“I’m as good a social theoretician as you,” cried Withers, who was slightly tipsy and smoked a new cigarette every two minutes, his remedy for tipsiness.
“What time does your boss show up?” inquired the detective, coming out from the composing section.
“Ought to be here now; he’s late,” said Withers agreeably, offering the detective a cigarette. The detective looked Withers over and smiled.
“Thanks; I’m used to waiting, but you waste plenty of time.”
“Here he is,” said Joseph from near the door.
Chamberlain, haggard, hurried in through the doorway, his habitual stoop exaggerated. He nodded quickly to Joseph and began scraping through his papers in the office. He rang up Jonas, and asked him to come over immediately; then noticed the detective, came towards him severely, and in passing, said to Baruch:
“Why don’t you show visitors into the office? I don’t want people in the work-rooms. Yes?”
The detective followed Chamberlain heavily into the office, and said something to him in a low voice. Chamberlain looked scared, motioned him to a chair, and mechanically beckoned to old Williams to wash the glasses.
“He’s a close friend of mine, of course,” he said. “But what’s the matter?”
“Where is he?” asked the man.
They talked for some time, and Chamberlain gave the man some more whisky. When he had gone, Chamberlain came out into the press-room wiping his forehead and looking worriedly at the work going on, without seeing it. When he had made the rounds and consulted with Withers, he went back to his office and called Withers and Mendelssohn to him.
“Boys,” said he, “I’m in Queer Street. I might as well tell you frankly; it’s the best way out. Now put your heads together and see if you can think up something. It’s this way. Dave Jonas will be here in a moment, and I want you to know what he’s done for me before he comes so that you can think up a way to save us both. I’ve had an overdraft at the Bank of Seven States extended for two years, and they wouldn’t extend it any more unless I got guarantors. Montagu wouldn’t get them for me, but Dave Jonas, a lovely boy, I wish I’d had one like that, a corker, a true friend, a friend in need, you know, endorsed me for his own part for £100. Now he will have to pay the £100, and it is all he had in the Bank; he expected to marry Effie on it. Of the rest of the money, Withers endorsed me for £60, the value of the house. His house, though, has a second mortgage; he already advanced me in cash the £60 it was worth. It is empty and he will have to give it up. Montagu gave his name for £40, but Montagu’s paper was purely pro forma; it was really a credit in his name at the Bank, because he had an understanding with the Bank.”
“Well,” said Withers, “your wife’s got property for £200 and more up at Blackheath. Get her to sell it; after all, we advanced you the money on that understanding, that she’d sell it.”
“Of course,” said Chamberlain, smiling weakly. “Well, here’s the rub. She wouldn’t sell it for me. She said it was to set her daughter up in life, when she got married. You know we’ve been separated, bed and board, for years and haven’t spoken for twenty-four months. Well, Montagu went to her, as on my behalf, and explained to her a dirty scheme, in which Effie was supposed to have a part. She was to sell the property for Effie, deposit the £200 in the Bank in her own name. The Bank was to threaten to sell me up, force me to reorganise with Jonas, Withers and Montagu as partners, and renew the overdraft to the new owners.” He looked with reproachful eyes at Withers. “Montagu managed to persuade Effie, my own daughter, and a good girl, that it was best for me that I was a ne’er-do-well, and the only way to save me from myself was to do it. Effie persuades the mother and gets me to sign the papers, telling me the money from the sale of property is for me. When I ask about the sale, they say there are technical difficulties, and I keep waiting for the sale to be completed and wonder that the money isn’t coming along, when I’m nearly mad for it, and wonder that Min, my wife, isn’t more cordial to me after making the sacrifice for me. This morning, Effie breaks down and begs me not to bear her a grudge and so forth, that it is you that’s buying the business, and that it’s just the same, only Jonas, Withers and Montagu are running it. I trembled when I heard that and burst into tears like a cry-baby. They tell me the £200 from the sale of the property was deposited on Saturday. Effie agrees to get her mother to give it to me. At last I got down to the Bank to try to stop the affair, knowing how crooked Montagu is in all his dealings and not hoping he will be better with Effie than me, and I find that although Montagu received the money on Saturday at the Bank and made believe to go into the manager’s office with it, they know nothing about it, unless my guarantors pay up, or else there’ll be writs out for them; the Bank manager’s being sent on long leave. It seems Montagu’s account shows many irregularities: they’re going to put me into bankruptcy. Now this dick who was here tells me that, from all appearances, Montagu’s skipped: and I imagine with the £200 odd that Min got from her land: poor stupid woman. She can’t speak to her husband, she has to trust a crook like Montagu, and throw away her own, Effie’s and my chances of commercial success. Now, boys, think quick. Otherwise, you’ll have to come and feed me with biscuits every Saturday through prison bars.”
Withers looked white.
“And I’m in for £60 I never had. That was fraudulent, of course, but I did it for you, Gregory. And Jonas, where’s he going to get his £100 again, once he’s put it up for you? He’s indebted for the car you run, to the garage. You’ve sunk the crew.”
Dave Jonas appeared, his plump waxy face sunken, and dark circles round his eyes:
“What’s up, Greg?”
Gregory explained the situation to him. Jonas studied the flooring for a few minutes, and said:
“Montagu came to me Saturday, said he had to fly the Commonwealth because they were on his tracks. He admitted he was mixed up accidentally in some drug-running business and said he needed the money urgently to get out. I lent him £50. He gave me two cheques he’d received that afternoon, which I put immediately into the Bank, value £37, and two post-dated cheques from his partner, Willis, the auctioneer, for the rest. This morning the Bank telephones me to say the cheques are worthless. I rang up Willis, and Willis says they aren’t his cheques. I only know that I’ve been cooked and that we’re in a nice pickle.”
“The filthy swine,” began Chamberlain, but Jonas put his hand irritably on his shoulder.
“Don’t start that, Gregory. At bottom, it’s you that’s got us all into a hole, and our own impracticality second. Now what’s to be done? Montagu’s not to be considered. He’s in Western Australia, New Zealand, or even Honolulu, by this time; or he may have taken a coastal boat and got off somewhere in some little port. He’s a smart chap and can pass himself off as anything, not to mention that he’s been in almost every business in the world and knows the tricks of the trades. We’ll have to fight the Bank if they don’t listen to our tale of woe.”
Chamberlain added: “Another thing, in my mail this morning I get a notice from the Customs telling me that a consignment of Chinese vases and banners is waiting for me in bond. Will I try to sell it? Or refuse it?”
“Don’t take it,” said Baruch. “It’s a trap; if the feller was mixed up with drugs keep away from his merchandise.”
“Aw, don’t be melodramatic, Baruch: Monty was too smart to do that sort of business. I don’t believe this drug story. If he told it to you, Jonas, it was a lie. He never told the truth straight out in his life. He told you that perhaps to keep me off the goods until he can get them.”
“And invoiced to you?”
“Well, perhaps he’d done that before his mess. I don’t know; I can’t follow his tricks. A snake is a poker compared with him. I s’pose you’re right: all right, don’t touch the stuff, Dave.”
There was silence.
“Give me the invoice, Dave,” said Chamberlain, “I’ll nose round down there and find out what it’s about: I’m persona
grata with a couple of the chaps. I’ve often been down with Montagu in the car to get things, every week practically, and they all know me.”
He reflected again.
“Not so good, eh, if Montagu’s in a mess. They’ll nab me as his pal.”
“You’re putting your foot in it if you go round to the auction rooms,” said Baruch.
“I’d like to find out,” said Chamberlain. “Listen, boys. Mind you, if I could get those goods, and there were drugs in them—I could get it through easy; they all trust me, they know I’m honest—drugs sell for fantastic prices. I could perhaps save the business with the money I’d get. We could easily find an agent. Bribe the police-johnny who was just here. He’d take it: I know that sort of mug—‘Grease my palm’ written on it.”
They vetoed this phantasy with scorn.
He fiddled round disconsolately with his papers and went through his files to find some old bills of Montagu to compare them with the present ones. He put together all his statements, letters and notes from the Bank and went through them with Withers to discover discrepancies, oversights, differences of dates or amounts on which he might found a countersuit against the Bank.
“I believe I’ve got them,” he cried once, but after arguing with Withers, put the slip aside and went on. The sweat beaded their foreheads; Withers got angry and began chewing his moustache.
“It’s a fool business: you’re stuck,” he said. “Why don’t you go and tell them what a hole Montagu’s landed you in? they’re men, they’ll give you a bit of time.”
“Time!” cried Chamberlain, suddenly desperate, “what would I do with time? I’ve had time, haven’t I? No one can do with time what I can, make hay of such quality and in such stacks! You irritate me, Withers, I wish you’d try to think of something.”
“Go and see the directors, point out the culpability of their manager, threaten a scandalous countersuit for conspiracy, based on your wife’s sale of property. Anything. Have I got to think of everything? and suffer too!” said Withers, in a huff. He threw down the papers. “I’m not going to wear out my neck trying to find some little technicality to catch them on. It’s their business not to have technical errors, and it isn’t you who’s going to find the first one. Go on; throw yourself on their mercy. Tell ’em you’ll give up the business and have me or someone else manage it. Let ’em put in who they like. They won’t get anything out of selling you up. The clients are yours, the clientele like you. Go and tell ’em.”
Chamberlain looked up. “I will,” he said desperately; “I’m sick of this.”
He jammed on his hat, and they saw him hoofing it wretchedly past the window towards the Bank, which was a few blocks away. They did not see him again till the afternoon. They came in from lunch and found him sitting at his desk, his hat beside him, very red; while a collected, dark, elegant gentleman promenaded round the work-rooms. When the men came in, Withers inquisitively went to the office and started whispering to Chamberlain.
The heads of the workers, pink ovals marked with black, appeared round the machines and over the composing tables and out of the binding department. Old Williams, who had been pottering about in the storeroom overhead, came downstairs following the visit of the dark stranger and tiptoed up to Joseph, saying behind his hand, “What’s up?” Withers bent closer to Chamberlain, very red, and threw up his hands.
“I expected it! What am I to do?”
He came out lugubrious, almost decrepit with spleen, and walked about the workshop saying to each one discreetly, with a certain bitter pleasure:
“Boys, you’re sacked. He has to close the shop until the Bank decides what to do.”
Baruch went on working; Joseph stopped his machine and ran about trying to confirm the remark, and ended up at Chamberlain’s office door, saying:
“Mr Chamberlain, is it true, we have to go?”
“Yes, I’m through, I’m ruined. They’ve done for me.”
Withers put a couple of questions to the man from the Bank, but did not get very far. He came back and sat down on the window-sill, gloomily smoking a cigarette. Presently he walked up to Baruch.
“Come and have a drink. Why should we work, when it’s all over with us and with the boss?” He threw a contemptuous glance at Chamberlain. “I could have run it beautifully for him. I’m more mercenary; that is, I have more business sense. I would have made money. But his goddam vanity spoiled it all, he had to put his finger into everything. Everyone knows him for a fool in the hands of an adventurer. That’s the way we end up! You’re leaving, aren’t you? Easy for you.”
“I’ve bought my boat-ticket, the funds came from Uncle Herman, thank goodness,” said Baruch easily. “I sail in three weeks.”
“And we’ve got a week to go,” said Withers. “I’ve a good mind to join Jo’s cousin, over the Gap—if I hadn’t come through tighter places. Thank goodness, it doesn’t mean much to me where or how I live.”
On the same day the week after, Joseph was looking for a job. The printing works had been closed temporarily while the Bank’s accountants went over the accounts and recommended a policy. Joseph went home to tell his mother and father how he had got on that hot day, walking the city. Summer was in the air and the new leaves of the gardens were burned at the edges. The house was full of bits of leaves where his mother had been burning off dahlias in the garden, the sky was purple and green after sunset, and a rich, roasted fishy smell was in the air. His mother had a saucepan of hot water on for tea and was sitting in her old cane rocking-chair eating bread dipped in Worcestershire sauce, when he came home.
“Well, my son?”
“Hallo, Mum.”
“Tired, boysie?”
“A bit, Mum, and a bit down in the mouth. Don’t bother. By the way, I saw Withers. I know his favourite pub. He says the Bank will put him in charge to run the place for them. He’s a sort of softie, but he always manages to make out because he’ll work for anybody that has the juice. He’s going to try to get the £60. Jonas has paid £50. Is there any tea in the pot? I’ll make some fresh. Wait a minute.”
“How did you get on, Jo?”
“I went to the three places in the paper, and I went to the Labour Exchange in Castlereagh Street. There was a whole queue there. There’s a printer near there, by the way. They used to do the same work we did; I knew them, so I dropped in and left my name. They wrote it in their address-book, but the typist told me they do that with every applicant.”
“Cheer up, sonny, you’ll get something tomorrow perhaps. In a country like this you can’t starve. After all, it’s not like the old country.”
“You think so? There are thousands out of work. You should have seen the people waiting—for anything.”
“I know: but there are a lot of misfits who don’t like to work permanently, not like you.”
“You think so? You’ve been in the kitchen all your life, Mum, you don’t know working men.”
“Well, I know you’re a good worker and honest, and you speak nicely, so gentlemanly, and then you’re a good Catholic, that’s a recommendation.”
Joseph smiled, and looked at his mother tenderly.
“Well, old Mum, it’s better to be in a job than to be out; you don’t mind what I take temporarily, do you?”
“No, but you’ve got a good trade. You should work at it.”
“Yes, but for the time being, I’ll try anything that offers.”
“What is there?”
He hesitated, and then said quietly:
“I tried to-day for a janitor’s job, in Ranse Brothers, the big general emporium.”
“I’m glad you didn’t get it!” Her lips shut hard.
“Something to keep me going till I get decent clothes. I’m no picture as I am.”
“Seven years you’ve worked at it, and now to take the first lazy man’s job that offers.”
“I didn’t take it—and you and Father depend on me having something, don’t you?”
“Yes—but a janitor!
My son couldn’t be a janitor; I won’t have it. I’ll go out and do dressmaking like I did when I was a girl.”
He picked up one of her rheumaticky hands, with its black swollen veins, and laughed.
“You couldn’t make a bob at your old Irish dressmaking! And I’m going to work for these old hands, no matter how.”
“That’s true: well, if it’s god’s will. But you could try harder.”
“You don’t trust me much: you don’t think much of me, do you, Mum? But you see all other poor boys in the district without a job doing the same; in fact, the majority of them are hanging round the wharf and round the beach.”
“You’re a good boy, but I suppose it’s because you’re my son and I know you. And then all you young men get finicky. It’s these labour unions: they make the working people discontented; they all think they deserve something better. Look at your cousin Michael.”
Joseph looked at his mother sadly.
“I know, Mother.”
“Michael had plenty of brains. He could have been anything, he could have got into the Government service and got regular pay with advances every two years. But after the war, when he came back, he got in with that set. I always told his mother he’d be better when he settled down. He never settled down, and I even heard from Catherine, your cousin, that he was fond of a woman in that set, a married woman. They’re such a terribly immoral set, they condemn themselves. Imagine in our family: it never happened. But your aunt, although I’ve never said it, is rather light-headed. A boy is what his mother is.”
Joseph sighed: “All right, Mother.”
“His mother told me he had become an atheist.”
“It’s true.”
“You see! He was a bright workman, he went to classes, but Catherine had a terrible influence over him: she’s so headstrong. It makes me sick to think what a mess your aunt made of her children: she’s a silly woman, rather flirtatious, I knew she was, in the old day. But she cried once, and told me she had an affair with a man. What a country; and her so well married! Her husband used to worship her.”
Seven Poor Men of Sydney Page 34