The Dyehouse

by Mena Calthorpe

  Hughie laughed. It was all right for Oliver. He had no ties. No wife. No child. No home to consider. Oliver hadn’t built a life about the Dyehouse. There were lots of things for Hughie to consider. There was Alice. Not, of course, that Alice would fuss. He had always come first with her.

  In his mind’s eye he saw her smiling.

  ‘Hughie?—why, yes. He’s in charge of the lab now, you know.’ Her pride in him was obvious and abundant.

  It seemed monstrous that this little assurance, this little dignity that had helped him carve a niche in the small society in which he moved, should so ruthlessly be swept away.

  ‘The trouble with you, Hughie,’ Oliver said, ‘is this. You’ve got too much faith in people doing the right thing. Especially bosses. You want to wake up to yourself. You don’t want to be a fall man for Renshaw all your life.’

  Hughie knew that Oliver was right. He had had the ball at his feet; but he had leaned over backwards helping Renshaw, and the ball had been taken from him. There was a time when his was the only know-how at Macdonaldtown. Surely, the first time Renshaw came into the lab poking about and asking questions, he should have acted as any other dyer would have done. He should have been polite, but told him nothing. When he began meddling he should have stood pat. But he had acted the part of a pleased little puppy, and now Renshaw had Collins in the lab, and he was standing by, watching the cloth turn in the dye vats.

  Nor did this altogether spare him the lash of Renshaw’s tongue. When things went wrong, it seemed that the blunders moved from the lab to the vats. Often the dye-mixing was wrong, and Hughie knew it. But none the less Renshaw maintained that the cloth was spoilt in the vats. He was too old to get out now, and besides the demand was for qualified men. He had grown up in the dyeing game, had started when there were two vats and old Tommy Peters had been in charge. Tommy had trained him. He had not been a theory man, and Hughie had followed in his footsteps. In the early days it had been a joy to work with Peters. He knew now that Peters had had the same love of colour, the same feel for it that he had. There were better jobs, easier jobs, healthier jobs. But this job, this changing of the grey, uninteresting cloth into rich jewel colours was his job. It was the work he loved.

  When Tommy Peters died, not such an old man really, Hughie had moved up. The lab had been enlarged. A qualified engineer took over the care of the machinery and new vats were bought. There were twelve of them now, although No. 1 and No. 2 were not used as frequently as they used to be. Telephones were installed between the boiler-house and the laboratory. A simple call to the fireman would indicate that steam was needed on extra vats. The indicators were put up on the instrument panel in front of the vats. Not that Hughie altogether trusted them. He had opposed the idea of them going in. But he had to admit now that they worked out better than he had expected.

  The engineer was a good man on his job and as time went on Hughie got to like and trust him. Mayers had a feeling for machinery, for making things. It was just the same thing that Hughie felt about the dyeing.

  One afternoon Hughie came across young Ross Sims preparing cloth for a restrip. There were no restrips on roster for that afternoon.

  ‘What’re you up to?’ Hughie asked. ‘That rose swami’s going on number four.’

  ‘Well, Renshaw says this restrip’s going on.’

  Hughie stood looking at Ross. The youngster dropped his eyes. He didn’t tell Hughie exactly what Renshaw had said.

  It wasn’t the first time Renshaw had countermanded an instruction. In fact, lately he had taken to giving instructions to young Sims or to Tom Gregory, by-passing him altogether.

  If he failed to act now, he would probably end up loading the vats, with one of the youngsters in charge.

  He stood up slowly. He was trembling.

  It was no use talking to Sims or Gregory. They were not to blame. He walked slowly up from the vats, past the dryer to Renshaw’s office. He stood with his heart pounding a little against his ribs, waiting for his breath to come easily.

  He didn’t think too clearly and he was no good at talking.

  When he went in Renshaw was leaning back in his chair, studying a new formula. His eyes narrowed and his face hardened when he saw Hughie. Hughie looked at Renshaw. He knew he should be at him, telling him what he thought of him. Putting a case for himself that even Renshaw couldn’t wriggle out of. Instead he stood smiling weakly.

  ‘Well?’ Renshaw said.

  ‘It’s that vat,’ Hughie said. ‘The rose swami for number four.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Renshaw said.

  Something cold inside Hughie said: Now. Say it now. Or just hit him while he’s sitting there smiling.

  But he didn’t say it. He put his hand on the edge of the desk. He leant over.

  ‘But I’m in charge of the dye vats,’ Hughie said. ‘You ought of told me.’

  It was quiet in the office. Renshaw looked at Hughie and smiled. He looked at him for a long time.

  ‘That seems reasonable, Hughie,’ he said. ‘I should have told you. The fact is, there’s big changes on the way. Big shake-up. Big staff reshuffle. The whole fact is, Hughie, we’re beginning to think in terms of giving the younger men a bit of a go. There’s nothing final yet,’ Renshaw said. ‘I’ve been trying out young Sims.’

  ‘But I’m only fifty,’ Hughie said. ‘I’m younger than Larcombe. And I’m used to the men.’

  Renshaw shook his head. He looked sad, though there was a glint in his eyes. He liked to see Hughie squirm.

  ‘I’ll see Larcombe,’ Hughie said. ‘You couldn’t do this to a man. I’ve given my life to this company.’

  Renshaw laughed.

  ‘I’ve always given you a go,’ Hughie said.

  It was the wrong line. With Renshaw you hit and hit hard. It was you or him. You didn’t plead. It was no good reminding Renshaw of what you had done.

  Nevertheless, Renshaw was not anxious for the matter to go to Larcombe. Not yet. He was playing around with Hughie, and when the time was ripe, after he had prepared the ground and soaped Larcombe up, he would act. In the meantime he would watch Hughie squirm.

  In such a short time, how the tables had turned! Hughie had been in charge of the dyeing, and with just a bit more effort, a bit more inside, he might have been in the manager’s job today. Now he was out, walking about the vats, pleading that his authority be upheld.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Renshaw said. ‘Not likely to come to anything at all. Anyway, I made a bit of a bloomer over Sims. I think I’ll put him over the two old vats and number three. That’ll give you the main jobs and it’s plenty.’

  He patted Hughie on the shoulder.

  He stood up and walked around his desk. The two men stood facing each other. Hughie, the smaller, had the pale skin of the man whose days were spent in damp air, remote from the sunshine. His mouth was generous, bordering on the weak, his eyes dark and dreamy. Renshaw was tall and arrogant with strange, withdrawn eyes and a harsh, close mouth. The men looked at each other. And Hughie, at least, looked at himself.

  Each man measured the other with his eyes, and looking at Renshaw Hughie saw that the day for bargaining was over. It was over a long time ago, but Hughie had been slow to notice things. Sims was coming up and he was a good lad. Soon there would be no one left who could remember the day that Renshaw had pushed open the door for the first time. The day he had come to take over from Ron James. The skids had been under James for a long time, before they were really put into motion. Looking at Renshaw, Hughie remembered this.

  Renshaw had won that clash. Larcombe had driven over post-haste in a taxi, because his own car was at the garage and the situation was too tense to let it simmer any longer. The three men had talked for a long time in the closed office. People passing heard the raised voices and the angry rejoinders. Then Larcombe came out of the office. He shook hands with Ron James. He slapped him on the shoulder, and kept saying he wished him the best of luck. Renshaw had slipped quietly out.


  The following day James was not in. A week passed, and when Hughie asked Renshaw about it he only laughed.

  ‘Resigned,’ Renshaw said. ‘The pace was a killer.’

  ‘Blokes are saying he was pushed out,’ Hughie said. ‘That he was sacked at the minute.’

  ‘Blokes always know more than there is to know,’ Renshaw said. ‘This bloke had it easy. Things were due to change. He should have seen it.’

  ‘He was pretty smart,’ Hughie said. ‘Good with colour.’

  Renshaw turned his cold eyes onto Hughie.

  ‘Did pretty well at chemistry and physics myself,’ he said. ‘There’s not that much to this dyeing game.’

  He got up and looked at Hughie.

  ‘If there’s one important lesson that’s got to be learned it’s this, Hughie. In the business world, no one’s indispensable.’

  ‘I know,’ Hughie said. ‘Blokes leave places, and you’d wonder how things could ever go on. But they seem to. A week ago you couldn’t imagine Macdonaldtown without Ron James. Now I suppose things will still go on.’

  ‘You’re sorry to see him go?’ Renshaw asked casually.

  ‘Oh, well,’ Hughie said. ‘He was a good bloke to work with. And he was a friend of mine in a way.’

  Renshaw turned and looked at him suddenly. It was rarely that Renshaw really looked at you. Hughie, looking into the cold, steely eyes, had shivered.

  Now, standing in the office with the things he wanted to say unsaid, Hughie remembered the discussion about Ron James.

  There was no need for the words he had planned to say. Renshaw had cut the ground from under his feet. The writing was on the wall. Changes were on the way. Soon Collins and Sims would take over the dyeing. He would potter about on the vats, still at the same money until one day Cuthbert would ring up and say, ‘If Collins is in the lab, and Sims is over the vats, what’s Hughie drawing his extra money for?’

  Hughie saw it clearly.

  And gradually his pay would go down. He’d start loading vats and taking a turn on the hydro and mangle, and in a little while he’d be back where he started, telling blokes about the days when he used to be in charge of the dyeing.

  When Hughie returned to the vats, Sims had the restrip under way. He stood and watched him. Sims handled the cloth well and he was young and strong. He was standing by the vats, whistling. No doubt Renshaw had talked to him off the record, told him which way the wind was blowing. He had been primed up, and if he played his cards right he would take the reins out of Hughie’s hands.

  It was four o’clock.

  There was no official afternoon-tea break, but Hughie picked up a billycan and went through to the machine shop.

  Mr Mayers and Tommy were bending over a lathe. Hughie went over to them. Mayers wiped his face with his handkerchief. The cut was almost through.

  ‘You look peaked,’ Mayers said. ‘You’re taking it too seriously.’

  Hughie put down his pannikin of hot tea. He looked at Mayers’ honest face. In it was a combination of shrewdness and kindliness.

  ‘You know anything, Bob?’ Hughie asked. ‘I got a funny feeling. You know the way things started with James? Little things at first, and then almost overnight he was out? I feel it’s getting to be my turn.’

  ‘Never heard any talk,’ Mayers said. But Renshaw was close with him, too. He wouldn’t be likely to discuss plans for replacing Hughie with him.

  ‘I ought to get out,’ Hughie said. ‘Renshaw’s working on me now. You knew he’d pushed me out of the lab?’

  ‘You were a bloody fool,’ Mayers said. ‘You told him too much.’

  ‘I think he’s really going to make me eat dirt,’ Hughie said. ‘I think he’s going to put Sims in charge.’

  He picked up his tea and drank it down.

  ‘Well,’ Mayers said. ‘I wouldn’t take that. I’d see Larcombe. There’s plenty of good jobs you could take on, Hughie.’

  ‘I like it here,’ Hughie said. ‘Before Renshaw came I used to get a kick out of working on the dyes. I used to like to go home and tell Alice about how I worked out a new colour. And old Mr Thompson used to stop and ask me questions about the lab. Thirty-five years is a lifetime. A man can’t just change.’

  ‘No,’ Mayers said.

  He glanced at the layout in the machine shop. His desk, his drawing board, the cylinders of oxygen and acetylene, the lathes, the racks for the raw materials, the containers for the screws, nuts and bolts.

  He picked up his log-book. It was neatly kept. The day’s records had been freshly entered up. Yes, he supposed he liked this work. He knew exactly how Hughie felt.

  ‘I’d find it hard to get in anywhere,’ Hughie said. ‘All the ads seem to want blokes that have come up through the technical schools.’

  ‘I don’t know. Most of these little dyehouses have unqualified men, and some of the big ones too. The game’s really in its infancy as far as that’s concerned, Hughie.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Hughie said. ‘I think I should go before I’m pushed out.’

  ‘I’d wait,’ Mayers said. ‘Things have a habit of straightening out. I think I’d hang on a bit and see what happens.’

  *

  ?But things didn’t improve for Hughie.

  The best work went on No. 3; the special work and the show cloth. Sometimes Renshaw commandeered No. 4 and No. 5 and handed them over to Sims. Renshaw gave orders direct to Sims, just as he gave them to Hughie. Hughie no longer decided which work would be done, which vats used. Renshaw sent instructions straight to the laboratory. And on the ‘Instruction to Dyers’ sheets were instructions for the vats. The wools, the good elasticized cloth, were all under Sims’ supervision. Hughie handled the cheap cloth, the routine cotton and the swami.

  ‘I hope I never get so wrapped up in things as you, Hughie,’ Oliver said. They were standing at the entrance to the vats.

  ‘You never will,’ Hughie said shortly.

  He was worried and irritated. He had not been sleeping well, and had not yet discussed the problem with Alice. But any day now it must come up, and it was better to come from him than from a neighbour. Any day, anyone calling in for a talk with Alice might mention it casually.

  Not once but often, at night, Hughie reviewed the situation. Between waking and sleeping, he thought of what he should do, how he should act, what he should say to Renshaw.

  Alice, disturbed by his constant turning, by the perspiration pouring from his body, would sit up to ask, ‘You feeling all right, Hughie?’ He was feeling all right. The light would go out, and he was back in the soft darkness, turning over what he should do.

  ‘I get no chance of seeing Larcombe,’ Hughie said to Oliver. ‘Renshaw makes sure of that. And anyway Larcombe doesn’t like it. Not the right spirit.’

  ‘Quaint,’ Oliver said ironically. ‘These abstract feelings take the bloody bun. Supersensitive. Never seem to flinch from seeing a man ploughing through this slush like a bloody animal. You’d wonder what makes them tick.’

  ‘I think I’ll have a final go at Renshaw,’ Hughie said.

  Oliver looked at him. His face was white and pinched, his eyes were dark and feverish from lack of sleep.

  Poor bastard, Oliver thought. Poor bloody bastard.

  ‘If the answer’s the wrong one, clock him,’ he said. ‘Go for his belly and bring out his tongue.’

  Hughie smiled fleetingly.

  ‘Not the spirit, eh? Not quite the thing. How much of this spirit is there when it’s applied to us?’

  Renshaw’s door was open. Hughie could hear voices, Renshaw’s and Larcombe’s. Pulling himself together, he pushed open the door, and before Renshaw could act he was inside. He felt light-headed and dizzy, as though he were suddenly far removed and was looking into the room from a distance.

  He walked up to the desk. He leaned upon it because he felt weak and unsteady.

  But his mind was clear. Clearer than he ever remembered it. He saw the fleeting alarm on Renshaw’s
face and the astonishment on Larcombe’s. He noticed Larcombe’s hat on the table, the way his hair kept kicking up at the side, the bald patch that he was endeavouring to hide, the sprinkling of grey hairs round his temples.

  ‘What do you want?’ Renshaw asked.

  ‘I want to know about me,’ Hughie said. ‘I want to know where I stand, and I want to know now.’

  He thrust out his chin and looked at Renshaw.

  ‘But surely,’ Larcombe said. ‘Some other time, Hughie. We’ve got a big decision to make within the hour.’

  Larcombe fiddled with a pencil. He sounded petulant and impatient. ‘All lesser matters will have to wait, Hughie.’

  Renshaw looked up and grinned. He looked relieved. And suddenly Hughie heard himself say, ‘That’s what you think. It’s going to be decided here and now.’

  Larcombe put down the pencil. He looked helpless. He turned to Renshaw.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked.

  ‘Hughie hasn’t settled down since I changed the set-up in the lab, and that’s a fact.’

  Larcombe looked at Hughie.

  ‘Sometimes changes must be made,’ he said, not unkindly. He was a weak man, but Renshaw wasn’t able to fool him all the time.

  ‘The firm expands. It grows up. New techniques become necessary. You’ve been a good servant to the Company, Hughie. We’re not likely to forget it.’

  ‘I been a long time in the lab,’ Hughie said stubbornly. ‘I don’t mind Collins being trained up, but I think I should’ve been kept there too.’

  Renshaw stood up quickly.

  ‘We’ve been over all this before Hughie,’ he said. ‘Your record shows that we need a change. The Best-Yet wasn’t the only cloth to be written off because of bad workmanship.’

  ‘No,’ Hughie said. He looked at Renshaw. He felt cold as though none of this conversation concerned him. ‘I knew about the Best-Yet cloth and you know I did.’

  ‘If you knew about it,’ Larcombe said, ‘why did you dye it? A lot of things depended on that roll being as near perfect as we could get it.’

  ‘You gave the directions,’ Hughie said to Renshaw. ‘I only did as I was told.’