THREE TABLES RAN down the middle of the room and about a dozen women, all wearing white overall tops, were bent over sewing machines. A couple of them took a quick look over at us, but nobody stopped working. The air was filled with the sound of the treadles and the whirring of the machines. No chattering. No wireless squawking out music. A few high windows in one wall allowed in a little meagre light, but given the weather they weren’t doing a very good job. Three hanging lamps on minimum wattage didn’t offer much help. I had the impression not even the mid-summer sun could penetrate this dungeon. The place was long and narrow with low ceilings; bare, unpainted walls; and scuffed wooden flooring. It also smelled as if any fresh air that had ever been present was used up decades ago.
Miriam tapped me on the shoulder. “Come and hang up your coat.”
She walked over to the nearby stand, already burdened with several coats, and started to remove her raincoat and hat. Her brown hair was short and curly.
There was a glass-fronted office at the end of the room. A man burst out of it into the work space. He was in full throttle and yelling as if we were at the far end of a parade ground.
“Miss Cohen, you are late. Unless you have an excellent excuse such as the sudden death of your mother and father, you will be fined. Again.”
I stopped in mid-divestment of my mackintosh, but Miriam continued what she was doing. She slipped on her white top.
“Sorry Mr. Klein. Couldn’t be helped.”
She didn’t say, “and stuff your fine up your jacksey,” but she may as well have. Klein turned to me and glared. He was a short, chubby man and rather unfortunately had chosen to wear a blue overall that appeared to have belonged to someone much smaller. Or a younger self.
“Who are you when you’re at home?” he said, his voice still at high volume.
Given the general aggression and rudeness of his manner, I felt like turning around and leaving, or alternatively, thumping the man. Neither option was open to me. Miriam came to my rescue.
“She wants a job.”
“Does she? Hope she’s not a friend of yours, ’cos if she is, she won’t get one.”
“Never met her before.”
She turned around and walked over to one of the tables.
I realized that one of the workers was actually a young boy who must have just left school. He had copper red hair and the abundant freckles that come with it.
His chair was beside Miriam’s and as she sat down, she ruffled his hair. He gave her the adoring smile of a lad with a big crush on a pretty older woman.
Klein beckoned to me. “Come this way.”
He turned around and headed for the office, stopping briefly to examine the work of one of the women at the end table. He threw it back at her and she cowered.
As I went past Miriam, I muttered, “Thanks,” but she only gave me a brief nod. Perhaps she didn’t want to spoil my chances.
The supervisor’s office was glassed-in and elevated so it had a good view of the entire workspace. Klein went first, walked straight to his desk and sat down behind it. As there was no other chair in the room, I had to stand awkwardly in front of him, like a recalcitrant schoolgirl facing the principal. He didn’t look at me, but opened a large black ledger and dipped a straight pen into an inkwell. I began to feel as if I had slipped back into a previous century. I sincerely hoped Klein would have some disturbing visitors in the night.
“Name?”
“Charlotte Frayne.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Good. We don’t hire married women.”
“Why not?”
That at least made him look up.
“It’s her husband’s job to take care of her, not us.”
“What if they need the income?”
“Not my problem, is it?”
I didn’t see any point in getting into an argument I wouldn’t win, so I muttered something indistinctive. He returned to his ledger.
“We’re in need of a sewer. Can you sew?” he asked. His voice was still loud. Maybe he was deaf.
“Not really.”
“Cut?”
“Not at all.”
He stared up at me. “What the hell can you do?”
“There must be other work in a shop like this. I’ll do whatever is needed. I need a job.”
“You and half the country.” He waved his hand at me. “Turn around.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Turn around. Make a circle. I want to make sure you’re not a cripple or retarded.”
Feeling utterly ridiculous, I did as he said.
“Okay. You’ll do. We need a bin pusher. Our regular girl left.”
“May I ask what is a bin pusher?”
He began to speak slowly and deliberately as if I was dim witted. “The clothes have to be cut obviously. That’s done on the third floor. Then the pieces are tied into bundles and they are put into a bin; this same bin has to be brought down to the sewers who are on this floor. When they have made the fabric into some semblance of a garment, those same clothes have to be taken down to the first floor where they are stored. As they are not going to get up and walk there, they are placed in a —”
I interrupted him. “Let me guess, a bin?”
To my surprise, he actually grinned. At least I think it was a grin that lifted his lip.
“That is correct. So do you want the job or not?”
“I’ll take it.”
“You’ll receive twenty-five cents an hour. The shift is ten hours. Eight to six. Monday to Friday. Saturday eight to noon. Weekdays, you get half an hour for lunch. Ten-minute breaks. No more than two. We have a trial period of two weeks, but if your work is unsatisfactory you may be dismissed without notice.”
He paused, looked up at me for a moment.
“Any questions?”
“I do as a matter of fact. As bin pusher how do I get the bin from one floor to the other?”
“There’s a service elevator. Only big enough for the bin. You wheel it into the elevator, close the gate, push the button required, and go down the stairs to the assigned floor where you open the gate and wheel out the bin. When you have disposed of these goods as described, you have to pick up the bolts of cloth from where they are stored at the rear of the shop and take them back to the third floor where they will be cut. That’s clear enough, I’d say.”
“And how many times a day do I have to do that?”
“As many as it takes. In between times you will sweep the floors and dispose of any scraps. You will also help with the packaging of the final product on the first floor. If we’re short-handed in the shop, you can assist with the display room. You’re not bad looking and you speak well enough.”
“And for doing this I get twenty-five cents an hour?”
I tried to keep my tone neutral, but I obviously didn’t succeed. He scowled at me.
“Like I said, there’s lots of women would jump at this job and take less. You’re not skilled. Do you want it or not?”
“Yes.”
“Be here tomorrow morning at eight. Any lateness will be deducted from your wages.”
“Of course, only fair.”
He laid the pen neatly on the ledger. “I don’t know what job you had before this, Miss Frayne, and I don’t care. I’ve dealt with all sorts in my time. What I do care about is running a tight ship. Employees are discouraged from wasting time; chatting to each other for instance. You know how you women are. The more we can produce, the better for all concerned. Loyalty is its own reward.”
He gestured with his hand.
“You can find your own way out.”
I did so, walking back to the exit. Again, nobody paid me any attention except Miriam.
“See you tomorrow?” she called out.
“You will.”
She seemed glad of that.
At the door, I turned and looked back to the office. Mr. Klein was staring out. Watching me? Watching the workers? I wasn’t sure. They appeared to be intent on their work. Mr. Rosenthal had hired me to investigate rebellious and riotous tendencies among his workers. So far, I thought he was delusional.
I hadn’t even closed the door when a horrible shriek rang out. Then another.
I stepped back into the room.