How Beautiful Are Thy Feet

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A writer with an ear for the rhythms of Australian speech, Melbourne-based Alan Marshall published in the dominant social realist tradition of the 1940s and ’50s. The author of short stories, journalism, children’s books, novels and advice columns, he is best remembered for the first book of his autobiography, I Can Jump Puddles (1955). His work is marked by a deep interest in rural and working-class life, with an emphasis on shared experience.

So I cried.

So I raged and so I pleaded,

As I waited on this devil,

Making boots, boots.

Till the best part of me died,

For was dragged out by the roots;

And the hum no more I heeded,

Nay I heard it not at all.

And the call

Of the sweet and pleasant country, and

the stillness of the earth

I forgot,

And my lot

Ceased to hate, or deem tyrant evil,

Or his overthrow to plan.

So that now, no more a man,

But his unrebellious slave

In this Polyphemus cave

Unresisting I attend

To the end.

The Factory snarls as it eats … it rears its head above the damp of narrow streets … above the swamp of houses … it is a dinosaur … it is Tyrannosaurus Rex … it is destruction … its talons are steel … its entrails are machines … its mouth is a door …

Into it you workers take with you your youth … your smooth necks … your unlined faces … your laughter … writhe in the digestive juices of its clattering guts … through days of sunshine … through months … through years … through a life … a thousand lives … Let it suck from you the substance of your firm unblemished flesh … till lines appear … till necks have lost the clasp of creaseless skin … till hands tremble … till powder clogs congested lungs and spit is colourful …

It will get you in the end … Tyrannosaurus Rex will get you … gorged with sound it belches forth the boots you make … the boots and shoes you make … the red shoes of dancers … the heavy boots of labourers … a thousand pairs a day … A THOUSAND PAIRS A DAY …

They sat at the table together. He was a tall man with large, broad hands. One rested on some papers lying on the table. He slowly tapped his teeth with the end of a lead-pencil.

The woman watched him. His teeth were white and strong. There was sympathy and humour in the lines around his eyes. His chin was firm and powerful, and supported with ease the sagging flesh of his throat. His lips, though sensuously heavy, met with decision.

Without moving his head he turned his eyes so that they looked into those of his companion. She met his gaze without strain, searching deep for a sign that might aid her in anticipating his requirements. She had no mind of her own where he was concerned. She reacted instinctively to the will that moved slowly and heavily behind his eyes. She was a sensitive instrument responsive to his unspoken wishes.

Her hand fell to her lap. Her silk dress clung to her large, curved thighs and fell into a depression where her slightly parted legs offered no support for the material. Her fingers moved slowly, puckering the silk beneath her hand and revealing, as the hem moved over her knee, the warm, coloured flimsiness of her underclothing.

He placed the pencil on the table, reached out his thick hand and let it rest heavily on her lap. He plucked her flesh with his fingers a moment, then suddenly rose.

‘Well, I must keep that appointment. That girl will have to go, I suppose. You tell her. And don’t forget to ring the Camberwell shop about those returns. Shake Rogers up.’

The woman had risen also. Responsive to his change of mood, the hot sleepiness of her expression had flicked from her eyes like a freed blind. She replied with brisk resolution: ‘He’ll go, too. I warned you about him when you first put him on. Walker’s wouldn’t keep him a month. They watch their managers. I told you …’

He glanced at his wristlet watch as he strode across the room. The door he flung open bore upon its glass panel in gold letters the words, ‘Frederick J. Fulsham, Managing Director’. Beneath in smaller letters was printed, ‘The Modern Shoe Co. Pty Ltd’.

When he had gone she smoothed her dress with her hands, patted her blouse with her fingers. Her chin was drawn in as she looked downwards at the curve of her tightly bound breasts. It rested on two large folds of flesh squeezed from her throat. Satisfied that there was no disarray, she opened the door.

She was in the factory. Around her the air was alive with movement. It hummed with the multitude of stimuli that fed it with sound and scent. There were tappings, knockings, rumbles … whirls and loud anguished screeches … smell of new leather and cleaning liquids … sudden calls from men and the scrape of boots … Through it all the low whine of speeding machinery.

The packer was standing before some racks laden with shoes. He was examining. The racks ran on small castors. When he finished examining the shoes on one rack, he pushed it to one side and pulled up another in its place. There were many racks. Girls pushed them from the cleaning room. Pairs became groups; groups joined. Occasionally he raised his head and scowled at them, feeling resentment at their increase.

He subjected each shoe to a careful examination. He felt inside it with his fingers, seeking tacks. He examined the stitching, the set of the heels, the leather; decided if the shoes matched.

With one held in his hands, he watched Miss Claws leave Fulsham’s office. He kept his gaze upon her, slowly turning his head as she passed. His thumb and fingers pressed and worked the calf upper. His thumb detecting a flaw in the leather, was joined by the fingers. They moved across the flaw, estimating accurately the extent and seriousness of the damage. He tossed the shoe among some discards. He had not looked at it.

He picked up another shoe. His movements were slow, and had no place in his thoughts. His eyes were fixed on the play of flesh beneath Miss Claw’s silken dress as she walked towards her office on the other side of the factory.

Sales Manageress! Faugh!! A slow, thick hatred of her held his fingers in a sudden stillness. His shares … his five hundred shares … and his house mortgaged as security for the Modern’s overdraft … and Clyne’s house, and McCormack’s house, and hell only knows how many more houses … and she with her rotten designs that filled their stores with dead stock. Before she came the place had been a gold mine … Every one of the original hands had been issued five hundred shares … Bonuses every year … Money! Money! Lots of it … and now cut salaries and falling sales … And Fulsham buying her a car and taking her to the races … and her, ‘You don’t watch the shoes, Mr Correll. That gold kid was rubbed’ … and Fulsham calling him into the office … and she sitting there with her cunning eyes … and Fulsham, ‘You’re slipping, Jack’ … and the smoke of Fulsham’s cigarette rising in front of his face … ‘You’re slipping, Jack’ … and he with Mrs Correll’s house in the firm …. ‘What have you got to say about it, Jack?’

She did it. The pimp! The bloody pimp! What had he to say about it! To have been able to say ‘You can shove your job’ … to have been able to say, ‘I’m leaving. I’ve got a job with the Arcade at six quid a week.’ … To have been able to say, ‘She’s a bloody liar. I’m through.’ … To have had to say, ‘I’m not slipping, Mr Fulsham. Davis put in that leather. It was finished all right when I examined the shoes. But Davis must have known that it wouldn’t stand up to it. See Davis. I’ll bet he bought it at a cut price. He’s always slipping in rubbish.’

And Davis got his … And now it would be days before he could look at Davis straight.

She passed into her office. He breathed deeply. An intense desire to humble her gave him a sense of momentary fatigue.

To have her in his power — to crush her — God! Wait till the Douglas Credit was in power. They’d all have money then. He’d show her then. The Douglas Credit — A-ah!

The junior packer approached: ‘Do you know anything about this, Mr Correll? Here is an order to forward thirty pairs of RA9 to the Camberwell shop. I wondered whether I should make out the ticket. They got thirty pairs yesterday, and Andrews kicked up a fuss about it then. He reckons he can’t move them out there. They’re dead in his fixtures. Miss Claws has signed it, though.’

‘What’s this! What’s this!’ Correll seized the order. The paper rustled in his hands. His fingers lingered, caressed it. It felt good. He placed it on the bench, smoothing out the creases. He read each word and figure with keen pleasure, savouring to the full the possibilities of the error. He looked at the printing on the form; at the upright and horizontal ruling. He meditated over the signature. It was so clear, so decisive, so assured.

He straightened himself. ‘We’ve got her this time.’ He stood square on his feet. He felt well. He looked round the factory and smiled. He again read the order.

‘That’s right, son. I’ll fix this. You go on with your work. I’ll see Fulsham about this. Is he in?’

‘He’ll be back. You go on with your work. I’ll fix this.’ He folded the order carefully and placed it in his pocket.

The accountant slipped his crutches from beneath his shoulders and placed them in the corner. He sat down heavily as if his muscles had suddenly lost their power to support him. He leant back in his chair.

He had contracted infantile paralysis when he was a child. His legs swung loosely from his hips when he walked. Certain body muscles were also paralysed so that he slumped in his chair when seated. It made him appear much shorter than he was.

He smiled easily and often. He never seemed to realize he was crippled, which sometimes discomforted people. He assumed an equality with others which was accepted by his friends.

The ‘Stores’ office employed five girls. Four of them worked on card indexes. The indexes showed the position of each stock line throughout the chain stores. They were used as a reference by Miss Claws, who controlled them.

The accountant’s office on the opposite side of the factory was in the nature of a thoroughfare. Carriers passed through on their way to open the large side door before which their trucks stood ready for unloading. Travellers called, beggars, out-of-works, salesmen … A little counter with a hinged top stayed most of them.

It was suddenly raised. A girl appeared. She was short with large hips. Her buttocks moved from side to side as she walked. She wore glasses. Her name was Mary Frobisher.

Mary started work half an hour earlier than the other girls. She was the junior and had to clean the accountant’s office. During the day she worked on the card index.

She placed her bag on the desk. She hung her coat and hat on a peg. The accountant sharpened a pencil. He held the pencil over a wastepaper basket, but the curled pieces of wood fell on the floor. He leant down and with pursed lips blew them away.

Mary had opened her bag. She looked intently into a small mirror. Her face bore a strained expression. She slapped her cheeks with a loose puff. Powder floated in the air.

‘Oo — great! But doesn’t it cost money? George spent over ten shillings. George doesn’t mind, though. Laugh! … We kept putting pennies in those machines — You know. You know where they tell you your fortunes. Some of them are good. Wait till I show you mine. George reckons it’s good. It is good. I’m going to keep it.’

She fumbled in her bag. She brought forth a small oblong card with a green border. One corner was smeared with lipstick.

‘Just look at that!’ She rubbed the card against the palm of her hand. She handed the card to the accountant. She looked searchingly through her bag. She placed a gold coloured cap over the lipstick and closed the bag with a snap.

The accountant turned the card over and looked at the back. He reversed it and read it through again.

‘Hm,’ he said. He suddenly raised his head and smiled at her. He handed the card back.

‘Yes, it is good, isn’t it; George thinks it’s good.’ She tossed her head to straighten her hair. ‘Goodness, I must hurry.’

She bustled about the office dusting and moving chairs. The accountant commenced checking a bundle of clicking dockets.

‘Oh, yes! George has a new stepmother, hasn’t he? How does he like her? What do you think of her?’

‘Oh! I like her. She likes me, too. She’s real young. George likes her. She’s funny, though. She kisses George good-bye and everything.’

‘She likes him; but she bosses him. That’s silly. George just takes it. He says he doesn’t want to start rows. After his father leaves for work she gets George his breakfast. George doesn’t start work till nine. She chips him about being out late with me, and that; and lifts her finger and says, “Now, now,” and things like that. I said to George, “we don’t stop out very late. Others stop out till after twelve.” George says not to take any notice of her.’

The accountant looked thoughtfully at his pencil. He turned it round and round in his fingers. Mary moved the electric kettle from beneath his table. She said, ‘One of us will get killed with this kettle some day. I read in the paper the other night about a woman getting killed with an electric iron. It’s terrible. You can’t let go or anything.’

The accountant looked down at the kettle. It was heavily dinted. The wooden knob of the lid was missing.

A carrier appeared at the counter. He leant over to unfasten the catch. His shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. He had large brown arms. His leather apron was patched and worn. His face was shrunken as if it had been punctured.

‘O.K.,’ said the accountant. ‘Hold on! Wait till I see if there are any confirmations here.’

‘She can’t be very old. Her mother was there yesterday howling among the police. They had the hooks out. She must have been game, you know. I couldn’t have done that.’

‘Out of work, so they reckon. That’s one, isn’t it?’ He pointed to the orders. ‘You just passed it.’

‘Did I? So I did. I missed that one. There may be more. Half a jiff.’ The accountant’s fingers continued their search.

‘There’s an order here for boxes a week old,’ said the accountant. ‘They can’t be here yet. See that we get them this afternoon, will you?’

‘I’ll fix that up,’ said the carrier. ‘You’ll get them this afternoon.’

‘Well, is it going to rain today?’ asked the typist. She smiled at the carrier as she removed her hat.

‘Oh, I don’t know!’ said the carrier. ‘Those thunder clouds have gone over; there is a north wind rising. It’s going to be a scorcher, I reckon.’

When he had gone, the typist said, ‘I always notice that that carrier always gives you the right weather. The others when they come in say, “Nice day, isn’t it” or “Cold, isn’t it?” It really means nothing. But that fellow thinks it out first. He’ll only say it’s wet when it’s raining or it’s hot when the sweat is pouring off him. He goes into details for the uncertain days.’

The accountant did not take his eyes from her face. He listened with interest, his lips slightly apart.

‘That’s a fact,’ he said, relaxing and looking at the floor. He said it slowly with great pleasure as if there had been revealed to him a truth for which he had been seeking.

The typist looked at him. He makes you think that everything you say to him is clever.

The door of the managing director’s office suddenly opened. Mary looked through. ‘My father can tell the weather wonderfully. He goes by the clouds. He —’

‘Step on it, Mary,’ said the accountant. ‘You’re late already. They’ll be waiting for you over there. Hurry.’

She had dark brown hair. It v/as fine and soft, and suggested fragrance. Her eyes were large and brown. She had a level, clear regard that attempted no concealment.

‘Yes. He and Miss Claws came in early. He went out again later. Miss Claws wanted to get here before the girls came in. She went over the cards. Someone is making mistakes.’

They heard the sound of boots crushing grains of gravel against the floor. A door closed. The springs of a revolving chair creaked. Mr Fulsham settled himself with many movements.

‘No, I’ve finished now, Mr Fulsham.’ Mary appeared carrying a duster and a handful of crumpled’ paper. She dropped the paper in the typist’s wastepaper basket. ‘Here!’ exclaimed Miss Trueman.

The accountant opened a ledger. There was a timid knock on the counter. He looked up into the frightened eyes of a little girl wearing a red beret. Her lips parted. She turned her head then faced him again. Her throat moved as if a crowd of words were struggling there.

‘Just a minute,’ said the accountant. He pressed a button on an automatic phone. It was labelled, ‘Cleaning Room.’ ‘There is a girl over here, Mrs Bourke. A beginner. You want one, don’t you? All right.’ He hung up the phone and went on writing.

A forewoman opened the office door. A smile of friendliness passed between her and the accountant.

‘Not too good. I wish they’d tell me what it is. His throat is terrible. I know a doctor. He’s a sort of cousin of mine. I’m going to take him there. Half of these doctors don’t know as much as they think they do.’

The forewoman walked to the counter. A thin woman had appeared behind the little girl. The forewoman looked from one to the other.

The little girl stood tensely in the background. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her. Her glance wavered between the mother and the forewoman. Her shoulders sloped steeply from her neck to her upper arms. She glanced out on to the street where the warm sun lay on the pavement.

DEPARTMENT OF LABOUR

Government Offices

Spring Street, Melbourne

17/2/35

Permission for Girl between 14 and 15 years of age to work in a Factory.

I hereby grant permission to Rene Gaunt of 84 Carey St, Richmond, a girl of 14 years of age on 12/1/35, who is not required to attend school under the Education Acts, to work in a Boot Factory.

L. Currey.

Chief Inspector of Factories.

‘Can she start right away?’ she asked. The mother’s eyes rested quickly on the little girl as if flinging invisible arms protectingly around her.

The little girl drew a deep breath. She looked unwaveringly into her mother’s eyes, seeking strength.

The forewoman motioned the latter through the door. A look almost of anguish came into the little girl’s eyes. She was powerless to look away from the steady understanding of her mother’s regard.

The forewoman stepped back to the wall. She smiled down reassuringly at her new hand. The accountant raised his eyes from the ledger. There was silence. The mother bent and kissed her daughter.

The little girl walked through the doorway. She waited uncertainly in the office. The forewoman closed the counter behind her. She fastened the bolt … Click. The little girl closed her eyes a moment. The forewoman placed her hand on her shoulder and guided her across the office. The little girl continued past the door leading into the factory. The forewoman pulled her back and, opening the door, let in the low, unceasing roar of machinery.

It overwhelmed the little girl like a wind. She paused as if from a buffet before passing through.

The factory manager’s name was Ralph Clynes. He was thirty-nine years old. He had a full, bloated face. His white dustcoat, donned each morning at seven forty-five, clung to him like a skin.

He stood, looking down the factory, biting his under-lip. His arms hung closely to his sides. He was soured by the conviction that Fulsham wanted to get rid of him. He had no proof. He just felt it. Fulsham was beginning to make decisions without referring to him. He called foremen into the office and discussed their work with them.

Clynes lifted his chin. He stretched his neck to free it from the irritation of his collar.

Fulsham had no right to go directly to the foreman. He should come to him. Fulsham had called Harry into his office and criticised the stitching on his welts, and Clynes had to walk up and down not knowing what was going on while Harry was being questioned. Then he had to ask Harry what the big fellow had wanted him for, and it made him seem an equal with Harry.

He walked across to a bale of lining and stepped behind it. He took from his pocket a small bottle. He unscrewed the cap and shook three aspirins onto his palm. He raised the other hand to his forehead and moved troubled fingers slowly across his brow.

The three white tablets lay silently on his suspended hand. He placed one back into the bottle reluctantly. He flung the other two into his mouth.

Clynes stepped from behind the bale and walked down the room. He moved his body restlessly as he walked.

‘Yes. I’ll see you later about it. The tall fellow is in the office.’ He nodded towards Fulsham’s door. Correll glanced swiftly round. He walked purposefully towards his bench.

Clynes walked through the making room. Correll was right. The Douglas Credit had to come. If it would only come soon!

His tongue clucked from the roof of his mouth with a sound heard only by himself.

There was his wife spending so much. Say if he got eight pounds a week, now. Four, even. Yes, say four. It was all so simple. The Capitalists couldn’t always have their way. Release of credit … That’s what was wanted.

He recalled each specious argument propounded by Correll over the last four weeks. There would be money for everybody. His mouth slowly filled to a flow of saliva. He swallowed.

He became unconscious of his surroundings. He was driving a car. Its polished bonnet was incredibly long. It had thick glass windows and large, white tyres. It rocked over a gutter. The back rose and fell. It glided forward. He saw the Hodgkinsons from next door. ‘How are you?’ He leant over the side, smiled, and waved. ‘How are you?’ He inclined his head. They watched him disappear down the road. They would call that night, but he wouldn’t make a fuss. Their refrigerator … Pshaw! ‘Have a drink before you go, Mr Hodgkinson. Champagne!! Oh yes. I’ve got quite a nice cellar.’

Clynes crushed a leaflet in his pocket. He felt a sudden spasm of fear. It passed. Hatred like blood flowed through him. Miss Claws! He would be free from that bitch. His lip lifted a little. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder. She would pimp on him no more. Money to burn, eh!

This meeting he was going to have in his home. Correll said Atkins was a splendid speaker. He must get as many converts as possible. He walked with purpose in his step. He mounted the stairs.

In the machine room the forewoman was bending over a young girl. The girl’s face was strained and anxious. Her lip was quivering. She sat before a sewing machine. She moved an upper beneath the needle while the forewoman watched her.

Clynes did not notice the girl. He said to the forewoman: ‘What do you think of this Douglas Credit?’ He smiled as if the question were casual.

The forewoman stood upright. She instinctively put on her most agreeable expression and a scurry of ideas all planned to humour and please him stepped smartly to the front of her mind, waiting for an opportunity to do their subtle work.

Clynes didn’t hear her reply. He said, ‘What is money? It is only a book entry. A man gives another man a cheque for a thousand, and the bank makes two entries in its ledger. What’s to stop them giving unlimited credit?’

‘Nothing,’ said the forewoman solemnly. She was thinking of her invalid husband. If she could get to the phone without Fulsham seeing her, the accountant would let her ring the hospital. But Fulsham didn’t like the staff speaking on the phone. Well, damn him, anyway, it was a case of sickness.

‘I was only thinking the other day,’ said the forewoman, ‘what we want to do, is to do away with governments. Say, “Get out. We’ll govern ourselves,” and then we could run things properly … make our own laws. I just thought of a solution this morning. We should all work six hours a day. Less would be produced and more employed. Over-production is the trouble. I can’t make out why I didn’t think of it before. It just came to me all of a sudden.’

Clynes was irritated. What the hell! … It’s Douglas … She should … Ar! the bloody fool!

The forewoman turned to the girl. ‘Keep going’, she said. ‘You are not as fast as Rose, and Rose started on the same day as you. I’ll be putting you off.’

The accountant closed his ledger. He stretched himself. Miss Trueman was speaking on the phone.

She hung up the receiver slowly. A smile was on her face. She sat very still, looking at the office wall. Her eyes were soft.

‘More shoes,’ said Miss Trueman. ‘This will be the eighth pair I’ve tried on this morning. Come in.’

The pattern cutter entered. He was a slow, heavy man. He carried a silver kid sandal in his hand. The typist took a size four and had a perfect foot. All new designs were tried on her before being placed on order.

Miss Trueman crossed her legs. She pulled a plain, black-kid court-shoe from her foot and drew on the sandal. She sat back, her head on one side, looking at the shoe. Her leg was stretched out in front of her. She moved her foot from the ankle, bending it from side to side. She straightened her instep.

The glittering silver sandal, moving at the end of the rounded silk-clad leg, was magically endowed. It transformed the office into a ballroom. The accountant could hear music. Ghosts of women in bright colours floated before him. They smiled at him over their shoulders. They swayed with white arms outstretched.

Miss Trueman placed a piece of paper on the floor and stood up. The pattern cutter dropped to one knee. He pressed the shoe with his fingers.

‘Ye-e-e-s.’ She gazed frowningly at the shoe. ‘The heel has a tendency to go over on these open shank shoes. It’s not joined to the front, sort of.’

‘They dance on their toes,’ said the pattern cutter ponderously. He again pressed the shoe with his fingers. ‘It seems a bit tight across here.’ He moved a thick finger along the strip of leather binding her toes.

‘After I try on a few pairs my feet sort of lose their feel. I can’t tell whether they are bad or not.’ Miss Trueman pulled the sandal off. ‘It should sell later on in the year.’

‘Yes,’ said the pattern cutter, looking thoughtfully at the shoe in his hand.

Miss Trueman thrust her foot into her black court shoe. She turned to her table.

A girl walked in from the factory. She carried a wooden box and a brown paper bag. She placed the bag on the accountant’s table.

Her hair was magnificent. Dark curls with a copper gleam in them. They shone with healthy life and rioted on her head like loud cries of acclaim. Yet her face was thick and lifeless, her voice coarse.

‘Thanks,’ said the accountant. The girl placed the box on the floor, end uppermost. She laid a piece of paper upon it. The paper was kept in place by the weight of some coins.

The accountant seized the paper bag. He opened it. It contained four buttered scones. He gazed at them with a puzzled expression.

Mr McCormack,

I heard you say to Mr Clynes that you never enjoyed your lunches because bought lunches were never as nice as home-made ones.

Would you take these scones? I made them all myself especially for you. They are a bit yellow, but that’s too much soda. I hope you like them.

Yours sincerely,

Biddy Freeman

P.S. I hope you don’t mind me doing this.

The accountant gazed at the note with pleased surprise. He suddenly folded it, and put it in his pocket. Everything seemed good to him. He wished he could repay her in some way.

He said, ‘If anybody wants me, Miss Trueman, I will be in the machine room.’ He slipped his crutches beneath his arms.

‘The lunch boy will be here in a minute,’ warned Miss Trueman. ‘Write down what you want before you go.’

‘I only want an apple today,’ said the accountant. He swung round to the box. He took the slip of paper. It was the order for lunches from those girls in the machine room who didn’t bring their own.

‘Here’s the lunch-boy now,’ he said. He nodded towards the counter. Miss Trueman rose. The accountant went out.

The man at the door had a face pitted as from smallpox. The skin was white and poreless as if it had been dipped in fire. He was employed by the little corner shop that made up the lunches.

He swayed towards her from the hips like an ape, as if not to miss her words. He returned to an erect position against the wall. He watched her wistfully as she gathered the money and lifted the box to place on the counter. He gathered his loose lips preparing them for his daily remark.

He fumbled the box. His heart-was pounding. He gathered the box to him. He clasped his arms around it as if it were a support.

He did not reply. His helpless glance almost hurt with its weight of wordless feeling. His lips moved uselessly. He walked clumsily out, clasping his box.

The clicking room comes first … they stand before specially prepared boards of soft wood and sweep their curved and pointed knives around the galvanized iron patterns placed on the skin … they stand side by side … they do not look up when you enter … they have to cut four hundred pairs a day at the Modern Shoe … they do not speak to each other … they have no time for a quick draw … no smoking here … fling the skin on the board … grasp it in your fingers … pull to see the direction of the stretch … place your pattern so that the grain on the vamp will meet the pull of the lasting without give … round with the knife … watch your fingers … blood from a gash spoils the leather … keep going … don’t cut beyond the pattern … keep in … keep in … that little gash at the end of the stroke means waste … you can’t lay your pattern plumb with the edge, if the leather is gashed … remember that all these little odd shaped pieces of leather are to be sewn together by machinists to form the uppers of shoes … and there must be no flaws in the upper … but there are flaws in the skin … miss the flaws … cut round the flaws … but no waste, curse you, no waste … use your brains … you are a clicker … clickers are superior … clickers wear a collar and lie …

Swiftly men … thrust the spike that projects from the edge of your knife’s handle through the little holes in the pattern … those little pricks are to guide the machinist … but God Almighty, they’ll never see those marks … the light … the artificial light … the strain on the eyes … and suede … they might be hard to see in suede but they are plain in patent … anyway that’s none of your business … you are a clicker … you are paid four pounds one per week to make little odd-shaped pieces of leather … you are nothing else but a clicker … those little odd-shaped pieces of leather leave you … they go on … they are grouped in bundles and go on to the machine room … forget them … you are a clicker, they go on …

The machine room is an oven.. the iron roof is just above your head … and the girls with curved backs sitting in rows on old stools … the long benches and the black machines like heathen idols hungry for sacrifice … and girls that lay their hands upon them … that lay their small hands, their large hands, upon them … or their fat hands, cheapringed … or hands that tremble … or old hands that should be resting on laps … or hands that weep … or hands, confident, untiring … and fingers that dart and manipulate … that control … that get covered with the blackness of box leather … that dip between breasts for handkerchiefs whereon to wipe the sweat that beads the forehand.

These hot days, and only a leaky bath at home … and the forewoman hovering … hovering … hovering … and the forewoman hovering … and Creepy Clynes and the forewoman hovering … and buzz and whir and flap of unguarded belts … and stink of armpit sweat … and buzz and whir … and against your knee the press that raises the wheel to release the upper … let it down … br-r-r-r-r.. At is an approaching wind … it rises … rises … the floor trembles … the bench vibrates … there are a hundred machines … the tortured leather writhes from the savagery of needles … and the Perforator and the bang-bang, bang … and the bang-bang, bang … and the confetti of leather for the worn shoes upon your feet to trample on and Skivers that shear the edge of leather so that they can be beaded … and Post Trimmers that sew the upper to the lining and with thin, narrow knives trim the lining level with the sewn edge …

It is hot in the machine room … it is terribly hot in the machine room with a north wind blowing … and Elly Vickers can do four hundred pair a day on the Binder … over a pair a minute on the Binder … Elly is a star … two bob week extra for Elly … watch her girls … watch Elly on the Binder.

And Vera is a star … a vamper must be good … she sews the backs to the vamp and the upper is complete … Vera is a plain machinist no longer … She is a vamper … three bob a week extra for her … and she started like you, Tessie … at fourteen years old she was sewing linings … keep at it, Tessie … in eight years you will be a vamper at two pounds five a week like Vera … won’t your mother be pleased? …

Skiving pares the edges of the leather pieces to a paper thinness. The shaved edge is then smeared with glue by beginners, after which the Beading Machine folds it over and cements it down so that no raw edges spoil the appearance of the completed shoe.

Biddy had been working the Fortuna Skiver for ten years. She had started work when she was fifteen years old.

She commenced work at seven forty-five and finished at five fifteen. She had three-quarters of an hour for lunch. She was allowed to go to the lavatory during the day, but not too often. She was paid two guineas a week.

She was short, slim and dainty. Her flesh was firm. She did not wear brassieres or wrap-ons. She had dark-blue, expressive eyes that issued a mischievous, smiling challenge. In repose, a faintly mocking smile was always present on her lips. Her soft, wavy hair was constantly entangled with the light from the window before which she worked.

She dressed well. Her clothes were designed to show off her figure to the best advantage, yet she walked as if she were unconscious of them. She used cosmetics lavishly and had been with many men, yet a sweetness of disposition and a strange cleanliness of mind lived in the air around her.

She heard the pad, pad of his crutches as he mounted the stairs. For a flash her face became serious and intent. Then her expression softened.

She worked with greater speed. Yet her movements from being mechanical had become conscious. The pieces of leather did not slide beneath the arm with the same inevitable continuity. Some pieces wavered; others came through with the pale skived edge too wide.

When the accountant entered, he walked to a desk used by one of the girls for checking the orders as they came through from the clicking room. The desk was close to Biddy’s machine. There was a bench beside the desk. Upon the bench were bundles of pieces waiting to be skived. The girl who did the checking placed them there. She had finished this task and was helping the forewoman tally the completed uppers at the other end of the room.

Biddy did not always wait for the forewoman to keep her supplied with work. She often made trips to the bench herself.

She left her machine. The accountant waited. She made no attempt to conceal her motive for walking to the bench each time he worked at the desk. She stood by all her actions. She had an entire disregard for subterfuge.

They looked at each other, smiling. Their regard contained no strain. It was eloquent and expressed an absolute accord of inclination. It questioned and answered and was delighted with the answer. The accountant’s fingers remained motionless on the lifted leaf of a book. Biddy moved bundles of leather unnecessarily.

The accountant looked down at his book and turned the leaves. He spoke to her with his head slightly on one side, his mouth inclined towards her.

‘Thanks ever so much for those scones. I’m really going to enjoy my lunch today. I think it was great of you.’

‘Oh, no, Mister McCormack!’ She spoke with mock seriousness, the ‘Mister’ slightly emphasized. She looked sideways at him. Her eyes were laughing and mischievous.

She moved closer, and looking down at the bundles of leather, said, ‘I found out that you are not married.’

‘Well, I’ll meet you on the corner of Wellington and Johnston Streets at a quarter to eight.’

‘How are we going?’ said Clynes, stopping him. ‘Are we making any money?’

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