How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

by Alan Marshall

  He stopped before the hospital. He searched his pocket for a piece of paper. With a pencil stub he wrote:

  ‘After all, what is an appendix? It’s only the atrophied end of a bowel. I’d hate to think you had anything atrophied about you. Get the nurse to place these flowers where they can look at you occasionally. I’ll be up to see you just as soon as you are strong enough to make eyes at me. Rod.’

  He attached the note with an elastic band to one of the gladioli stems. He carried the bunch of flowers up the main steps and into the office.

  ‘Would you mind delivering these to Miss Biddy Freeman immediately?’

  Half an hour later, he was waiting in front of the Town Hall.

  He saw Freda approaching before she noticed him. As he looked at her he felt a sudden depression of spirits. She represented an existence that with all his striving he felt would always be denied him. Her appearance spoke of shimmering frocks and animated faces, of lights and music drifting through open doors, of tinkling glasses and laughter, of soft arms and bodies and parted lips a breath away.

  She had youth. Her lithe and erect torso rode proudly on her hips. He felt sudden fear of her. Yet when she noticed and came up to him it was she who was afraid.

  Her nervousness gave him confidence.

  He said, ‘I’m going to enjoy myself tonight. Come. Sit closer. We will start off just as if we had known each other a hundred years, and I will call you Freda and you call me Rod.’ He placed his hand on hers resting on the seat between them.

  She met his smiling gaze and felt at ease. They did not feel the need to talk.

  He drove slowly round the beach and parked the car beneath some tea-tree confronting the sea.

  With his arms around her, his lips near hers, he said, ‘I think I am falling in love with you.’

  She pressed her face against his. ‘And I with you,’ she said.

  11

  You work better in the morning … you are fresh. You tire towards lunch. Your work better after lunch … you are fresh … You tire towards five … but Blue can keep at it … Blue is a tiger for it … Blue on the jumbo press...and the thump … and the thump … and the thump … a thousand soles a day from Blue on the jumbo press … the six-foot jumbo press that takes a side of leather … Blue Henderson is a star … he takes risks … he keeps his foot on the treadle … don’t keep your foot on the treadle, Blue … the giant head of the press rises and falls without ceasing … you’ll lose your fingers Blue … you are not a stuff-cutter unless you have lost two fingers … and you’ll lose two fingers if you keep your foot on the treadle, Blue … but he keeps his foot on the treadle … for you’ve got to take risks to do one thousand soles a day … and between the rise and fall of the jumbo’s iron head his hand darts in and moves the heavy, sole-shaped knife a cut further … and the thump and the bang, and the island floor trembles, and dust falls on the heads of the girls in the cleaning room below, and in the stiffened hide that once had clothed a bullock’s shoulders, is punched a hole the shape of a footprint …

  And again the knife is moved, and again the bang, and again the hole … a thousand times the hole … and each mutilated hide, a fretwork of leather, is cast aside … and another hide … and another … and another … a thousand soles, and the bang and the thump and the darting hand beneath the falling weight and the quiver and tremble of the island floor on its supports of steel …

  But you get tired before lunch … even Blue gets tired before lunch … for your belly is empty before lunch … but watch that the knife doesn’t catch in the leather, Blue … swallow the dust in your throat … you’re a tiger for it, Blue … Clynes says s … and the doctor said you had a weak heart from rheumatic fever when you were a kid … ha-ha … and the thump and the thump … you’ve got no weak heart, Blue … you’re a tiger for it … Clynes says so … Miss Claws says you’re a tiger for it, Blue … twelve hundred soles a day she says Blue … but you’re only doing a thousand, aren’t you Blue … your docket says so … and the thump and the thump … don’t get the knife caught in the leather … if it rocks over your hand will go, Blue … and you will get compensation under the Workers’ Compensation Act from the Workers’ Compensation Department of the Workers’ Insurance Limited (Cap. £3 million) …

  Watch the knife, Blue … you get tired before lunch with an empty belly … and watch the side of the jumbo, too, Blue … only an eighth of an inch clearance there, Blue … and you’ve taken your fool off the treadle … and the press is still … the scarred hand pulls at the knife jammed in the thick crop … but you’ll have to reach over further Blue … just a little further … and … you’re tired, Blue … lean over further … now, pull … pull harder, Blue … empty belly … tired … now … she’s out … pull her over … step back with the knife … she’s free … you’re right … the treadle is behind you … don’t step on the treadle, Blue … look out for the treadle, Blue … the treadle … LOOK OUT!-JESUS! … and the thump …

  Clynes ran down the factory shouting, ‘Get Martin.’ Men turned their heads, shoes held stiffly in their hands. The girls straightened their backs and looked quickly at each other.

  The factory’s machines, deprived of their food snarled with empty mouths.

  ‘Get Martin … hold his head up, Ron … lift that bar Shorty — quick … Christ! … hold this … Steady … steady … lift him, lift him.. Jesus, look at the blood! … you’re hurting him … look out … lay him down here …’

  ‘O-o-h … O-o-h …’

  ‘You’re all right, Blue … grab the wrist … Christ, it’s spouting … Here Martin, the bandages … you’re all right Blue … Tie the ligature, there …’

  ‘Good-o Martin. How you feelin’ Blue? … Feelin’ all right?’

  ‘I — I —’

  “Don’t try to talk. You’re all right Blue.’

  ‘Lift him, Shorty. Get his legs, Ron. Now steady …’

  Drip — Drib —

  ‘Get on with your work,’ yelled Clynes over his shoulder.

  ‘Steady, Shorty … Put your good arm round my neck, Blue …’

  ‘He’s white as a bloody sheet.’

  Drip — Drip —

  ‘Lift him, Ron … he can’t walk …’

  ‘What about his fingers? They’re on the floor.’

  ‘Shut up you bloody fool. Don’t let him hear you. You’re all right Blue … Hang round my neck …’

  ‘Careful here … a bit higher, Shorty … Now, steady … You’re all right, Blue … Keep his head up …’

  ‘Christ! …’

  ‘Wipe it off the rail …’

  Down … Down.

  Drip — Drip —

  ‘Has McCormack got his car?’ Clynes sped to the foot of the stairs.

  ‘I’m ready,’ called the accountant.

  ‘Through here … steady …’

  Drip — Drip —

  ‘I — I — gotta pain in me chest.’ The words came from Blue is gasps.

  ‘I know Blue … steady … You’ll be all right …’

  Drip — Drip —

  ‘Put this cushion at his back,’ said the accountant. ‘Rest his head on this. Hop in the dicky seat. Raise his arm a little.’

  Drip — Drip —

  The car jerked forward.

  Drip — Drip —

  The accountant drew his chair up to the table. ‘Let’s work out this insurance claim together, Miss Trueman. Pull your chair up here.’

  Miss Trueman sat beside him. ‘What’s to be done?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s a lot of detail to be filled in. I don’t know much about Blue Henderson; do you?’

  ‘I know he is married.’

  ‘Has he got any children?’

  ‘Yes, I think he has. Wait till I ask Mr Clynes, out here. He will know.’

  ‘Good-o.’ The accountant chewed his pen handle and waited for her.

  ‘Well?’ he asked when she returned.

  ‘Four,’ she replied. ‘The eldest
boy is about sixteen.’

  ‘Good. Well now … Let me see … “State total earnings for year”,’ the accountant read from the blue sheet in front of him. ‘He gets four pounds one a week, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Much less over a year, though,’ said Miss Trueman.

  ‘Look that up, will you?’ said the accountant.

  Miss Trueman referred to the wages book. ‘One hundred and fifty two pounds for the year,’ she said.

  ‘Cripes!’ exclaimed the accountant. ‘Three pounds a week. How in the deuce does he keep a family of four on that.’ He continued reading. ‘“Is his board and/or lodging provided by employer?” No. “Is he a member of employer’s family?” No. “Was the injured workman employed by you as a permanent employee?” Yes. “The accident occurred at …” and so on. “Describe fully the nature and extent of the injury and whether the injured person is able to perform any part of his duties (if arm, leg, hand or foot injured, state if left to right).”’

  Right hand severed through palm, wrote the accountant, with loss of all fingers and half of thumb.

  ‘Isn’t that awful,’ commented Miss Trueman.

  ‘Yes,’ said the accountant. He continued reading aloud, ‘“What work was the Workman engaged on at time of accident, and was it his duty to perform such work?” “Stuff cutting” and “yes” for those two,’ said the accountant, writing. ‘“Describe fully the cause of the accident and state if due to the Workman’s negligence or misconduct in any way, or to the negligence of any other person. (Give particulars.)”’

  The accountant leaned back in his chair. ‘The Workman was tired through overwork and it was the Company’s fault,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t put that,’ protested Miss Trueman, quickly.

  ‘No, but those are the facts,’ said the accountant. He sat up. ‘I suppose I will have to put it down as an accident,’ he said, writing. ‘“What is expected duration of Workman’s disablement?” God only knows.’ He turned to Miss Trueman. ‘This man is in a bad way, you know. His heart is weak. He may die. They had to give him several injections when we took him in this morning.’

  ‘What happens if he dies?’ asked Miss Trueman.

  ‘His wife will collect about five hundred, I think,’ said the accountant.

  ‘That’s the value they place on a husband, is it?’ said Miss Trueman, with a twinkle.

  ‘Evidently,’ said the accountant. He looked at Miss Trueman. ‘What do you think one is worth?’

  ‘Well, the one I’m going to marry is worth a hundred times that amount,’ she said, looking at the ceiling and nibbling her pencil.

  ‘Hm,’ he said, smiling a little and looking at her with interest.

  She leant across the table and picked up the last for a baby’s shoe. She held it up for him to see. ‘Look, isn’t it gorgeous?’

  His eyes glowed with a sort of warmth. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said. ‘Just like a foot.’

  They both gazed at it, smiling.

  Feet scraped in the doorway. ‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Miss Trueman, returning the last to the table. ‘I’d better finish the posting hadn’t I? There is not much more on this sheet.’

  ‘I think that’s all,’ said the accountant, glancing over it. ‘I will fill in the rest.’

  Miss Trueman removed her chair. The accountant looked up at the man standing before the little counter. Hm, Miss Claw’s fair admirer. ‘Well,’ he said.

  ‘How are you?’ greeted man.

  ‘Good,’ said the accountant. He returned to a study of the insurance form.

  ‘Did you tell her what I said?’ whispered the man, leaning forward.

  ‘Miss Claws? Oh, yes!’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She seemed very pleased.’

  The man moved self-consciously. ‘She’d be a decent sort of girl to get hold of.’

  ‘I daresay she would,’ said the accountant, frowning at the paper.

  ‘I saw her yesterday,’ pursued the man. ‘I called at the Bourke Street shop. She was there. She said, “Hullo, what are you doing here?” “I came to see you,” I said.’

  The accountant smiled.

  ‘That wasn’t bad, was it?’ said the man seeking approval.

  ‘Very promising,’ said the accountant, writing.

  The other became confidential. His voice lowered. He leant closer to the accountant. ‘It would cost her a bit to get that car.’

  ‘It must have.’

  ‘She must have a few bob.’

  ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘How old would she be?’ The man screwed up his eyes as if engaged in some complicated, mental calculation.

  ‘Oh! about thirty,’ said the accountant.

  ‘M-m-m,’ said the man. He grew thoughtful. The accountant’s pen scratched over the paper.

  ‘I should have hung my hat up to her before she got her car,’ he said, as if reproaching himself.

  His face looked less cheerful. He pondered, looking at the floor.

  The accountant agreed with him abstractedly, his brow contracted as he studied the questions before him. ‘Y-e-e-s, I’m afraid you should.’

  The man’s manner changed. ‘Oh! I’ll have a good business in about a year. It takes a while to work it up. I’ve been letting my customers go. I’ve got a good connection now; but the trouble is they’re doing nothing. The depression, see. They say things are brightening up. What do you think?’

  ‘I think they are,’ said the accountant.

  The man flicked a thread from his waistcoat. ‘She doesn’t look like a girl that would go for the boys. She looks more for business than housekeeping, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the accountant mechanically.

  ‘I told her … I said to her — when I saw her in the shop the other day — I said, “I suppose a man will be able to get a job now you’re running the shops.” ‘

  ‘And what did she say?’ asked the accountant.

  ‘She only laughed.’

  He stood busy with his thoughts while the accountant folded the blue sheet.

  ‘Oh, well! I’ll see you again, Mr McCormack. Is there anything you’re wanting?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Well, so long.’

  ‘So long.’

  ‘Miss Claws is waiting for you in the factory,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘She sent Rene in to see if you were busy.’

  The accountant walked into the factory. ‘I was just talking to your boy friend,’ he said to Miss Claws who was standing before a bench examining shoes.

  ‘What boy friend?’ Miss Claws was interested.

  ‘The pink-faced one.’

  ‘Him! she exclaimed scornfully. ‘Has he been in again? He’s mad.’

  ‘He seems very fond of you,’ said the accountant.

  ‘Huh.’

  ‘Do you want me?’

  ‘Bentley is over in my office. Now that he has bought the shop he wants to arrange about opening an account.’

  ‘We will probably be landed with this chap,’ said the accountant, walking beside her.

  ‘I think he will do all right.’ She watched the floor as she walked. ‘Do you buy much off that chap?’

  ‘The fair fellow? Oh, a little.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he does much. You ought to give him a turn now and then.’

  Bentley rose as they entered. The accountant greeted him. Bentley radiated self-satisfaction.

  ‘Well, I’ve taken the plunge, Mr McCormack.’

  ‘Yes. I was in touch with the agents this morning,’ said the accountant. ‘You should do well.’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ said Bentley, confidently. ‘All my friends have promised to deal from me. I work these shoe clubs, you know. They’ll bring me in a fiver a week. And this a good stand, too … very central. I’ll have all the opposition on their toes at the opening.’

  He raised himself on to his toes then sank to his heels again. He smiled happily.

  ‘Now abou
t your account,’ began the accountant …

  The accountant climbed the hospital steps at seven thirty. He walked down a passage, through a ward. Women with naked faces looked at him from beds. They were all too sick to care what he read in their expression. Their pride in their appearance was gone. They looked at him expressionlessly as if he were too remote from their circumstances to be of interest.

  From the entrance to a long ward the accountant noticed Biddy in an end bed. She had not seen him. He paused a moment, watching her. Four men stood round the bed. Some of her lovers, thought the accountant and a slow smile gradually crept over his face till it became radiant. He swung forward eagerly.

  His crutch slipped a little on the polished floor. (I’ll have to go carefully.) He had sudden vision of himself slipping and falling with a loud clatter to the floor. He could hear his head crack the boards and see his eyelids clench and his features grimace. He enjoyed the picture. It was very funny. Like a Comic Cut strip.

  One of the men raised his head and watched him approach, with a look of, ‘What’s this she’s got hold of?’ on his face. The accountant, seeing it, smiled his knowledge of the glance back into the man’s eyes. The man dropped his glance quickly, but as suddenly raised it and grinned a friendly and unbiased acceptance.

  ‘Ah there, Biddy,’ called the accountant, raising his hand in a salute.

  He placed a bag of oranges on the bed. ‘I suppose we all brought oranges, did we?’ he said looking round at the four men.

  ‘I brought a pineapple,’ said the man who had exchanged smiles.

  The accountant looked at him admiringly. ‘You’ll get on in the world,’ he said.

  Biddy spoke from the bed. ‘Now, you are not to make me laugh,’ she said. ‘It hurts my side.’ She shifted her position in the bed. ‘You haven’t met my friends, have you Mr McCormack?’

  ‘I know one of them a little,’ said the accountant with a glance at the donor of the pineapple.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ She introduced the four men.

  She is handling this with ease, thought the accountant. She is enjoying it. But later noticing her tiring he suggested that they go.

  She looked so small in the bed, so smilingly calm and even when there had been a silence, and the men moved uncomfortably on their feet, she had retained her poise.