It was a quarter to nine when the accountant arrived at the office next morning.
‘Has that new girl arrived yet — what’s her name? — Miss Beveridge.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I took her over to the other office. She’s waiting. She’s nice. I like her.’
‘What section of the cards was Miss Davis working on?’
‘Camberwell and Elsternwick. I think Miss Claws is going to start this girl on Camberwell.’
‘Miss Claws won’t be in for a day or two.’
Mary looked pleased.
‘In the meantime, I’ll start her on Camberwell. Help her as much as you can this morning. Don’t touch those papers on my table. Dust around them.’
The accountant walked over to the stores office. Freda Beveridge was sitting on a chair looking with interest at the rows of cabinets before her.
‘Good morning,’ said the accountant.
‘Good morning, Mr McCormack.’
‘Draw your chair over here, will you please. I’ll explain the work you are to do. Miss Claws, who controls the cabinets, will not be in for a few days.’
Freda rose and shifted her chair.
‘You may hang your hat and coat on the hook here.’
She was dressed in green. Her skin was smooth and unblemished.
Sadness touched the accountant’s face for a moment. ‘That chair seems a little low. Try this one.’
She sat down. An exhalation of warmth troubled the air around her. (I should never have engaged this girl.)
‘Each card in this cabinet represents a stock line carried by our Camberwell shop …”
Sometimes his hand touched hers. (What in the hell is wrong with me.) His voice went on and on. (My voice sounds odd — disassociated.)
“Have you grasped all that?’
‘Yes, Mr McCormack.’ She lifted her face and smiled into his eyes.
He drew a breath and said: ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. If you come up against anything that puzzles you, come across and I’ll explain it to you. Later in the morning I will check your work.’
Seated in his office, he rested his chin on his clasped hands. He sat motionless, looking at his crutches against the wall.
For years I fought to forget those things — to act as if they never existed, and I succeeded. I have gone in where angels fear to tread. But was I wise, I wonder? Others were conscious of them. That girl would be. Should I always remember this.
He rubbed his forehead up and down against his thumb nails. As you value yourself, so will people value you.
Psychiatrists have explanations for my need of women, other than that of sex, he thought. Whether it affords a soul-satisfying compensation for the inferiority engendered by being crippled, doesn’t very much matter. It is no crime. There is nothing to be ashamed of in seeking compensation. It is not abnormal. I have a psychological necessity that makes me want to rise superior to my handicap. It drives me into the field exclusively held by the unaffiicted. I strive to become perfect in the very department I am least fitted for. I could sit in my room and study. I could become a scholar. I could devote my life to study; but there would always be the crutches in the corner.
I have always sought success in those spheres that are supposed to be closed to us. I pursue women … and here, where success is valued among men, I strive the hardest.
Am I seeing in every woman a challenge to my self-esteem? Am I developing into a woman-obsessed, would-be Casanova subconsciously, doubtful of my virility and striving to vindicate it by demonstrating its existence in a feverish search for conquests? Surely not. Say a gladiator, rather, poorly armed, but choosing to pick the opponent that offers the most formidable opposition, in order to preserve his pride in himself.
The accountant smiled, thin-lipped, and lifted his shoulders.
On with the fight. No matter the explanation. Never become beaten. The fewer men the greater share of honour, the greater the handicap, the sweeter the victory.
I’ll take that girl out.
The three of them sat at Fulsham’s table. The accountant arranged papers before him. Mr Fulsham leant back in his chair watching him. Miss Claws, on Fulsham’s right, gazed frowningly at her finger nails. She rubbed them on her sleeve, then looked at them again. She suddenly rested her hands on her lap and gave her attention to the two men. She did not remain thus for long. She glanced at her dress, then down at her legs. She crossed her legs. When she raised her head her expression was less petulant. She had walked into the office that afternoon and enquired from the accountant: ‘Is Mr Fulsham in?’ She had sat with Fulsham in his office, arguing and sometimes weeping. She had now reached a stage of calm confidence. Her eyes were still a little red.
‘Clynes is a long time,’ said Fulsham.
‘The consol broke down. He won’t be long,’ said the accountant.
They waited.
There was a knock. Clynes walked in. The accountant pushed a chair towards him.
He sat down opposite Miss Claws. ‘We’ve got it going.’
‘Good,’ said Fulsham. ‘Now, Mr McCormack.’
The accountant drew his chair closer to the table. ‘I will leave the details of this report till later, when we can discuss them separately’, he began. ‘The result, however, emphasises the increasing seriousness of the position. We have discussed the actual figures at previous meetings, so it is unnecessary to go into all that again. You will remember we decided to see if this month showed any improvement. It has not. The position is worse. We have now reached the stage where it is either a matter of increasing prices, which brings us above the price range of our competitors, or reducing manufacturing costs, which may affect our quality. In any case, there will have to be drastic cuts in overhead if we wish to survive. Our overhead over the last six months worked out at one and sixpence per pair, and we’ve been allowing ninepence. At the rate we are going, we will be bankrupt in six months.’
He stopped and looked at Fulsham. There was silence.
‘What are the wages?’ asked Fulsham.
‘Three eighty.’
‘And the output?’
‘Two thousand five hundred.’
‘The wages are too high altogether. There is something wrong there, Clynes.’
‘That figure includes salaries too, doesn’t it?’ asked Clynes, significantly, of the accountant.
‘Yes,’ said the accountant. ‘It is the total amount paid each week, though, of course, all salaries go to overhead in the books.’
‘We must reduce our hands,’ said Fulsham, impatiently. ‘Let us start at the clicking room. Give the room’s output, then name the employee. Those we keep on will have to be speeded up.’ He addressed Clynes: ‘You are not getting the work out of them you should. You can decide which ones are to go off, but the output must be kept at its present figure. Now, Mr McCormack.’
The accountant took the wages book. He commenced reading a list of names. After each name he paused, looking at Clynes. Clynes fidgeted. ‘Here, I’ll do it,’ said Fulsham, exasperated. The accountant continued. Fulsham signified those to be discharged by calling, ‘out’. The accountant recorded the name on a slip of paper.
Miss Claws watched them with her chin on her hands.
‘Douglas, four pounds one,’ read the accountant.
‘That’s the man who spoilt those silver kid shoes, Mr Fulsham,’ said Miss Claws.
‘He’s a good man,’ snarled Clynes. ‘He wasn’t the only one to blame for that lot.’
‘Put him off,’ said Fulsham.
A smile touched the accountant’s lips.
When they had finished he looked at the list a little grimly. There’ll be some weeping wives this week. He handed the list to Clynes in silence.
‘We want more machines,’ reflected Fulsham, aloud.
‘We haven’t got the capital,’ said the accountant.
‘Overhead, now,’ said Fulsham. ‘What expenses do you think could be cut?’
‘Motor expenses for a start. The running of the cars is costing us twelve pounds a week at present.’
‘What else?’
Clynes shuffled petulantly.
‘There is too much waste in the factory,’ continued the accountant. ‘I notice that leather has been purchased for which we have no need.’
‘For instance?’
‘Those hundred and fifty crocs; that consignment of gold kid; that lot of Garagoya lizards — practically all wasted. We haven’t got the money to speculate on uncertainties.’
‘They’re all good lines,’ broke in Miss Claws. ‘Look at the prices we get for them, Mr Fulsham.’
‘Yes, but how many do you sell?’ asked the accountant.
‘We’re selling a lot,’ she snapped at him.
‘The dockets don’t show it.’
She was silent, fuming.
Clynes couldn’t suppress it. ‘Miss Claws asked for that lot of leather. Now it’s lying idle.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘This is not going to get us anywhere,’ growled Fulsham. ‘It will have to be made up and jobbed out if we can’t get the price. Put on an order for a range in each lot, Miss Claws. Try them out in Camberwell. Andrews will move them if anyone can. He is a star.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Clynes, afraid of his remark, but forced to express the general resentment smouldering in him.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He is always picking faults with our work ‘
‘I think you over-value your work.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’ His tone was irritating. ‘I’ve got eyes.
I’ve seen other work. He doesn’t try to push our best shoes. He sells the cheaper stuff. It’s easier.’
‘That’s just what he doesn’t do. You concern yourself with the factory management,’ Fulsham said angrily. ‘Andrews is all right. His complaint about your finish was justified. Look at this finish,’ he took a shoe from the table beside him. ‘That’s one of Wiley and Hales. That’s the finish I want.’
‘I’ll tell you how to get that finish,’ said Clynes, sitting forward. ‘Fine kid. What’s more, I’ll make a pair and show you.’
‘I don’t want to see one pair made from the pick of the skin. I want all our shoes to have that finish. We want a man that knows something, over the cleaning room.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone that can get these results.’
‘What do you mean, results?’
‘Get that finish,’ roared Fulsham, banging the table.
‘I’m telling you I know how they get it. Finer kid. If you will cut up rotten kid, you’ll never get the finish. If I bring up a higher lustre on our stuff it will crack. That’s the trouble with dressings; they always crack. Creams sink into the leather, but don’t bring it up as well. You can do it with fine kid, but coarse kid wears better. If you will only use fine kid I could back it with swansdown.’
Fulsham drew a breath. He tapped the shoe with a threatening finger and said, ‘You will get that finish or I will find someone who will.’
Clynes gathered himself to reply.
‘Now about these expenses,’ said Fulsham to the accountant.
The accountant continued reading his list.
‘Well, see that those cuts are made,’ said Fulsham, later. ‘Is there anything else before I go?’
‘There are the final reports from the Justice Investigation Company on their last visit to our Richmond shop,’ said the accountant, ‘It bears out the results of their earlier visits. I’ll give you a summary of their findings.’
The accountant spread a large document before him. It bore provision for a detailed description of the salesman or woman who had served the investigator with shoes. The employee’s manner and sales ability were commented on: the conversation that occurred between them was given, and, finally, a list of the footwear purchased with prices paid was detailed at the foot of the form.
The Justice Investigation Company guaranteed to reveal any defalcations of cash in the shops they were commissioned to visit and also to supply proof of the dishonesty of the persons responsible. For this they charged five guineas for every shop investigated, with a proviso that they were to be paid fifty per cent of any stolen money refunded by those they proved guilty of thieving.
The shoes and other articles they purchased on their visits were returned to the head office, together with the dockets made out for their sales. In cases where no docket was supplied, the omission was noted in their report.
The document before the accountant described a ‘dark, energetic man,’ with a ‘blue tie, tidy appearance and hair brushed straight back.’
‘That’s Carlson,’ said Miss Claws, excitedly. She leant forward in her chair.
The accountant continued reading. The salesman’s manner was described as ‘casual’, and it was noted that he ‘gazed at his finger nails’, while the investigator was trying on a pair of shoes. His conversation was recorded.
On one visit, a docket was given with the purchase. On another, no docket was made out for the boots obtained. A third visit resulted in a docket for a pair of slippers bought, but a jar of cream purchased at the same time was not shown with the other entry.
‘I have checked the sales lists handed in by Carlson each day,’ continued the accountant, ‘and find that, on the first day, the investigator visited him, his return shows a shortage of ten shillings; on the next day, a shortage of fifteen and six, and, on the third day, a shortage of a shilling.’
The accountant pushed the form to one side and addressed Fulsham. His voice was fuller. It shook a little.
‘Now let me tell you how that shortage came about. Carlson has kept that money,’ he thrust his head pugnaciously forward, ‘but our method of detecting it is equally as dishonest as his crime in keeping it. I have made enquiries around the shops we are paying them to visit, and their methods are always the same. Take this case. On the first day, the investigator buys a pair of shoes for two pounds, and the return for that sale, handed in by Carlson shows it at thirty shillings — a difference of ten shillings. The correct price of that shoe is thirty shillings. The investigator knows that. He knows it is the most expensive man’s shoe we have, but he keeps asking, “Haven’t you got a more expensive pair?” Not a better pair, mind you; but a more expensive pair. Since it is our policy to encourage the taking of “overs” from innocent customers,’—he looked at Miss Claws — ‘You will recollect that all your girls are paid commission on the amounts they obtain over the listed price. Since it is our policy to encourage this, Carlson gets another pair of the same line and tells him it is a better quality shoe for two pounds.
‘The investigator snaps it and Carlson keeps the extra.
‘On the second visit, this thief discoverer won’t wait for a docket. No, he hasn’t got time. “I don’t want a docket, thanks. I must catch a train.” So Carlson finds himself with fifteen and six in his hand and no record of it. He keeps it.
‘On the third visit, Carlson makes out a docket for the slippers. The investigator rises to go but he suddenly thinks of creams: “Oh! I forgot. A couple of jars of cream.” He doesn’t wait to have them added to his docket and Carlson pockets the shilling.
‘Carlson is dishonest. I cannot excuse him for that. But we are equally to blame. We encourage it. We encourage them to get more for their shoes than their list price, and we expect them to hand the proceeds of the robbery to us. What can you expect?’
The accountant gestured with an open hand and sank back in his chair.
‘I think it’s awful,’ burst in Miss Claws. ‘Thieving like that. We’ll sack him. You can’t trust anybody.’
Fulsham was gazing at the accountant.
‘I don’t like your tone, Mr McCormack,’ he said.
The accountant looked up and said, dryly, ‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘You will have to be careful,’ went on Fulsham.
‘Yes, I will,’ agreed the accountant, pleasantly.
‘You go round the shops this afternoon, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pick up Carter from the Swanston Street shop and bring him out to Richmond to take over. Put Carlson off straight away. Get him to sign a declaration stating the amount he has stolen since we have employed him. Arrange for him to pay it back. If he refuses to sign or admit to other thefts, put it in the hands of the police.’
‘Well, that’s the lot, I think. You can go — wait here, Miss Claws.’
‘I’m going to sack Carlson,’ said the accountant.
Miss Trueman raised her head. She looked out of the window in silence.
‘You checked all those dockets again, didn’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, now he’s for it, poor beggar. I’ll be in Swanston Street for a while. Ring the shop there if you want me.’
‘What will you say?’
‘Say! What will I say. He’s a thief, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose he is, but he is not, really. How many men could resist keeping an “over” now and then?’
‘Not many. I suppose they think they have as much right to it as the firm. Where is my damned case?’ The accountant’s nerves were on edge.
Miss Trueman smiled at him. She handed him the case which had been lying beneath her table.
‘Thanks,’ he grinned. ‘I hate sacking people,’ he explained.
‘Yes, it must be horrible. It should always be done sitting down.’
‘Why? How do you mean?’
‘Well, the one sitting always seems to have more authority. If I had to sack anyone, I’d do it first thing in the morning, and sitting down. When you sack them at night it seems as if it is impulsive; but first thing in the morning makes it look as though you have thought over it all night.’
‘Hm …’ pondered the accountant.
He looked thoughtfully at the picture of the Duke of Gloucester.
‘Yes. Well, I must be going. I’ll be back before five. Hoorroo.’
The accountant walked out to his car, whistling.
He drove down Hoddle Street. Cumulus clouds, riding fast, moved from behind factory roofs, following hard behind their fleeting shadows on the ground. A flight of pigeons wheeled high above his car, then dropped rapidly to the shelter of cramped sheds in damp back yards. A little dog on the curb stood motionless, ears pricked, one front foot raised, looking with interest at a dog on the opposite curb.
The accountant’s car sped between them. Behind him the little dog crossed the street, tail wagging.
A coatless man on a cycle pushed against the wind, his silk shirt sleeves fluttering in a blur of movement. He passed into the shelter of a factory. His sleeves hung loosely.
The accountant pressed the accelerator. He thought of the man he had to sack. ‘I’ll walk in unsmiling. I’ll walk straight to his office. He will be in the shop. As I get to the door I’ll turn, “Just a minute, Mr Carlson.” I’ll look steadily at him as he walks towards me. I’ll stand aside and let him enter the office first. I’ll push him a chair. “Take a chair Carlson.” I’ll look severe. I’ll take the dockets from my pocket. I’ll— (Carlson, once you gave me a bunch of flowers for my room. You had grown them yourself. We looked at them together. I was holding them.) I’ll look severe … I’ll …’
He pulled up to a policeman’s hand. I wonder whose boots he is wearing? If every policeman wore Modern Shoe Co’s three-deckers we’d be on velvet. He let in the clutch. He turned into Victoria Street.
In front of the Modern Shoe Company’s Swanston Street shop he stopped the car and alighted. People hurried past him as he stood on the curb … crowds of people. Women with bags, dragging tired children … men striding strongly. Now, through them to the door. The crowd broke each side of him as though he was stranded jetsam in a tide race.
He reached the door and entered the shop. Girls in green uniforms stood or knelt before seated people. They smiled at those they attended. When they turned away to reach for more boxes on the shelves behind them the smile had gone, and their faces were serious and sometimes tired. But when they turned and knelt again, the smile was there.
And Gerald Furness, the manager, strode to and fro and saw that the smile was there. And women stood up and pressed their foot on the floor and lifted their dresses with their hands and looked down at their foot and said ‘I don’t know, I’m sure …’
The accountant walked among them and entered the cash desk. A tall girl with light-brown hair rose from her stool, smiling.
She is beautiful, thought the accountant. He smiled to himself — they are all beautiful.
He said ‘I bring great tidings of good joy, or good tidings of great joy, or whatever you like.’
He took a number of coins from his pocket and placed them on the desk. ‘Three and four pence,’ he said, ‘and all British.’
‘Goody,’ said the girl bending forward eagerly and clasing her hands. ‘I think I’ve got three and fourpence.’
‘Let’s pray you have three and fourpence,’ said the accountant.
She took her bag from beneath the desk and searched. ‘Got it,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
The girl gave him the money, and taking the English coins from the desk placed them in her bag.
‘They are becoming harder to get,’ said the accountant. ‘Your dabbling in exchange will soon be over.’
‘I’m still getting about one pound’s worth a week here. The man in that little place in Bourke Street where I bring them, is beginning to know me.’ She reflected, then said, ‘Isn’t it funny how English money is worth more than Australian money?’
‘It is funny,’ said the accountant. He opened the drawer in her desk and seated himself beside her. ‘Now for the disclosure, he said.
He looked up into her grey eyes, and said, ‘After I count this and find out how much you have stolen, I will get you to sign a declaration, then I’ll bring in a policeman and accompany you as far as the jail. And I’ll visit you every Saturday afternoon and bring you flowers, and we will talk through bars, and you will clutch them-with both hands like they do in gangster pictures. How much have you stolen?’
‘Only £23 this week, kind sir,’ she said, twiddling her thumbs and hanging her head.
A girl at the window thrust through a docket wrapped round some silver.
‘Fifteen and six, sixteen shillings,’ she called.
The cashier pushed sixpence beneath the grill. The accountant flipped coins beneath his fingers. The cashier watched him. She wished to continue talking, but the accountant’s face was serious. He jotted amounts down on a slip of paper. He added them up and said ‘Okay. We won’t arrest you this week.’
He stood up and searching in his pocket drew forth a piece of unwrapped chocolate. He looked at it frowningly. ‘There seems to be more tobacco and fluff on it than usual,’ he said.
‘Yes, there does,’ she said, leaning forward and looking at it seriously. ‘I’m beginning to rather like your brand of tobacco though. It makes the chocolate hot.’
He handed it to her.
‘Good-bye, Coral Sanderson.’ They smiled into each other’s eyes.
‘Pass, friend,’ she said, standing aside.
He went into the shop and approached the manager. He said, briskly, ‘I want to take Mr Carter out to the Richmond shop, Mr Furness. He is to take over from Mr Carlson, whom I am dismissing. Can he come immediately?’
‘Certainly, Mr McCormack.’
Furness turned. ‘Mr Carter,’ he called.
A young man stepped forward from the men’s section.
‘Mr McCormack is taking you out to our Richmond shop for the time being. Get your hat and coat.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Carter left them.
The accountant sat in the car and waited for him.
He watched the people passing. He was moved by a desire to know them all. Behind each face was a life. He saw it as a large space from which branched many roads. Many roads behind their faces and all the roads were different and they spent their time walking up and down these roads which they knew so well.
No stranger saw these thoroughfares. They were hidden by their face, and they guarded them, and walked alone.
Yet sometimes they took a friend by the hand, and led him to and fro and showed him only that which they wished to see. But they always accompanied the friend upon their roads so the friend learned little of them or where they led.
Then the friend went back to his own roads to pace alone.
He would not stay upon the familiar roads behind his face. Never … He would go on and on, making new ones. He did not wish to return to the empty space from whence he started. He would walk on into the darknesses and forests that skirted the boundaries of his own roads. He would storm the fortress face of friends and with them stride the roads they trod alone. He would show them beauty in all their roads. He would never, never sit and dream in chosen spots behind his face. Always on …
Carter opened the door of the car.
‘Place my crutches on your left,’ said the accountant.
‘Good,’ said Carter.
They drove down Swanston Street in silence. Into Bourke Street — and groups of people standing in safety zones looking at them waiting for the green light. The accountant was glad he wasn’t walking, pushing through crowds. He felt tired.
In a short time he would be sacking Carlson. ‘We will not tolerate dishonesty, Mr Carlson. We trusted you. You have betrayed our trust’ — rot!
‘I am dismissing Mr Carlson this morning,’ he said.
Carter sat erect. ‘Oh yes, Mr McCormack.’
‘You will take over the management for the time being. If you can improve the figures the job is likely to be permanent.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr McCormack. You may be sure I will do my best.’
They entered the Richmond shop together.
Carlson advanced to meet them, smiling. He greeted the accountant with friendliness.
‘Wait here, Mr Carter,’ said the accountant. He beckoned Carlson to the cash desk. He entered the small enclosure and sat down. Carlson followed, his face serious.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
The accountant looking into his eyes, said gently, ‘Your cash has been short, Carlson, and I’ve brought another man out to take over.’
Carlson stood transfixed. He held his breath. His face was white and set.
The accountant went on.
‘We have paid investigators to visit each shop with the object of detecting thieving. They have been here. One of them bought a W.53 for two quid and you only handed in thirty bob.’
‘That is their correct price, thirty shillings,’ said Carlson quickly.
‘Yes,’ pursued the accountant, ‘but you received £2 for them. What happened to the other ten shillings?’
He took some dockets from his pocket. ‘There are some others …’
‘It’s all right. Don’t go on.’ Carlson’s voice was trembling. He lowered his head, looking at the floor. His arms hung loosely by his sides. ‘It’s so sudden.’ He was dazed.
The accountant was silent.
‘What will I do? I mean, do you think I could have another chance?’
‘They wouldn’t consider it,’ said the accountant.
Carlson bit his lower lip.
‘I’ll check up on your cash now, and then hand over to this chap. In the meantime write me out a declaration stating the total amount you have stolen since you have been in the firm’s employ, and sign it.’
‘What,’ cried Carlson wildly. ‘I haven’t stolen anything else.’ His fingers were clutching the air.
‘The management believes you have. They have instructed me to call in the police if you refuse to sign.’ His voice changed. He turned and faced the man.
‘I’m sorry, old chap, but you will have to do it. There is no alternative — except gaol, of course; and that’s unthinkable. I can’t say I blame you for this. How long has it been going on, anyway? Did you get away with a quid a week?’
Carlson sank into a chair. All his energy was gone. He looked around his shop as if he were already in gaol. ‘Hardly a quid. Fifteen bob, perhaps …’
‘Well, make it fifteen bob,’ said the accountant. ‘By the way, have you any money in the bank?’
‘No.’
‘Well, they won’t be able to get any from you. State you have taken fifteen shillings a week over the last ten weeks. I’ll fix the rest. They won’t force you to refund it. Couldn’t you go to another State for a while?’
‘I’m married.’
‘Oh! Well, anyway, sign a declaration.’
Carlson slowly picked up a pen. ‘What will I say?’
‘Oh! Just an admission. Put, “I, Rupert Carlson, hereby declare that I have stolen from my employers, the Modern Shoe Stores Proprietary Limited, an average of fifteen shillings per week over a period of ten weeks amounting in all to seven pounds ten shillings. Signed in the presence of, and so on. Something like that. I will witness your signature.’
Carlson began writing.
The accountant called in Carter and explained the handling of the cash.
When Carlson had handed him the completed form he signed it and said ‘Do you want a lift into the city?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Carlson vaguely. ‘Perhaps I’d better go into the City.’ He got his hat and coat.
‘Where shall I let you out?’ asked the accountant as they drove along Bridge Road.
‘Oh, anywhere.’
The accountant stopped his car in Swanston Street. Carlson alighted. He stood on the kerb, looking up and down the street as if lost.
‘Good-bye,’ called the accountant, ‘and good luck.’
Carlson did not hear him. He stood uncertainly on the edge of a stream of people, clasping and unclasping his hands.
The accountant looked at his watch. It was too late to return to the office. He pulled up in front of a Bourke Street cafe.
‘Herald?’
‘Yes.’ He alighted, and stood looking down at the newsboy.
The boy fumbled for change in a leather bag he had suspended from the strap embracing his neck.
‘Any news?’ asked the accountant.
‘They found the lady’s body that was murdered,’ said the boy.
‘Go on!’ exclaimed the accountant.
‘Yes. Her teeth gave the police the clue of it.’
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
He took the change and entered the cafe. He sat opposite a man leaning over a plate of soup. The man held a half-filled spoon suspended between the plate and his mouth. He looked intently at a spot on the table and moved his lips, tasting, as if to verify a doubt. He removed a bone from between his lips with his fingers. He raised his head and said ‘Good-day.’
‘Good-day,’ said the accountant.
A waitress came up smiling. ‘How are you today, Mr McCormack?’
‘Good, Violet.’
She swept crumbs from the space in front of him into her cupped hand. She moved a pot of mustard.
‘Well, what are you having tonight?’
He glanced at the menu. ‘Pea soup,’ he said.
‘It’s not bad,’ said the man grudgingly. He shifted his place and gazed at the paper open beside him.
‘France is twisting again.’
‘Is she?’
‘She runs with the hares and hunts with the hounds. She pretends to be with England yet she joins up with Russia.’
‘Well, England could do the same.’
‘What!’ exclaimed the man looking up. ‘Look, I know a chap — he’s a friend of mine — he drives a bus down Brighton way — and he said to me, he said — he reads a lot, this chap, and knows what he’s talking about — he said, “Believe me, Bert, the next war, we’ll be fighting with the Germans against the Russians, the French and the Italians.” And this chap’s well read, mind you. He knows a thing or two.’
‘He sounds rather intelligent,’ said the accountant, salting the soup the waitress had given him.
The man gazed sourly at the roast beef on the plate before him and commenced eating suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ he said, eating with more confidence. ‘You know what? There’s one country that’s a cancer upon the face of the earth. It’s the cause of all the trouble today. They’re in everything.’
‘Japan?’ ventured the accountant.
‘No. Japan’s our friend. Everyone tries to tell you they’re our enemy. They’re the best friend we ever had. No. It’s Russia. If I had my way, I’d put every Russian, man, woman and child, into a lethal chamber.’
‘Some chamber,’ murmured the accountant studying the menu. ‘Fried whiting,’ he said, smiling up at the waitress.
The man leant back and swung his arm as if sweeping every Russian from the earth.
‘I’d wipe the lot out. They’re the cause of all the trouble in the world. They’re no good. Didn’t they kill the Czar? Well, he was one of them. What did they kill him for? You see, they’re all crook. They’re run by low-down men. I’d do away with the lot.’
The accountant stirred and drew a breath. He suddenly relaxed and smiled. What would be the use …
He commenced eating his fish.
‘They’re like animals led by animals. They’ll wake up.’
‘Very interesting, very interesting,’ said the accountant, dryly.
‘We’re waking up too,’ said the man, ‘The Government’s waking up. They stopped a machine from coming in the other day which would have put fifty girls out of work — some sort of knitting machine. A friend of mine was telling me that there is a machine for making butter boxes … Now butter boxes don’t interest you or me.’
‘Not at all,’ said the accountant.
‘But they interest a hell of a lot. This machine is worked by two lads. All they do is place the boards on a flat plate and the machine turns out a butter box at the other end. It used to take seven carpenters to do the job that that machine can do. Now two boys do it. The machine shouldn’t be allowed.’
‘No, by jove, it shouldn’t,’ said the accountant, wondering whether to have sweets.
‘There is one way that this could all be cured.’
‘Good,’ said the accountant.
‘I’ve thought of it myself, but it would have to be done all at once. Every single man working in Australia should be given ten bob rise and at the same time interest on fixed deposits held by banks raised to five per cent.’
‘And encourage people with money to leave it in the bank?’
‘No. They would have the interest to spend. But it would all have to be done at once, mind you. Everybody would have to be given a ten bob rise straight away. Look at the money they’d spend! I’ve thought it out myself. I might be a fool,’ he added, smiling with
Self-satisfaction and leaning back in the chair, ‘but that’s my idea of a cure.’
‘Check, Violet,’ the accountant raised his hand.
‘No sweets tonight?’ she smiled, handling him his crutches which she had taken from against the wall.
‘No thanks.’
He took the slip of paper.
‘So long,’ he said to the man.
‘Don’t forget what I told you,’ said the man.
‘I’ll not forget it,’ said the accountant.