Cuthbert listened intently. Once he rose and called through to Mr Dennet in the General Office, and they went all over it again. Right to the point where the re-dyes and the charges came into the picture. Jamieson held them in his hand, flipping the pages.
‘Hours of time,’ he said, ‘wasted. Hours of time spent on repetition.’
He took a pencil and wrote across the bottom of the re-dyes ‘at 1s 9d per lb.’ He handed them to Harvison.
‘Well?’ Harvison said.
‘The re-dyes will become the charges,’ Jamieson said. ‘It will save hours of time. What purpose does it serve to have two books? First it’s entered by hand into one book and then the process is repeated in another. What for? For the express purpose of writing in “at 1s 9d per lb.” It’s interoffice work and could have been wiped out years ago.’
Jamieson placed the book before Harvison.
‘And that brings us to the question of the Dyehouse office.’
Larcombe stirred uncomfortably. He moved almost imperceptibly closer to Mr Dennet.
‘The cutting of the re-dyes will eliminate approximately four days’ work a month at the Dyehouse,’ Jamieson said. ‘Elimination of two entries on the cards will reduce the time significantly.’ He placed the figures before Harvison. Cuthbert examined them quickly.
‘There’s too much telephone work for a small office,’ Jamieson said. ‘More than half the calls should be handled from here. And there are far too many personal calls.’
Harvison looked suddenly at Larcombe. He had given a direction about personal calls. Laid down an inflexible ruling. But he let it pass.
‘This Miss Merton,’ Jamieson said thoughtfully. ‘Does she handle all this work on the Dyehouse declarations?’
Larcombe nodded.
‘Funny how none of them ever forget their declarations out there.’
‘Declarations? Oh, well,’ Larcombe said, ‘I suppose she reminds them. She knows most of them.’
‘She paid to remind them?’
‘Well, no,’ Larcombe admitted.
‘And hours of good time are wasted every month by people walking about reminding other people. The onus is clearly on the employee.’
‘I suppose so,’ Larcombe said. ‘It is.’
‘The way I see it,’ Jamieson said unemotionally, ‘is this. All these things cost you money, after all, she’s on the Staff. Paid to look after the Company’s interests. There’s far too much running about reminding these people.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Larcombe said impatiently.
He was feeling uneasy and tired. He wished Jamieson would leave the Dyehouse office alone. Shuffle up his papers and get out. Stop talking about Macdonaldtown. God alone knew when the light might be turned onto himself.
Harvison leaned back in his chair, listening, but ready to act when the time came.
‘I’ve been thinking about those declarations,’ Jamieson said. He took out a bundle of continuity-of-service notices and placed them significantly on top of the declarations. Then he sat back and looked at Larcombe.
Larcombe smiled.
‘It won’t affect Macdonaldtown very much. Not too many fellows will stay there long enough to worry us about their long service leave.’
Jamieson passed to the recommendations. He had them listed. Cuts could be made on the re-dyes, the card system, the telephone work, the declarations. A good third of the work would go by the board. A good lively junior could handle the job. And maybe better.
‘We’ll have to think about it,’ Cuthbert said. ‘We’ll go into it later.’
‘We’ll make it tomorrow,’ Harvison said. ‘We’ll make it early.’
Jamieson was not invited to the meeting next morning in Harvison’s office, but the reports and recommendations were ready. There would be a big shake-up all round. Three people would be finishing at Head Office and the question of the Dyehouse office was yet to be resolved.
The Chairman of Directors might have overlooked the position at the Dyehouse office. But Jamieson’s reference to the declarations had ruffled him. It had hit right up against the rigid code that he liked to think existed among Staff workers. There was only one side of the fence to be on if you were a Staff worker and that was the Company’s. And if you weren’t with the Company then you must be with someone else. Harvison brushed aside the question mark.
‘This Miss Merton,’ he said.
He was leaning well back in his chair. He was holding a bundle of declarations and handwritten reports from the Dyehouse.
Cuthbert opened up a journal. He extracted a small slip of paper.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it could pay us to keep her on. We’d need a pretty sensible girl there. Twenty-one at least. We pay Miss Merton the minimum. There’s not such a lot of difference in money spread over twelve months.’
‘Not much difference?’ Harvison said. He was suddenly shouting. ‘Not much difference? Meddling about with the declarations! On-side with these people all the time! Junketing around the country when she ought to be working! God knows what else is going on.’
Larcombe sat with his face on his hand. He felt he had known Miss Merton for a long time. There were a lot of things he might have said in her defence. But he had himself to look after. Any time, Harvison might lift the lid and look in at him.
‘On the basis of economy?’ Cuthbert asked finally.
‘On the basis of economy,’ the Chairman of Directors agreed.
He smiled suddenly, and the General Manager, reprieved, smiled back.
‘Get rid of her,’ Harvison said. ‘Tip her out. Clean the place up. Easy to read between the lines. Old bitch a bit deceptive. Very deceptive, when you come to think of it. Still, tip her out and clean the place up.’
Miss Merton was talking to Mayers when Larcombe walked in. He pushed roughly past into Renshaw’s office and closed the door.
Larcombe had steeled himself for this. He had nothing personal against Miss Merton. In the time she had worked at the Dyehouse he had always thought of her as a pale, shrinking figure, reliable and courteous. But Harvison had been adamant.
Now, facing Renshaw, he went over the points that Harvison had made.
‘It’s not that we want anything for nothing,’ Larcombe said. ‘It’s not even that it’s important about the declarations. Or those explanations with regard to continuity of service. It’s the principle. Harvison was most upset about the principle. He said it could lead to almost anything.’
Larcombe bent over and placed a sheaf of papers in front of Renshaw. When he looked up a cloud had passed across Renshaw’s face. It was expressionless.
They were silent.
‘It seems a bit tough,’ Larcombe said. He laughed apologetically. ‘But you know how Harvison is. Especially about this kind of thing.’
‘You have anything to say?’ Renshaw asked.
‘I’ve got my problems,’ Larcombe said, ‘looking after my own neck. And anyway, I don’t know that much about her. Could be political.’
Renshaw laughed.
‘I’ll bet the old duck hasn’t a political thought to rub together. I’ll bet she always has to ask someone whether she puts crosses or figures.’
Renshaw sat tapping the desk with his pencil.
‘Weren’t thinking of sticking out your neck?’ Larcombe asked.
‘No,’ Renshaw said slowly. ‘Not thinking of sticking out my neck.’
‘I’d take the whole thing a step at a time,’ Larcombe said. ‘Let her know which way the wind’s blowing. I can have her money made up and bring it across tomorrow. Nothing unusual about that, you know. Policy of the firm to get rid of Staff people smartly when the time comes. Better to pay them the money than have them hanging around.’
Miss Merton was typing reports when Renshaw’s door opened and the General Manager appeared. Miss Merton noticed that his mouth was pursed and tight. He went swiftly across the vestibule and let himself out.
Renshaw waited for a while. After Mayers w
ent through to the boiler-house, he came out and sat on the edge of Miss Merton’s desk.
‘It’s unlucky,’ he said. ‘Dashed unlucky.’
Miss Merton placed her hands on her lap. She knew suddenly what he was going to say, but she waited quietly for him to say it. She had thought once that big firms were particular about questions of ethics. The thought amused her now, and she smiled.
‘It’s not that they’re unsympathetic,’ Renshaw said. ‘It’s just that they don’t believe in that sort of thing. And in any case, Harvison’s got this economy drive on.’
Miss Merton suddenly saw it clearly. All these little men sitting up, pulling in their chins and acting the part of God. They were outside of society. Above it.
But we’re all part of it, thought Miss Merton. All of us.
Renshaw got up from the desk. He picked up the production figures lying on Miss Merton’s table.
I’ll tell her the rest tomorrow, he thought. I’ll ring Larcombe tonight. And I’ll tell her tomorrow before lunch.
But it was no easier in the morning.
The Company had decided…Mr Harvison had given the instruction…Mr Larcombe would bring her money over in the afternoon.
Miss Merton sat quietly. If she were working in the factory she could go to the shop steward. She could talk it over with Barney and Oliver Henery. She had always thought she was above that sort of thing. She could hear Leila singing as she pushed a truck over the concrete floor.
You lift sixteen tons and what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt.
But if you were on the Staff, thought Miss Merton, you got a letter from the Company, a fiver or so at Christmas; you got a party at Head Office, a handshake from the Chairman of Directors.
But Barney would not be with you.
She walked slowly across the vestibule to her own office. She was trembling a little. She got up and threw up the window, letting in the summer air heavy with dust.
She could hear Goodwin shouting up the stairs.
‘What the hell happened to the twelve-nine-sixes?’ She heard him start up the stairs, and then May’s answering cry, ‘In your bloody date! What do you think we are?’
Miss Merton repeated the words mechanically. It was a defence mechanism.
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
It was four o’clock.
Miss Merton heard the phone click. Larcombe opened the door of Renshaw’s office and called to her.
He was sitting back, holding the familiar pay sheet. Miss Merton looked at him steadily. His smile was fleeting. It was all to be handled on a firm, civilized footing.
Nevertheless he watched her face to see how she was taking it.
‘I was expecting it,’ she said.
Her voice sounded cool, almost impersonal, in her own ears. She put out her hand. It was a small hand. But there was no tremor, although her heart beat fast. She read aloud. One week’s pay. One week in lieu of notice. So much holiday pay. It looked right and no doubt it was legal. When Mr Renshaw had put her on the Staff he had said, ‘One extra week’s holiday a year. That’s fine, eh?’ And it had sounded fine then. Miss Merton raised her eyes to Larcombe’s. They were smiling but unchallengeable. In them Miss Merton read the meaning of Staff privileges. They weren’t for people who got out of step.
‘Don’t forget,’ Larcombe said. ‘Anything wrong with your pay, just give Mr Cuthbert a ring.’
He shot out his hand and then let it drop quickly.
‘I’ll be in to see you before I go.’
He rose and walked to the office door with Miss Merton. He was friendly, suave and smiling.
‘I’ll be in the warehouse for a while if anyone should ring.’
Miss Merton watched him as he threw open the glass doors and disappeared into the warehouse.
She could hear his voice raised a little, telling Renshaw about the interview.
‘I said to her…I told her…’
She turned away and bent her head over her desk. There was no dignity left in labour.
She took papers from a folder and read them mechanically. So much glauber salts. So much soda ash. So much peracetic acid.
Then for some reason she thought of something else. The Son of Man could find no place to rest his head. Why had she thought of that?
She thought of Barney chained to the hydro, of his child and his ageing wife. She thought of Mary in the sweat-box pulling down the blue, green and scarlet folds of the cloth with a stick; of Hughie lying crumpled under the loading dock; of Charlie vomiting into the drain under the dye vats, clutching at the hernia for which both the Company and the Compensation officers denied responsibility.
There was not long to go; it was after four. She put her head down on the window-sill. The soot left a bar, dark and smudgy, across her forehead.
And for the first time she thought of Mary and Jane and Margaret, not as them, but as us.
‘All the same,’ thought Miss Merton. ‘All thrown into the same cauldron.’
The telephone rang, imperiously, demandingly.
‘Mr Larcombe,’ said the operator. ‘Mr Windon of Western Worsteds on the line.’
She walked to the door, precisely, because she knew no other way of walking.
‘Mr Windon on the line,’ she said.
She pulled down the key and for a moment she heard Larcombe’s voice, thin and effusive.
She looked around the office. The familiar keyboard with its six extensions, the typewriter, the little adding machine, the files that she had made because for some reason it had seemed important at the time. Across the vestibule she could see into Renshaw’s office, littered now with his soiled shirts and socks. She could hear Larcombe still on the line with Western Worsteds. He sounded suddenly vain, pompous, important.
When he came out of the office he shook her hand. The best of luck wherever you go. He was still smiling when he opened the door. He just had time to reach Head Office. It had gone off very well and Harvison should be pleased.
It was almost time to go. The drawers were tidy. The Daily Attendance Sheets, the Dye Reports, the Chemical Reports, the Returnable Miscellaneous Reports, the Price Lists all in their appointed folios. There was a shrill wail.
The bundy whirred. The girls filed past. They looked at her incuriously. As yet, no word of her dismissal had reached the Dyehouse floor.
‘Good night,’ they called.
‘Good night,’ said Miss Merton.
It was the last time she would stand at the window and smile at them as they filed past. It was goodbye now. Goodbye, Mary. Goodbye, John.
The men filed past. Barney and Oliver were talking over the shop committee they hoped to get started, Goodwin and John Avery about the best horse going on Saturday. Collins and Sims drifted out. Collins had a copy of the Herald protruding from his pocket; he had been combing through the Wanted ads.
‘Goodbye,’ Miss Merton said.
She went swiftly to her desk. She gathered up her handbag.
It was time for her, too, to go.
It was quiet now, as she bent her head and combed up her hair. Soon it would be over, this interminable day.
Suddenly she turned around.
Renshaw had come up silently and was standing behind her.
His head hung down a little and his familiar fair hair, usually so neatly combed, was brushed up and dishevelled. He put his hand against the door.
He wants something from me, Miss Merton thought. Some little thing to present to his conscience.
‘You’re not outside it,’ Miss Merton said suddenly. ‘You, too, are just a tool. Caught up and used like the rest of us. You’re not outside it at all. The trap’s set for us all.’
He did not seem to hear.
‘You’ll come back and see us some time?’
Miss Merton shook her head. ‘No,’ she said.
She placed the cover over the typewriter. She patted her hair and got out her gloves.
The trains were speeding pas
t. Getting on to the peak. And as she listened she heard the familiar blast.
Cock-a-doodle-doo.
No victory. No. But defeat? Miss Merton fastened her glove. Not defeat. There were lessons to be learned. Tomorrow she would learn to fight.
In your date, Johnny, in your date. Cock-a-doodle-doo.
Dancing on Coral
Glenda Adams
Introduced by Susan Wyndham
The True Story of Spit MacPhee
James Aldridge
Introduced by Phillip Gwynne
The Commandant
Jessica Anderson
Introduced by Carmen Callil
Homesickness
Murray Bail
Introduced by Peter Conrad
Sydney Bridge Upside Down
David Ballantyne
Introduced by Kate De Goldi
Bush Studies
Barbara Baynton
Introduced by Helen Garner
Between Sky & Sea
Herz Bergner
Introduced by Arnold Zable
The Cardboard Crown
Martin Boyd
Introduced by Brenda Niall
A Difficult Young Man
Martin Boyd
Introduced by Sonya Hartnett
Outbreak of Love
Martin Boyd
Introduced by Chris Womersley
When Blackbirds Sing
Martin Boyd
Introduced by Chris Wallace-Crabbe
The Australian Ugliness
Robin Boyd
Introduced by Christos Tsiolkas
The Dyehouse
Mena Calthorpe
Introduced by Fiona McFarlane
All the Green Year
Don Charlwood
Introduced by Michael McGirr
They Found a Cave
Nan Chauncy
The Dyehouse Page 22