The Dyehouse

by Mena Calthorpe

  Suddenly he bent over. He pushed her nose with his forefinger. ‘If you wash that black stuff out of your eyes, and about half that paint off your face, I might think about seeing you Sunday. Early in the morning.’

  ‘Early Sunday?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Oliver said. He was grinning again. ‘And you’d better bring your togs along. You can prepare yourself for a bit of strenuous exercise at that. You’ll work so hard you’ll forget you ever knew Renshaw.’

  Patty laughed. It sounded suddenly gay and spontaneous.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ Oliver said. ‘Little girl looks pleased.’

  Patty turned and put the key into the lock.

  ‘Eight o’clock, Macdonaldtown station.’

  He bent over and touched her under the tail. When she looked up he was halfway down the street. The dog was still at his heels. She could hear him whistling.

  It was the obscene tune that he had been singing when she met him at the corner.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sunday was leisurely at Macdonaldtown.

  Most families slept late after the week’s work and Saturday’s exertion. In some of the houses people were bustling about, brushing their best clothes, getting ready for church. But mostly Macdonaldtown slept late.

  Patty woke well before seven. The day looked fine and she pushed out onto the overhanging balcony to look up at the sky. Between the tops of the tall terraces she could see the blue. Even at this hour it was intense and sparkling.

  She began cutting up slices of bread, not too thin, and spreading them with butter. It was cheaper to take something for lunch, and fun to eat picnic style.

  It was getting on for eight when she kissed her mother and picked up her basket.

  She went quietly down stairs. Mrs Webb was still in bed, the checked brown rug drawn up around her shoulders. She raised herself on one elbow and looked suspiciously at Patty.

  ‘You’re stirring yourself early, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Patty said happily. ‘I’m going to spend the day at the beach.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mrs Webb looked at her from the comfort of her bed. ‘I suppose in a sense you might say that a man’s taking you out.’

  ‘I suppose you might,’ Patty said.

  She walked across the room to the front door.

  ‘Well, don’t you be bringing any of those blackguards into my house. Now, I’m warning you.’

  ‘Oh, no, Mrs Webb,’ Patty said hastily. ‘I never bring any men into the house.’

  Mrs Webb fell back onto her pillow.

  Patty opened the door and stepped into the street. Everything was clean and bright. The sun was well up and the tree outside the terrace looked green and fresh. She turned the corner and hurried up the Parade. People were passing on their way back from early Mass.

  She glanced at the chimney-stack. No smoke issued from it. It looked dark against the clear morning sky. Boys were running down the street with bundles of papers under their arms. People back from church stood leisurely chatting.

  Patty called across happily to a knot of people talking over a fence.

  ‘Going out?’

  Patty swung her basket and laughed. It sounded young and happy.

  Suddenly the church bells began to peal. Pigeons, startled, shot up into the sky. Patty watched them as they circled. They had become a nuisance in the district and people were always complaining about them. But to Patty, hurrying along to the station, they seemed an omen of good luck. She would see Renshaw on Monday. The experiments on the colour swatches were over and, although the orders coming through were heavy, Patty knew the work from now on would be routine.

  Everything was going to be all right. The very air seemed different today. The smoke haze had lifted from the railway-yards and the sky looked blue.

  As she neared the station she stopped. She didn’t want to be early, to be standing around waiting for Oliver to come. And then a sobering thought struck her. Supposing he didn’t come?

  She began to walk slowly, counting her steps between the electric-light poles. She followed the curve of the street.

  There was a clock on the counter of the corner shop. She stopped. The blind was still up, showing a miscellaneous collection of sweets, fruit and wilted vegetables. There was a small glass case containing cottons, needles, silk and wool for darning. The grocery section was hidden by dark plywood shutters.

  The clock was still going, ticking away the time in the empty shop. The hands said eight o’clock.

  Patty turned cautiously and looked over to the railway station. Oliver was lounging against the corner post, reading the Sunday news.

  ‘Hullo,’ Patty said. She felt shy now and waited for him to speak.

  He rolled up the paper, hit the post two or three times with it. He looked Patty over critically.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said. ‘Or almost.’

  He looked at her slyly. ‘What makes you think you look better when you’ve got all that black stuff round your eyes?’

  ‘You think it looks better without it?’ Patty asked doubtfully.

  ‘Don’t ask me, sister,’ Oliver said. ‘All dames look alike to me. But I can give you the drum on this—I’ve never met one with two noses yet. But if it comforts you—yes, you do look nicer without it.’

  They began walking up the steps.

  ‘The tickets,’ Patty said. ‘I ought to get my own.’

  She began pulling things out of her bag.

  ‘So you ought to. I ought to make you pay for me, too. But just for once we’ll say that it’s paid.’

  ‘Oh, but,’ Patty protested. ‘I asked you to take me. I ought to pay my share.’

  ‘We’re going to have a good day, if you’ll stop squealing and carrying on so much. And you’re going to work hard. Surf. Play on the sand. And no sentimental interludes or lying off on the quiet parts near the rocks.’

  ‘Why,’ Patty said, ‘who’d want to lie off with you? You make me sick. You’re pretty fond of yourself, aren’t you?’

  They stood looking at each other. Patty pressed her skirt down over her hips with her fingers. She could feel the smooth curve of her body under the skirt; the little bony peak of her hip and the smooth line of her thigh. Oliver watched her quizzically.

  They found a seat on the train close to the window and sat down. The train gathered speed.

  Past Redfern, where they changed, the cottages with their little squares of gardens flashed past. The backs of the houses faced the railway lines. The sun beat on the sloping roofs of rust-marked corrugated iron, slates or grimy tile. Between the paling fences rose a medley of clotheslines. Choko vines screened verandahs and outhouses with their cool green. Pumpkins were ripening on the tops of skillion roofs, their green skins flecked with yellow and orange.

  Patty sat watching the houses, the yards, the plots ablaze with colour, the empty unkempt spaces. The water in Cook’s River ran slow and sluggish.

  ‘Look,’ Patty said. ‘The little island!’

  Seagulls were resting on the water, or walking about on the filling that was being dumped to alter the course of the river.

  At the end of the carriage a portable gramophone was competing with a wireless. A young couple stood in the aisle, beating time to the music. Every so often the girl would whirl round, fanning out her skirt. The boy grabbed her, holding her by the wrists. He seemed to be hurting her. Then they sat down together, laughing. The girl turned the gramophone off and they sat with their heads together.

  In the older suburbs, modern factories and ancient cottages were cheek-by-jowl. Then gradually the train began to climb. The factories slid back and neat suburban cottages took their place. Far away, Patty could see the sweep of Botany Bay.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  The shapes rose from the sand. They looked almost to be floating in the distance. Oliver followed the direction of her finger.

  ‘The refinery.’

  The train plunged into a cutti
ng. The rocks were dark and damp, ferns trailed from crevices. Then they were out in the open with the pungent smell of gumleaves, sunlight sliding off their pointed tips.

  ‘We’re coming to the bridge,’ Oliver said. ‘We’re almost to Como.’

  He stood up to show her the oyster farms, but the tide was high and none were visible. Little boats were bobbing about on the water and men were walking about the boatsheds.

  ‘Just over the bank,’ Oliver said, ‘there’s a funny little pub.’

  Patty craned her neck.

  ‘And those tall trees,’ Oliver said. ‘They’re those blue ones. Like they have at Grafton.’

  They ran past the little picket fence. Then they were struggling up the cutting. New houses were showing through virgin bush. ‘Barney Monahan lives through there,’ Oliver said. He pointed to a distant belt of timber. Beyond, the bushland of National Park stretched to the horizon.

  Patty leant back, thinking of Oliver. She slid a little until her shoulder touched his arm. He looked down at her, smiling. Then he put his arm around her. It was a brief, impersonal hug and he let her go almost immediately.

  ‘Not far,’ Oliver said.

  The train pulled into Cronulla.

  ‘I think we’ll make over to the north side,’ Oliver said.

  He took her hand and began to run.

  The breeze came fresh from the sea.

  It’s going to be lovely, Patty thought. I’m going to like it today.

  Oliver stopped and looked at her. Then they were off again, with the soft breeze in their faces. And suddenly they turned the corner, and there was ‘north’, blue and sparkling in the sunlight.

  ‘I’ll have to change,’ Patty said.

  As she pulled on the black one-piece, several seasons old, she smiled to herself. Oliver would like this costume. She smoothed down her bust and hips. Then she slipped off her shoes, picked up her towel and basket, and was ready.

  Oliver, lounging near a tree, saw her coming. She looked slim and shapely in the black costume. Her fair, honey-coloured skin glowed.

  ‘Well?’ Patty asked. She met Oliver’s amused, challenging glance.

  ‘You’ll do. You look good. All but that messy hair. What’re you going to do about it?’

  Patty took a ribbon from her basket. She hesitated. She liked her hair loose and hanging about her shoulders. But she drew it back from her face, twisted it into a rough bun, and tied it up with a ribbon.

  ‘I’ll have my bathing cap over it,’ she said apologetically to Oliver. She looked up, smiling into his eyes.

  ‘A man ought to fix you up, sister,’ he said.

  He spread out his towel and sat down, hunching up his knees, and looking out to sea.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ Patty said.

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘I don’t like you when you act dumb. You’ve got some brains, and you weren’t behind the door when looks were given out. Some blokes like them dumb. Me? I like them to think a bit.’

  He got up and Patty followed him slowly.

  He raced out to the water. The wave curled and he dived under it. He came up splashing and laughing. He grabbed Patty and the next wave went over them.

  The water was warm, but the surf was flat.

  ‘Warming up?’ he asked.

  He was smiling. She moved in under his arm.

  It was getting late when they walked back along the beach to the dressing sheds. Patty took off her cap and stood shaking out her hair, drying it in the sun. Oliver was walking ahead, swinging his towel about.

  It was the last of the surfing season, and autumn was just around the corner. Patty sighed. Despite the warm, still afternoon, the bright crowd and the sea, she felt sad.

  He doesn’t care whether I’m here or not, she thought.

  ‘Wait on,’ she called to him. ‘Wait on, Oliver.’

  She was standing under a pine, looking out to the sea.

  He put down his towel impatiently, then picked it up and walked slowly back to her.

  ‘There’s a little boat out there,’ she said uncertainly.

  On the edge of the horizon he could see the boat, little more than a moving speck.

  He sat down suddenly, and Patty sat beside him. She combed down her hair then flung it over her shoulder. She etched in her mouth with vermilion.

  Oliver watched her. He was conscious of the sea, the warm summer breeze, the oversweet smell of her powder.

  She edged over until she was lying close to him. The sunlight drifted down through the branches, making patterns on her legs and arms. Suddenly he bent over, spreading out her hair. Then he put his arm round her and dragged her over close to him. His eyes were half closed.

  ‘What do you want, Patty?’

  He pulled her close to him, holding her, looking deep into her eyes. Just for a moment Patty felt his arm tighten around her and she closed her eyes. She thought momentarily of Renshaw and his urgent, savage embraces, of the park and the dark shadow of the trees.

  She put her hands onto Oliver’s chest.

  ‘I wanted us to be friends,’ she said.

  She sat up feeling confused. Oliver slid over in the grass.

  Now that she was out of his arms, sitting a little apart, she felt shaken. Oliver lay stretched out. She could see the back of his head, the way his hair came down onto the nape of his neck, the smooth ripple of the muscle in his arm.

  ‘Nice,’ Oliver said. ‘If there’s anything I like in a dame, it’s warm, friendly gestures.’

  Patty said nothing. She felt angry. Mostly because she had liked the way his arm had tightened around her, and the sudden warm impact of his body. She sat quietly looking at the back of his head, thinking.

  He turned over suddenly.

  ‘How are things with you and Renshaw?’ he said.

  Patty tossed her head.

  ‘Things are just OK.’

  ‘Reckon he’s going to marry you?’

  Patty moistened her lips. She could hear the pounding of the surf on the shore, the cries of the children, and the sudden thudding of her heart.

  Oliver was sitting up, looking at her.

  ‘D’yer think he’s going to marry you?’

  Now she began to laugh.

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she said.

  Oliver laughed. He got up easily. He looked friendly and happy.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘A little more of that high-pressure stuff of yours, Patty, and we might have been sharing favours.’

  It was dark when the train pulled into Macdonaldtown. The lights were on in the terraces. Part of the way home Patty had slept, leaning heavily against Oliver’s arm. She walked happily along the Parade. Oliver was walking casually. He was talking about the dogs, the horses, the trots. She was thinking of Renshaw. This was Sunday, and tomorrow she would see him, and everything would be right again.

  They were home.

  ‘It was nice of you to take me,’ Patty said.

  ‘Yes,’ Oliver said. ‘Remind me to show you how nice it can be, some time.’

  He leaned close to her.

  ‘Don’t forget, Patty,’ he said.

  ‘You spoil everything,’ Patty said. ‘Why, today…’ She paused, looking up into his eyes, remembering the warmth of his body, the sudden tightening of his arm.

  She opened the door and slammed it quickly. She could hear Oliver’s laugh, and then his footsteps, going down the Parade.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  At first Hughie did not mention to anyone that he was out of the lab. He said that he was having young Collins sent to Tech, and to all appearances it was as though he had arranged the whole thing himself. Indeed, Renshaw was not altogether opposed to Hughie looking in at the lab occasionally, for he had broken his grip on the dye-mixing, which was the main objective.

  But little by little the news leaked out. Someone got to know about the roll of cloth.

  ‘Can’t understand you,’ Oliver Henery said.
‘Why would you want to take the rap for that? God strewth, you’ve worked all your life in the place, and the only thing you really like is that dyein’ job. I’d have a go at that bastard. He’d see reason or he’d be buying a new set of teeth.’

  Hughie scarcely knew why he kept the matter to himself. He was playing for time, and most of all he was deciding what he would say to Alice about it. He knew that Renshaw had moved too swiftly for him to follow, and he cast about in his mind for a way in which he might resolve the situation.

  Renshaw had gone out of his way to be friendly.

  ‘You’re getting on a bit, Hughie,’ he said. ‘And there’s too much work here for one man. The truth is we’ve needed a chemist in the lab for a long time. These new textiles are touchy.’

  He patted Hughie on the arm and went off whistling.

  Of course the textiles were touchy, especially the synthetics. Hughie had worked long and stubbornly on the early experiments.

  He wondered whether the new youngsters being trained up would ever feel the way he felt about the colours.

  Standing by on the vats, watching the instrument panel, with the mists thick and grey, he thought of the thirty-odd years he had put in at Macdonaldtown. He had liked his job, and in that he was lucky. He had no dreams of advancement to higher positions. To him work was the cloth, the understanding that seemed to be in his fingertips when he started on the swatches.

  This had given purpose and dignity to his labour, had compensated for the years of walking around the vats, for the lifetime spent in the shadows of the Dyehouse.

  None of this he conveyed to Oliver. Oliver was not a dye man. He would not understand. He was an itinerant, a drifter. He moved about from factory to factory, seeking out the better-paid jobs when things were good. When jobs were hard to get a place like the Dyehouse tided him over until things brightened up in the heavier industries.

  ‘But I notice you do your share,’ Hughie said one day after one of Oliver’s speeches.

  ‘Sure I do. And you know why? A man’s got to weave a bit of interest round anything he does or he’d go nuts. But I hope I never get it so bad that when the day comes for the boss to kick me in the guts I take it lying down. Anyway, there’s always the Murrumbidgee and the swag.’