charge into bullets and among bombs. There is barbed wire spread out everywhere. If they charged when there were no bombs it would be all right. I don’t know how they do it. It’s terrible.’

  ‘Madeleine Carroll is a fine actress, isn’t she?’
/>   ‘Yes, she’s like Ann Harding. But there is too much looking-back sort of thing. She heard music that she imagined she had heard in another life and all that. It’s silly, I think. What spoilt it for me, though, was a man behind us. He got on my nerves. He kept saying to his girl, “God! I’m dry.” I thought, why don’t you go out and have a drink; but not him.’

  The accountant laughed.

  ‘The girl didn’t like Madeleine Carroll. She kept saying, “I don’t think she’s much,” in a catty sort of way. The boy didn’t take any notice of what she said. She had peroxided hair, and it really looked beautiful. I liked her. Her boy friend had admired Madeleine Carroll at the start; so she ran her down. Some girls always run down any girl their boy praises. They seem to think they can change his opinion and make themselves appear more attractive. It really has the opposite effect. I don’t think women are as sporting as men.’

  ‘They are more unscrupulous where men are concerned, I think. Men are so obvious in their methods of attracting women that they can’t afford to be paltry.’

  ‘I like men for that though. I would rather them be obvious and unsophisticated when they are trying to make you like them. It’s much nicer, too, having a man stumble through saying he loves you than to have him say it without any self-consciousness at all.’

  The accountant looked at her thoughtfully: ‘I wonder if that is true of every woman.’

  ‘I think it is,’ said Miss Trueman, biting her pencil — ‘When they really love the man. When they are flirting with him, of course, they like him to be clever and sure of himself.’

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ said the accountant reaching for his crutches.

  He rose and walked over to her. ‘How are they this month?’ he asked, looking over her shoulder at the creditors’ ledger beside her typewriter.

  ‘They are getting bigger each month,’ said Miss Trueman.

  ‘Yes,’ said the accountant seriously.

  ‘The balance keeps going up. Isn’t that bad?’

  ‘Yes. It is a bad sign. We are not building up stocks, either.

  That last balance sheet contained a lot of valueless stock that has been lying in the place for years. It made a good impression with the bank, but it’s not the true position. Mr Fulsham insisted on me accepting the stock figures. I must have another talk with him tomorrow. Prepare me lists of Debtors and Creditors, will you?’