Four Fires

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Mr Stan, Norma Tullo is in all the good shops, her stretch pants are selling like hot cakes.’

  But Mike doesn’t get any further. ‘Don’t tell me Tullo! Tullo, shmullow! A flash in za pants!’Only he pronounces it ‘A flesh in za pants’, which is pretty witty and he’s got it right by mistake. Or perhaps not, Mr Stan is a famous wit in The Lane. As Mike explains later, it’s the very ‘flesh in the pants’ that makes Tullo’s invention of the stretch pants a sure-fire winner. Mr Stan continues, ‘Next year who is Norma Tullo? Let me tell you, from stretch pants she goes bottom up!’ He grins at his own joke.

  ‘I don’t agree, Mr Stan, her other styles are selling well despite the recession.’ Mike doesn’t want to tell Mr Stan that Georges and Myers, and David Jones in Sydney, have gone big for Tullo, who has turned the proverbial little black cocktail dress into the little yellow, orange, blue, red, green, in fact all the rosella colours, cocktail dress. What’s more, according to Sally Harris and later confirmed by a visit to Georges and Myers, because of the sexy cut and wonderful body-clinging fabrics Tullo is using, she’s even selling more little black dresses than anyone else in the rag trade. Young Australian women like wearing clothes a matronly figure couldn’t get away with.

  So Mike is sent away with a flea in his ear, but at least Mr Stan won’t make it difficult for him to use the suppliers from The Lane. What Mr Stan doesn’t tell Mike or anyone else is that he personally thinks the boom in the garment trade is over. That the good years are gone and the recession Australia is going through is yet another sign of the bad times that lie ahead. Over the years he’s made some very prudent investments in real estate and that’s where he sees the future. He wouldn’t have gone into partnership with Mike even if he’d thought he had a chance of succeeding, which, of course, he doesn’t. He has decided to get out of the rag trade and people would later remark with some sur prise that he, of all people, hadn’t resorted to the mandatory fire to collect a fat insurance cheque as a departing bonus. This, especially as it was strongly rumoured in The Lane that his summer range was a dud, better going up in flames than on the racks of retailers.

  Flinders Lane was notorious for its fires, the conditions were primitive and in the winter the heating on the factory floor would usually consist of half a dozen kerosene heaters or small open radiators the women would bring in to warm their legs. The danger of a fire starting was always present. The flimsy materials that were being increasingly used at the time for the cheaper end of the summer dress market, bri-nylon and terylene and the other synthetics, were highly flammable. The point being that the summer fashions were being produced in the winter months. A garment brushing against a heater could go up at a touch, simply exploding into instant flame.

  The fire hoses were never maintained and in one case, when Bradford House burnt down, the flames at first might have been manageable but when they tried the fire hose there wasn’t any water. In truth the fire hose had never been connected to a water pipe but had simply been installed in case an inspector from the fire brigade came around. Eventually all four floors and the twenty-seven factories and businesses in the building were completely destroyed.

  Whenever a fire occurred and, as Mike tells it, they were not infrequent, the immediate gossip in The Lane was that it was deeply suspect. When business is crook, a sudden fire can help no end, the insurance assisting greatly to balance the books. People will point out the strange coincidence that most of the fires occur at night. Invariably it will be put down to one of the workers leaving a radiator on near a pile of fabric. Very convenient these piles of synthetic fabric left lying around near a radiator after everyone’s gone home.

  Even Australian Fashion News would occasionally have a go. ‘Heard of a flustered maker-up in The Lane the other day. Seems he had taken out a new insurance policy covering him against fire and flood. He was trying to find out how to start a flood.’

  There was also the story often told: Hymie is walking down the lane and he’s looking pretty glum. Moshe comes up to him and puts his arm around his shoulders. ‘So how’s it going, Hymie? They tell me things are not so good za business. I’m sorry to hear about the fire in your factory.’ Hymie whirls around and clasps his hand tightly over Moshe’s mouth and whispers urgently, ‘Shut up, you fool, that’s only next week!’

  Well, Mr Stan does no such thing. He announces that he’s closing down and Friday will be the last pay envelope. Everyone is invited to the farewell party and with their notice of termination comes the last of Mr Stan’s rhythmic couplets, printed on special imitation vellum paper and made into a scroll and tied with a red velvet ribbon. Every worker receives one as a keepsake. It is the longest and saddest poem he’s ever written and many a tear is shed upon reading it.

  Sorry girls, but we’re closing shop

  Za last pay’s Friday, three o’clock

  We’ll have a party, so bring a plate

  A piano, free booze, let’s celebrate!

  Style & Trend is now no more

  All grows quiet on za factory floor

  So now, my dears, I wish you well

  In life what happens, who can tell?

  Like my own family you are to me

  Cheers, let’s drink to za memory!

  Goodbye, adieu to Flinders Lane

  AND

  To za Buyers who know no shame

  I wish only bad luck comes to pass

  From now on, you can kiss my arse!

  Mr Stan even finds a position for Mrs P, which isn’t with Henry Haskin as she’d so often threatened since the news of the contents of Wilma Pinkington’s jumbo-sized 4711 bottle has preceded her, but he finally gets her placed with a small factory that specialises in wedding dresses and ball gowns at the expensive end of the market where beads remain the big thing. He also finds jobs in other factories for five of the old-timers, people who had been with the firm from almost the beginning. Surprisingly, Mike is also invited to the farewell party. He doesn’t want to go, but Sarah insists and he returns happy as a sand boy because he and Mr Stan have made up their differences.

  After his virginity was lost Mike had hoped for a few more lessons under the direction of Miss Harris, but she says nothing can happen until the deal with Country Stores has been settled. She points out to him that if they find out she is having an affair with him they will be reluctant to make him an offer. ‘Our MD’s very big on morality and is on the committee of the Anglican Cathedral Restoration Fund,’ Sally Harris says, ‘The first whiff of a scandal and it’s all over.’ This is fair enough. Mike is quite glad actually, because he doesn’t know how he’d be in bed when he’s sober, you know, whether he’d be able to perform to her Banbury Cross galloping expectations.

  Sally Harris makes an appointment for Mike to see the managing director and chairman of Country Stores, who is the same person. It’s for ten on the Wednesday morning, some weeks after Mike has been sacked from Style & Trend.

  Mike turns up for an interview accompanied by Sarah, who is dressed in a light khaki gaberdine suit with a nicely tailored look. ‘Casual & Business’ is how Mike has named it. The khaki is quite severe but is offset with large brightgreen buttons and a green breast pocket. It’s a pretty daring fashion statement, nobody has been game to use khaki since the war. Under the jacket, Sarah is wearing a matching green polo-neck sweater in a synthetic material. Another cheeky touch, combining synthetic with natural fibre. The skirt is plain khaki but cut to show Sarah’s figure and is about three inches shorter than the prevailing fashion, so that the hem is just below the kneecap to show off her excellent legs.

  Sarah wears no stockings and has on a pair of high-heel strappy Ferragamo beige sandals, which Mike has bought in Georges for her birthday. They were horribly expensive and Sarah wants him to take them back, but he persuades her that they’re an investment, a beautiful prop for when she’s showing off his gear at university.

 
Fortunately, it’s a warm day and she can get away without stockings. She wears neither hat nor gloves and her hair, now cut into a bob, is pure molten copper. She wears a touch of black eyeliner to emphasise the sharp blue of her eyes and a fairly light lipstick, red with a tint of orange.

  They’ve taken a taxi to the Country Stores’ main Melbourne shop which is at the lower end of Elizabeth Street, where Mr Pongarse, the managing director, has his office.

  ‘Now remember, Mike, you pronounce it Pon-garse, not Pong-arse,’Sarah giggles. ‘If you get it wrong it could be the shortest interview in history.’

  From the moment they step out of the taxi onto the busy pavement outside the shop, all eyes are on Sarah, both male and the younger females. The males because she looks dead sexy and the younger women because her outfit is so stunning and they can immediately envision themselves in it. They haven’t gone ten feet before the first young girl comes up.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, I don’t mean to be rude, but where did you get that beautiful suit?’ Sarah smiles, ‘It’s a new label, a Sarah Maloney.’ The store is fairly busy but Sarah has the same effect inside as on the pavement, shoppers and shop assistants alike stop and stare. As they walk to the lift, Sarah, talking out of the corner of her mouth, says to Mike, ‘Well, we’ve either got it very right or very wrong.’

  They take the lift to the fifth floor, which is Administration, and go to a window at the Credit Department and ask for Mr Pongarse.

  The clerk behind the window looks momentarily surprised, ‘You mean, Mrs Pongarse?’

  Which is the first big shock as Sally Harris simply referred to ‘Erica Pongarse, our MD’ and they’d both thought Erica must be some European way of pronouncing Eric and assumed he was a man. A thought flashes through Sarah’s head that maybe she’s dressed a little too provocatively for a woman, even though the suit is intended as a stylish work outfit, but the no stockings, hat and gloves and the strappy sandals are definitely a tad risqué.

  The clerk now says, ‘Wait on, I’ll take you over.’ He leaves the window and a few moments later comes through the door of the Credit Department and signals for them to follow. They cross the floor to an anonymous brownstained door. The clerk knocks politely, then calls out in a brisk voice, ‘Visitors for you, Mrs Pongarse!’

  ‘Come!’a voice calls back. The clerk opens the door and leaves them to enter the rather dark interior of Mrs Pongarse’s office on their own. A lady of about fifty is seated behind an incredibly cluttered desk. She’s wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and her greying hair is pulled back into a tight bun. There’s not a skerrick of make-up on what they can see of her face which is half in shadow. She’s rather overweight and is wearing a fairly shabby-looking, plain black dress of no distinction whatsoever and no jewellery, not even a brooch. Her legs, which can be seen under the desk, show that she’s wearing sensible black shoes and elastic stockings. She looks up from whatever she’s writing as they enter, takes off her glasses to have another look at Sarah and at the same time stubs a cigarette into an ashtray that’s overflowing with butts.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer before turning to Mike, ‘You are Mr Maloney, the designer, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, madam, er, Mrs Pongarse, and this is Sarah.’

  ‘Is she your sample?’ It is said on the edge of rudeness.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Mike says, not understanding.

  ‘That suit, your sample on a model.’

  ‘Sarah is my sister,’ Mike answers.

  ‘You are a mannequin, Miss Maloney?’ It is clear from how she says it that she doesn’t think very much of the modelling profession.

  ‘No, madam, I’m a medical student in my final year.’

  ‘Medicine? University? Sarah Maloney, Sarah Maloney,’ she repeats, then looks at Mike and Sarah.

  ‘Weren’t you the one that made all the fuss at the university, let me see, about six years ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It wasn’t us that made the fuss, madam,’ Sarah says.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ Erica Pongarse has a deep voice, which if you heard first over the telephone, you might easily mistake it for a man’s. The room smells of stale tobacco.

  Mike and Sarah are confused. They don’t know what to expect, but certainly not the cold welcome they appear to be getting. Sally Harris had been so positive and enthusiastic about the meeting – a complete contrast to the reception they were now receiving from the Country Stores’ managing director.

  ‘Barrington-Stone, wasn’t it? Yes, I remember it clearly, she made quite a to-do in the papers and on the wireless. Always sticking her nose into everyone’s business, that one.’

  ‘I don’t think I can accept that, Mrs Pongarse. Mrs Barrington-Stone is a personal friend,’ Sarah’s colour is still up.

  Mrs Pongarse ignores Sarah’s protest. ‘Country Women’s Association, interfering bunch, that lot. I suppose you’d better sit down.’ She indicates the chairs placed in front of her desk. Like her office, they are not in the least pretentious but standard upright office chairs. If Mike and Sarah hadn’t been so young and inexperienced, they might have reasoned that something must have happened to have caused Mrs Pongarse to become so antagonistic. Instead they sit silently, thoroughly confused. Mike looks about him, trying to make sense of what’s happened.

  The office too looks like Mrs Pongarse’s desk, there are samples of clothes all over the floor and cardboard boxes, some opened, others still sealed. The walls are painted a dirty cream, and the skirting boards and picture rails as well as the door are stained in a deep mahogany brown. There is not a single picture on the walls and the overall effect is depressing.

  Three large military-green filing cabinets rest against the wall to the right of Mrs Pongarse’s desk. Judging from the heavy maroon brocade curtains, which are drawn, a large window is situated directly behind her. Mike imagines it must look out onto Elizabeth Street. The floor covering, like the curtains, is in a well-worn maroon with the thread showing through on a spot directly behind the chairs, indicating that generations of minions have stood on this spot to take their orders and that the offer of a seat is not the usual courtesy.

  In the centre of the ceiling hangs an old-fashioned, very ugly, six-stemmed chandelier, shaped like a spider’s legs and ending with bell-like shades in opaque glass. Of the six lights, three of them are not working and the remainder cast a low, depressing light, so that the office appears to be in a sort of permanent twilight.

  A modern desk lamp with a green metal shade rises above the clutter on the desk and casts a circle of yellow light into the layers of paper scattered around it. The light extends far enough to include Mrs Pongarse’s torso, neck and half her face, ending in a sharp line under her nose so that the remainder of her face is in shadow. When she talks, you can see her mouth moving but it’s difficult to interpret what her eyes might be indicating.

  It is obvious Mrs Pongarse is quite unaware of her surroundings or how they might affect her visitors. This is an office created without sentiment, made for work, it is a neutral environment that would operate regardless of the time of day or night, sunshine or rain. It made Mike think of a rather large cave and Mrs Pongarse as a bear with a very sore tooth which doesn’t much welcome intruders.

  Mrs Pongarse removes several sheets of paper to the side of her to reveal a squawk box. She leans forward. Pressing the button she barks, ‘Miss Harris come!’ in what is clearly a command to be instantly obeyed.

  Sally Harris must have been waiting close by, though where the squawk-box voice ended was anyone’s guess. There had been no sign of a secretary when they’d been ushered in by the credit clerk. The door opens almost immediately to reveal Sally Harris, who, smiling pleasantly as she walks towards them, first greets Mrs Pongarse with a polite ‘Good morning, Mrs Pongarse’ and then says ‘Hi’ to Mike. Mike rises from his chair and introduces
her to Sarah, who stands up to shake her hand.

  ‘What a lovely suit, a Sarah Maloney I take it?’ Sally Harris says. Her pleasant welcome is a contrast to her managing director’s coldness and Mike suddenly feels better.

  Sarah smiles and nods and they all sit down. There is a moment of awkward silence before Sally Harris smiles and says, ‘Well?’

  Then Mrs Pongarse starts right off, ‘Miss Harris has told me what you want, Mr Maloney, so we don’t need to repeat any of that. You are a young designer and you need backing to get started. Am I correct so far?’

  Sally Harris looks over at Mrs Pongarse in some alarm as she picks up the abruptness, even rudeness in her manner.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ Mike says. Though he is somewhat surprised, he is under the impression that Sally Harris was the one who made the proposition to him. Still, he keeps his mouth shut. He looks over at Sally and sees that she too is confused.

  Mrs Pongarse now looks over at Sarah, ‘Why have you brought your sister?’

  It is the squawk-box voice, a business voice, a voice accustomed to the sort of authority that might be exercised by the headmistress of a private school for girls and one which is clearly intended to intimidate.

  It is a manner which would have worked with ninetynine per cent of young blokes, especially those from the bush, but Mike has spent the last five years in Flinders Lane among some pretty feisty women. While most may have been factory workers, nonetheless, some, such as Mrs P with half the contents of her 4711 bottle down her gullet, the manageress and even some of the Jewish workers, many of whom had come from privileged backgrounds before the war, could and often did put a flea in your ear as effectively as any boss. What’s more, if you got an Italian or Greek worker riled, you knew about it soon enough and in no uncertain terms.