‘All right.’
The accountant left her and went into the factory.
The dust from the Naumkeg machine had given Tom Seddon a cough. The blowing system of the Modern Shoe Company was not efficient. It only drew away part of the dust. The remainder floated around his machine.
An inflated pad covered with emery paper revolved at terrific speed before him. He held the sole of a shoe against it. It grated and vibrated. The accountant passed. Tom looked up quickly and called out, ‘Hey!’ He concentrated on his shoe again.
The accountant stopped and watched him. The operation raised a fine nap on the sole so that the paint put on in the finishing room would penetrate the surface. This enabled the finisher to bring the sole up smooth and glossy.
A large galvanised iron funnel gaped over the spinning pad. Emery and leather dust flew from the shoe and was sucked into the blower’s mouth. A dull roar came from the cavity. Behind it a large tube stretched like a snake along the wall, and out into a collector standing in the yard.
Dust that escaped the uprush of air floated round Tom’s head. His hair was sprinkled with dust. It clung to the edges of his nostrils and to his lips.
He placed the shoe on a rack and hurriedly rubbing one hand on his hip said to the accountant, ‘I brought him home last night.’
‘Did you!’ replied the accountant. ‘Was he as ill as you thought?’
‘He’s crook all right. We got up there about seven o’clock. It’s right in the bush. The ambulance blokes reckoned we’d never make it.’
‘Had he met with an accident?’ asked the accountant. ‘The telegram didn’t say much.’
Tom gave a quick glance round the factory.
‘It’s all right, Tom,’ the accountant assured him quietly, ‘I have asked you to stop work.’
The man’s watchfulness left him. He drew a deep breath. He reached out a hand and placed it on the accountant’s shoulder as if to imbue what he had to say with an intense gravity. The accountant regarded him steadily.
He was a dark man. His once handsome face was lined. His lips were full. They were dry from the dust of his work. Two strained lines dropped from his nostrils to the corner of his lips.
‘He’s gone cranky,’ he whispered, staring into the accountant’s eyes. ‘Mad … He’s as mad as a snake.’
He wet his lips. His face took on an expression of pained bewilderment. ‘It’s not in the family.’ His eyes were still looking deep. His lips were apart. ‘How is it? … What? … I dunno … He’s only eighteen … He’s only a kid. His poor mother. I dunno …’
‘How do you mean “cranky”?’ asked the accountant, gently. ‘Was he delirious?’
‘No! No!’ exclaimed Tom, impressively. ‘He’s just plain cranky.’
He glanced round the factory. He moved his face nearer to the accountant’s and whispered with conviction: ‘It’s them bloody books that done it. The books and the bush and … and … he’s so young … bad habits, see … bad habits … when we was comin’ home he says, “You oughta told me about it when I was young dad” … See … He’s not mad all the time … He’s sensible some time … and he says that, just lookin’ at me like … in the ambulance and the blokes drivin’ … and me sittin’ there … “you oughta told me about it when I was young, dad” … just that …’
The accountant was silent. He moved helplessly and then said, ‘Poor chap.’
They were both still, thinking. The man coughed. He drew a handkerchief across his mouth, gathering the spittle into its folds.
The accountant spoke again. ‘Did he know you when you got there?’
‘Yes,’ exclaimed the father. ‘The farmer chap he was workin’ for met us at the gate. He said he sent us a telegram as soon as he saw the way Ted was goin’. Ted didn’t sleep in the house with them. He had a hut away across the paddock. We walked over in the dark. You could hear him singin’ a mile off.’
‘The farmer chap told us when we were goin’ over. He said he looked into the cowshed one day and Ted was kneelin’ down holding two dogs by their collars. He was holdin’ them apart, see. One was a hell of a fighter and savage like; the other was a quiet dog. Ted was sayin’ to the wild one, “Now you must learn self-control. I’ll get you like this dog in time. Don’t you go pickin’ fights!” The farmer said he knew he was cranky then.’
‘What happened when you got to the hut?’ asked the accountant.
‘One of the ambulance blokes knocked. Ted came to the door and said,. “Who the hell are you?” The ambulance bloke said, “Your old man’s out here.” “You’re a bloody liar,” Ted said. Then he came out of the hut and saw me, and he said “God! it is the old man,” and he shook hands and said, “What the hell you doin’ up here, dad?” and I asked him was he sick, and he said, “Sick as a dog, dad. Sick as a dog.” Then he grabbed me by the arm and says, frightened like, “I get visions. I see things. I see things at night, dad. By God, I do.”
‘So we got him in the ambulance.’
Tom’s arms hung heavily by his side as if he were tired.
‘Did he make any fuss about leaving?’ asked the accountant.
‘No. He just came quiet. But he kept picking the ambulance blokes comin’ home. He says once: “Are we on the main road?” and when one of the chaps said “yes,” he said, “Excuse me, you’re a bloody liar.” They didn’t like it. One of them said, “He’s not so mad,” and Ted went off the handle then and said, “I’ll slap you down, son. I’ll fix you. I’ll kill you.” I said, “You’ll kill no one,” and he says, quietly like: “Yes, that’s right. I won’t.”
‘You got a doctor, I suppose,’ said the accountant.
‘Yes,’ said the man sadly. ‘When we got home, I didn’t know what to do. I went in first. His mother’s a good woman. She was knitting in front of the fire. They were all up. They waited up for us. I said to Mary: “Now don’t be alarmed.” But she jumped up and dropped her knitting and looked at me and didn’t speak, and the girls there, frightened …
‘And then she said: “Tell me. What’s wrong with him? Tell me, quick,” and I said: “He is just a bit delirious. Don’t take any notice.” Then Ted came in and danced a jig and us all round him looking, and he kept singing “Ta ra a boomdeay.” His mother cried. She is a good woman.’
He sighed and looked at his thick, calloused fingers and the hairs on the back of his hands grey with leather dust.
‘The doctor said he’d have to have a lot of baths.’
‘Cold baths, I suppose,’ said the accountant.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘Cold baths are too invigorating, he says. They are to be very hot. We got to weaken him, the doctor says.’
‘That’s strange,’ said the accountant. ‘But he will know what he is doing.’ He paused, then added, ‘I can understand you being worried over this: but after all there is no need. The boy is not depraved or abnormal. He is just ignorant of things we all should have been taught at school. He’ll probably develop into as fine a character as his dad.’ The accountant smiled. ‘A few weeks among friends will make all the difference.’
‘Look,’ said Tom, his voice self-conscious. ‘I was telling the wife about you. You know about people and that sort of thing. Gome out one night, will you? You could quieten him down. He frightens them now. I told the wife. Could you come out and have a talk with him? We haven’t got much of a home …’
‘I’d be only too pleased to come out,’ said the accountant. ‘Tomorrow night? Will that suit you?’
‘That’ll do fine,’ said Tom, eagerly.
The accountant left him crouched down above a shoe that whined harshly ‘mid leather dust.
‘Hey! brother,’ Jack Correll hailed the accountant. ‘Did you see where they are getting up a petition to put to the King? It is signed by Lords and everything. That will make the King sit up and take notice. The Bishop of Liverpool is going to sign it.’
The accountant had stopped. A slight smile curved his lips. ‘The Bishop of Liverpool,’
he repeated slowly, gazing at the desk. ‘The Bishop of Liverpool.’ His smile broadened as if there was humour in the words. ‘The Bishop of Liverpool …’
‘They’re all moving now, brother. The world is waking up.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right,’ murmured the accountant, still happily musing.
‘We’ve been balled up long enough,’ continued Correll. ‘A has never bought A plus B and never will.’
‘Whatever he says must be right,’ said the accountant brightly, stirring himself as if changing a train of thought.
‘Those shoes on your feet, now,’ argued Correll, pointing. ‘They have fifteen per cent interest on them.’
The accountant looked at his shoes. They were made of Wallaby skin. He moved the toes of his ‘good’ leg, delighting in the softness of the leather. He thought, there must be a lot of oil in Wallaby skin. They are hard to clean … Eucalyptus? … but they don’t eat gum leaves. Strange … They probably eat a lot of some leaf containing oil. Parrot’s flesh tastes of eucalyptus, they say. He had never eaten a parrot. He resolved that some day he must eat a parrot.
‘The leather we buy from tanners at one and nine includes all the tannery wages and overhead,’ went on Correll. ‘And all the cattlemen’s wages and overhead.’
‘And all the bullocks’ wages and overhead,’ added the accountant, facetiously.
Correll ignored it.
‘Then how do you expect wages which is A, to buy your shoes which includes material, profits, and overhead.’ He tapped the accountant on the chest. ‘A plus B, you see. A can’t buy A plus B. It can’t be done.’
‘It’s been done for a hell of a long time now,’ said the accountant.
‘But at a terrible cost, brother.’
The accountant looked perturbed. ‘Go on!’
‘Prices are too high in relation to purchasing power. The credit of a country is the regulated selling price of its goods. Do you see that, brother?’
‘No,’ said the accountant.
He walked off whistling.
Miss Trueman asked, ‘What are you whistling for?’
The accountant closed the door.
‘Ah! that is the question,’ he said, lifting a finger. ‘It’s probably because half those statements are not out yet. What are you up to?’
‘G.’
‘If I were McClintock, I’d say Gee-whizz to that,’ said the accountant.
‘Who is McClintock?’
‘Oh! A bird I know. He is a pun expert. Try and finish those statements by tonight, will you?’
‘I don’t know about getting them all posted.’
‘I’ll help you.’ He noticed a hat on the table.
‘Who owns the bocka?’ he asked.
‘Some man upstairs. He is with Mr Clynes.’
The accountant took the hat in his hand. He looked intently into its interior. ‘Thirty-five bob,’ he murmured. ‘Henry Buck’s, too. Must be a man with money … Therefore, he’s not after money.’
He turned to Miss Trueman. ‘Now, if I were a conjurer I could take a rabbit out of this hat; but, as I’m not, I can’t.’
‘That’s certainly a sensible remark.’
‘If everything we said were sensible, what a dull world it would be.’
‘Here comes that man now,’ said Miss Trueman hurriedly.
The accountant leisurely placed the hat on the table.
Clynes entered, followed by a tall man with a face like a moustached Raphael cherub.
‘Mr Rosewood wishes to see you, Mr McCormack,’ said Clynes. ‘I’ll leave him with you,’ then to Rosewood, ‘Call next week, and I’ll let you know the result.’
‘Thank you, Mr Clynes.’
‘Sit down, Mr Rosewood,’ said the accountant briskly.
‘No, no, thank you. I really can’t wait. It’s about your account …’
‘Oh, yes!’ said the accountant, thinking rapidly.
‘It’s not that I’m worried, you know.’ Rosewood laughed reassuringly. ‘It’s merely that you have always been so prompt in your payments hitherto.’
Will I offer him twenty pounds or thirty, thought the accountant. ‘Is Mr Fulsham in, Miss Trueman,’ he asked, turning. (Now then, do your stuff.)
‘No, Mr McCormack.’
(Good for her.)
‘The Managing Director is out, Mr Rosewood. I doubt whether he will be back today. I’ll get him to sign a cheque first thing in the morning, though.’ (I’ll make it a tenner.)
‘Thank you, Mr McCormack, I’m really in need of the money at present.’
(There he goes. I’ll have to make it twenty.)
‘I will post it tomorrow, Mr Rosewood.’
‘Thank you.’ He seized his hat. ‘Thank you. Good-bye.’ His head nodded like a mandarin.
‘Good-bye.’
‘And that’s that,’ said the accountant, relaxing.
‘Mr Fulsham is over in Miss Claw’s office,’ said Miss Trueman.
‘Yes, I know,’ said the accountant, brooding.
He went to the safe and carried books to his table. He leaned frowningly over their open pages.
Outside, the factory hummed and whirred. The pounder screeched in anguish. Feet shuffled and tapped on the floor above them. On the street, children shouted at each other.
The accountant sat down and began writing.
Later in the afternoon a man stepped up to the counter. He had fair hair and a round, pink face. He travelled for a firm of stationers.
‘Ha,’ he said jovially.
The accountant knew him.
‘Good afternoon,’ he replied.
The man leant forward across the counter with a curved hand to his mouth. He glanced warily from side to side, then whispered impressively, ‘Sandboy is a good thing for tomorrow.’ The words issued from the side of his mouth which he had opened at one corner. The contortion pushed his right cheek upwards so that it narrowed the eye above it.
‘Thanks,’ said the accountant. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘I had a good thing for you yesterday — Dark Man. He won at eight to one. I was nearly going to ring you. I didn’t know whether you would be in.’
‘I probably would have been out.’
There was silence … The accountant concentrated on his ledger.
The man waited.
‘There is nothing we are wanting today,’ said the accountant.
‘Things are tough,’ said the man. ‘Nobody wants anything.’ He stood looking at the floor and fingering his underlip.
‘Miss Claws is a fine woman, isn’t she?’ he said suddenly.
The accountant looked up at him quickly. The man was smiling self-consciously.
‘She is,’ said the accountant.
‘I never noticed it before,’ said the man. ‘She owns that car, doesn’t she?’ He jerked his head towards the entrance.
‘Yes,’ said the accountant.
‘I saw her sitting in it the other day. She’s a fine build of a woman … Good legs on her. Has she got a boy?’
‘Not that I know of,’ said the accountant, turning a leaf. A whimsical expression suddenly changed his face. ‘You should hang your hat up to her,’ he suggested, looking up.
‘Yes. I do like her,’ said the man.
The accountant studied him curiously. The man bent forward quickly and whispered, ‘Tell her I’m sweet on her, will you? You do. Just say I’m sweet on her. See what she’ll say.’ He kept nodding his head. ‘You do. Don’t forget, now.’
The accountant’s scrutiny confused him. ‘Just to see what she’ll say,’ he added, his face red.
‘Right. I will,’ said the accountant.
‘Well, I’ll be going,’ said the man. ‘Now, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t forget.’
After he had gone the accountant nibbled at his pen-handle and gazed thoughtfully at the calendar portrait of the Duke of Gloucester.
Mary Frobisher walked across the factory. Her head was bent. She was watching
the push of her thighs against the material of her dress. (Mother doesn’t understand. You have to show your figure these days.)
The accountant was seated at his table. She said: ‘Miss Claws wants you, Mr McCormack.’
The accountant did not heed. He had just written the figure 6 and thought it beautiful. It has something complete about it, he reflected. After all, what is streamlining but a replacement of curves for angles. Who said that beauty is the elimination of superfluities. Strange, beauty and utility. Is a curve more beautiful than an angle? It seems like it. There’s less of it … Removal of superfluities, see. But I don’t know. Take a table-top proportioned to five by eight. There’s harmony in it; beauty, really. God! I forgot to wipe that water off my table this morning.
‘What is it, Mary?’
‘Miss Claws wants you.’
He thought: What’s wrong with her? I wonder what she wants me for. It’s unusual for her to ask for me like this.
He said, ‘All right, Mary.’
He walked across to the shop’s office humming, ‘Oh, Speak to Me of Love.’
Miss Claws was sitting at her table. Fulsham had gone. She was crying. Her face was red and puffed. Half-wiped tears smeared her cheeks. She dabbed at her eyes with a small, damp handkerchief.
The accountant was surprised. ‘What’s wrong, Miss Claws?’
He sat on the edge of her table and leant towards her. His expression showed concern.
‘Mr Fulsham swore at me,’ she sobbed.
(Good Lord!)
‘He has never done that before,’ she wailed.
(Hm.)
‘What was the trouble?’ he asked.
‘I hate this firm,’ she continued, sobbing. ‘I hope it goes broke. That rotter Correll put one over me. I’ll fix him.’
Everyone against everyone else, thought the accountant. How paltry it is. Every big business is the same.
‘He went into Mr Fulsham and told lies about my work.’
‘Lies?’ queried the accountant, contracting his brows.
‘He said I was filling the shops with dead stock.’
‘That’s bad.’
The accountant moved his finger in circles on the smooth table, wondering what she expected him to do about it.
How Beautiful Are Thy Feet Page 8