The accountant was alone in the office when he entered. He bowed rather formally and held out his hand. ‘How are you, Sir?’
The accountant, looking at him, said, ‘Good.’
He was a middle-aged man and wore a stiff collar and a black tie. His face was braced with deep wrinkles. His nose looked as if it had been placed on the wrong type of face, and this injustice had so soured it that it drooped in perpetual melancholy.
He said, ‘I have some literature here that might interest you.’
He spread circulars and printed matter on the table and bending over them peered through his glasses seeking impressive extracts.
The accountant, resting his elbows on the table, thought, another crank.
The man looked up, his head bent so that he could see above his glasses, and said, ‘I represent a movement for sterilisation of the physically and mentally unfit. Voluntary sterilisation, of course — for a start, anyway.’
The accountant’s chin dropped. He sat suddenly forward. Then a delighted smile spread over his face. ‘Ha! Nemesis,’ he exclaimed.
‘No. Sterilisation,’ explained the man.
‘Castration?’ the accountant queried, enjoying himself.
The man raised a shocked hand, blocking the accountant’s view behind a dry, white palm.
‘No. No. In sterilisation desire remains, but the power of procreation is removed. We do not advocate castration under any circumstances.’
‘Fine,’ said the accountant enthusiastically.
‘Now, just look here,’ said the man turning to his papers again.
The accountant took his crutches and went and stood beside the man. They both bent over the paper together.
‘Here,’ said the man, pointing, ‘is a press report of a meeting of delegates from women’s organisations. They decided by 114 votes to 23 to throw their weight whole-heartedly behind the movement.’
He turned with pride to the accountant. ‘What do you think of that?’
‘That makes me think a hell of a lot,’ grinned the accountant.
‘What’s more,’ continued the man confidingly, ‘I happen to know that several of these women have husbands who are physically unfit, which goes to show the sincerity of their convictions in supporting a movement which will entail sacrifice from themselves.’
‘I wonder do their husbands know anything about this,’ reflected the accountant.
‘Certainly. This is a question that should be looked at in a broad way.’
‘Very broad,’ said the accountant, lifting his armpit from his crutch in order to allow arrested blood to allay the tingling in his hand.
‘I have no doubt,’ pursued the man, becoming friendly, ‘that you have observed the type of children being bred in the working class suburbs.’
‘I have,’ said the accountant soberly.
‘Many of their fathers are unfit to have children. Diseased, crippled and imbecilic parents are breeding the future controllers of our country. Walk up the street in any working class suburb and what do you find? — Scores of children that should never have been born. And these, based on their rate of increase, will be our future statesmen.’
‘Then there is still hope for us,’ the accountant burst forth fervently.
He curbed himself with an effort, drew a breath and smiled.
‘So you want me to join your movement,’ he said. ‘Is that it?’
‘We want to get as many as possible interested. Here is a card and the dates of our next three meetings. You will be most welcome. I feel sure that once you have heard our speakers you will become as enthusiastic as I am. Now, I don’t want to keep you away from your work. Thank you, Sir.’
The accountant, leaning heavily on his crutches and holding the little, white card, watched him enter his car and drive away.
It was pay day. The noise of the factory took on a new note. The faces before the black machines smiled more readily. The aches and pains of toil became more bearable.
The workman who had accompanied the accountant to the bank, placed the leather bag on the table.
‘Thanks, Shorty.’
The accountant took a revolver from his pocket and laid it on the table beside Miss Trueman.
The workman went into the factory.
‘That gun will go off some day,’ said Miss Trueman, looking sideways at the revolver.
‘Well, let us hope we are not in front of it when it does,’ said the accountant, drawing a chair besides her.
He opened the leather bag. It was packed with tied bundles of notes and brown paper bags full of coins. He began transferring them to the table. Miss Trueman took the notes and, untying the bundles, began counting them. The accountant emptied each bag of silver and flicked the coins beneath his fingers. He placed the coins in little piles before him.
They talked as they worked.
Clynes entered and dialled a number of the phone. He listened to their conversation. He would have stopped them from talking. He disliked the friendliness of their words.
The office staff, being controlled by the accountant, and their activities beyond his province, thwarted Clynes’ will to power. He sat behind bars fuming at imagined privileges bestowed upon them, and embittered by his impotence to rouse in them a fear of his authority.
He began speaking on the phone regarding a breakdown of one of the machines.
‘You know where you turn that thing to regulate the stitch. The thing comes out. Leila Hale, the girl working it, says you fixed something inside the other day. — Yes. That’s right. — The arm at the side. We can’t do anything with it. — I see. — On top of the arm. — Undo it a shade. Good. — Thanks.’
He did not leave the office. He stood biting his underlip and watching the accountant and Miss Trueman.
They ignored him. They continued talking.
He sat down at a table near them. He felt that they would rather he left the office, and it pleased him to stay, knowing that his presence hindered their conversation.
He moved papers with his hands and looked frowningly at a mixture of figures on a scrap of paper. He worked unnecessary subtraction sums, then pushed the paper away from him as if the answer supplied information which he wished to know.
The accountant, feeling the insincerity of Clynes’ actions, moved restlessly. He turned and looked full into the eyes of the manager.
Clynes immediately addressed Miss Trueman. ‘Did you include the watchman’s wages in these figures you gave me?’ He held up a piece of paper.
Miss Trueman hesitated. She looked surprised. She gave him the figures each week. The watchman’s wages were always included.
‘Oh, yes!’ she said. ‘Yes. Of course.’
Clynes put a large tick on the paper with his pencil and put it in his pocket.
He placed his hands on the edge of the table preparatory to rising, and looked over it in a final survey as if at the conclusion of a satisfactory investigation.
He left the room.
Miss Trueman with raised brows and an amused expression glanced at the accountant. He nodded his head understanding and went on counting.
Miss Trueman began writing the names of employees on small, oblong envelopes. Beneath the name she wrote the amount of wage they were to receive which she copied from the wages book.
A young man entered the office from the street, and stood self-consciously before the counter waiting to be questioned.
Miss Trueman turned and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Can I get Nancy Robinson’s stamp tax?’ he asked, ‘You know, the stamps you put in little books.’
Miss Trueman rose. ‘Has she left here?’
‘Yes. Four months ago.’
Miss Trueman took a bundle of note books and placed them on the counter before him. She went through them glancing at the names written on their covers.
‘Do you remember her?’ asked the man.
‘Yes, I think I do,’ Miss Trueman replied. ‘She worked in the machine room, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. She had a baby daughter, yesterday.’
‘Go on! Did she? That’s lovely.’
‘Yes.’ The man was smiling happily. ‘Yes.’
Miss Trueman handed him the book.
‘Yes.’ He hesitated, standing awkwardly as if he had more he wished to communicate.
He turned to go. ‘Yes. We had one yesterday,’ he said in happy confession.
‘Decent chap, isn’t he?’ remarked the accountant as Miss Trueman returned to her chair.
‘He has got one of those manners that doesn’t like to disturb you, kind of, hasn’t he?’
‘That just describes him.’
‘They must be married.’
‘Yes.’
‘Aren’t men proud of their first baby?’
‘Yes, they seem to regard it as a personal achievement. How are we going?’ He picked up a bundle of the envelopes.
‘I’m on the last room now.’
‘Darn it. More interruption. What is it?’ he asked the girl at the door.
‘I’ve called for my wages,’ she said. ‘I was put off yesterday.’
‘The wages won’t be ready for an hour yet. Could you call back?’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘All right. What is your name?’
‘Jean Champion.’
The girl was fourteen years old. She had started work at the factory the day before but, proving unsuitable, had been put off. It had been her first job. She was excited at the thought of the money she was to receive. She leant against the wall of the passage quite content to wait. She thought of all the beautiful things you could buy with money. She saw herself in beautiful clothes like Jean Harlow.
She looked down at herself. Her large young breasts thrust the tweed material of her beltless dress away from her body so that it hung suspended like a bag. Dirty stockings loosely wrapped her legs. Creases spiralled from her ankles to her knees. Her shoes were worn and misshapen. She changed her position frequently, but there was no impatience in her movements. She did not mind waiting. She was about to receive her first wages.
At the end of an hour the accountant rose and handed her an envelope.
On it was written, ‘Jean Champion. 3 hours. 1/1.’
She smiled happily and left him, the envelope clutched in her hand.
In the afternoon the accountant drove round the chain of stores paying the employees their wages. He checked the cash held by each manager with the duplicates of their sales dockets, and questioned them as to the movement of various lines.
In the cash desk of the Swanston Street store Coral Sanderson smiled and made room for him on the chair beside her.
‘Bad news, Mr McCormack,’ she whispered. ‘The axe is about to fall.’
‘Where did you hear this?’
‘Miss Claws told one of the girls.’
‘Have you any idea when you are to be put off?’
‘Next Friday, I think.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do much about it,’ said the accountant rubbing his chin and frowning at the desk. She controls the shops. It looks as if you will have to find another job.’
‘It certainly does.’
‘Now let me think what we can do.’ He rested his forehead on the heel of his hand.
‘Work is so hard to get,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated.
‘What about a sales girl’s job.’
‘Fine.’
‘Look. I know a man who runs a frock shop in Collins street. He is a Jew and a fine fellow.’ The accountant sat upright and continued enthusiastically. ‘He is a friend of mine. I’ve got a great idea.’
Coral faced him eagerly. ‘What is it?’
‘I will write him a note which you can deliver. I will ask him to give you a job as sales girl in his shop. He employs quite a number. I am sure he will. Have you got some notepaper?’
Coral opened a drawer in the desk and began searching.
‘Wait until you have been put off before going up to see him. Put on your best frock and go up on Monday.’
The accountant took the paper she handed him, and, after a preliminary stroke of the pen, began writing.
Dear Sol,
Here is one out of the box. Can you give her a job? If you do I will promise never to offer you another supper of pork and beans as long as I live. Put her on and your business will progress in leaps and bounds. In fact, I will bound in myself and buy a frock.
Have I ever asked you to do anything for me before? Yes. Lots of times. Have you ever refused? No. Never. Will you refuse this time? Certainly not.
I will be up to see you one day next week. How is Jean ?
Rod.
‘Now an envelope,’ requested the accountant.
Coral handed him one. He addressed and sealed it.
He gave it to her, ‘That should do the trick.’
She held it in her hand. ‘You are good to me.’
He laughed and said, ‘Tut. Tut.’
‘I think we should write to each other after I leave here, don’t you?’
‘I think so too,’ he said. ‘If I don’t see you again before you are put off drop me a line and let me know how you get on with Sol — he is the man who owns this frock shop. Then I will answer it. Then you will answer that. Then neither of us will be able to stop and we will go on and on and on … And I will have piles of your letters tied together with blue ribbon, and you will have piles of mine tied with red tape. And we will keep them in boxes beneath our beds and read them at nights. I think it is a great idea. I will buy some blue ribbon this afternoon.’
She rubbed her hands together gleefully. ‘I hope I am put off tomorrow. I am anxious to start.’
‘Well, let us do some work and make the time pass quickly. What about your cash? Are your dockets ready for me to check? I haven’t got any English money for you today,’ he added.
‘I only received a few pennies myself this week.’ said Coral, opening the till. ‘They are becoming scarce.’
After the accountant had checked the cash with the dockets, he rose and fumbled in his pocket. He drew forth a piece of chocolate which he placed on the desk with a smile.
Coral took it and looking into his eyes, raised it in the gesture of one proposing a toast before placing it between her clean, curved lips.
The accountant left her and sought the manager. He was sitting in a small office in the corner of the shop.
The accountant said, ‘There are one or two points about the wages I want cleared up.’
‘Yes, Mr McCormack.’ Furness rose and placed a chair beside the table. ‘Sit down.’
‘Thank you.’ The accountant placed a package of wage envelopes on the table, and seating himself, referred to a slip of paper he had taken from his pocket.
‘About the “spiffs.” The management is disturbed over the increase in the amounts being paid to the girls. I notice two girls here earned over ten shillings each for the week in this way.’
‘You know the system, Mr McCormack. I place red stickers on the boxes of all inferior or damaged shoes, and give sixpence to each girl who sells them at the price prevailing for the undamaged ones. Now lately, many shoes have been sent 111 from the factory with uppers of a most inferior grade. Many are damaged — knife cuts, broken stitching … Customers notice these things. I have a range of white buck ties here made of leather that won’t last a week. It takes a good girl to sell those shoes at the price asked for the original higher grade. I have been training my girls to get rid of the bad stuff first. We can’t afford to be left with a stock of inferior footwear. The only way to do it is to offer the girls an incentive to try and pass the damaged and inferior shoes on to the customer. They get paid to do this and it is marvellous how they succeed. I have two girls here who never sell a customer a good shoe. That is why their wages have gone up. If we didn’t do this, what would happen? The girls would concentrate on selling the faultless lines because it is easier and we would be left with a stock of worthless shoes that in the end would have to be jobbed out at a sacrifice …’
‘I see,’ said the accountant quietly. ‘Now what about the “Overs”? One of the girls has earned a pound extra in this way.’
‘Well, the “overs” scheme was introduced by Miss Claws following the lead of other Melbourne retail shoe stores.’
‘I am well aware of that; but what I want to know is how this girl,’ he tapped an envelope, ‘came to earn a pound in this way. It is the amount I am questioning.’
‘Well, that girl is our star sales girl. I trained her myself. She often sells shoes at half a crown over their listed price. For that she gets sixpence. Those she sells for five shillings over, she gets one shilling, and so on. Last week she sold two pairs of shoes for a pound over the correct price. She got eight shillings out of that deal.’
‘A pound over!’ exclaimed the accountant.
‘What was the correct price of those shoes?’
‘Well, they were a couple of pair of samples that came from the factory to be sold at twelve and sixpence.’
‘And she sold them for thirty-two and sixpence?’
‘That is right.’
‘What type of person bought these shoes?’
‘Oh! two women who wanted something exclusive. The leather in the shoes was good. We brushed them up a bit and they were perfectly satisfied.’
‘Don’t you think such a scheme encourages the girls to be dishonest?’
‘Not at all, Mr McCormack. The girls here would never think of keeping any of the “overs” they receive.’
The accountant moved impatiently. ‘Not that.’
‘The paying of a percentage on “overs” encourages the girls to be honest,’ pursued Furness. ‘They know that for every ten shillings extra they obtain, they be paid two shillings. The firm never loses anything by theft under this scheme.’
‘No the firm doesn’t lose anything,’ said the accountant.
‘Quite right, Mr McCormack. I have trained all the girls here to be strictly honest in their dealings with the firm.’
On Saturday morning the accountant received a letter:
Station Street,
Ivanhoe,
Friday Night.
Dear Mr McCormack,
Do you remember that line, ‘They buried him darkly at dead of night,’ or something to that effect? Well, that was something the way I felt, only ‘wuss’ when Miss Claws arrived last night and asked me to come into the office.
I knew what she was going to say but it made me feel very bad just the same. She was very nice about it — practically purred — said she wanted me to take a month’s holiday, etc. I was quite charming and asked if she would mind giving me a reference. She told me to call in on Monday. She also took my address and said she would write me when business brightened; but I feel certain that she promptly tore it up as soon as I left her.
Shouldn’t I get a week’s pay, being put off without notice? And besides that I have only been paid up to Wednesday and it is against my principle to work for nothing. Yet I don’t like to demand it as, you never know, they might want me back at the end of the month. However I am not worrying. I am becoming most excited over the thought of applying for your job.
I will miss you and the chocolate quite a lot. But there is still this deluge of letters from you to look forward to. How about beginning immediately?
Yours sincerely,
Coral Sanderson.