Читать книгу The Staff at Simson's - Frederick Niven - Страница 6

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The premises of John Simson were more or less of a common architectural standard. In that quarter were many kindred fronts, interiors, and rears. Facing the street was a row of wide, high windows, of opaque green glass half-way up and plain glass beyond. On the coloured portion of the most westerly window (which lit the bosses' private-room) was the name John Simson. On the next one (of the counting-house) was the word, Manufacturer. Then came the broad door that stood open, held so by a hook near the floor, when summer was over Scotland and even in Cochrane Street, through the smoke-canopy of that industrial city, the sun shone, laying gold-leaf on the chimney-pots, spreading radiance on the dark stone fronts, thrusting bright shafts into doorways and illuminating in pale yellow curves the arches under which lorry-men backed their horses over the cobbles. In winter, when the door was shut, flush to the street was the rubric painted across it:

JOHN SIMSON.

SHIRTINGS, WINCEYS,

FANCY GOODS, FLANNELETTES,

DRESS GOODS.

Eastward, beyond the entrance, were four more windows, three of these devoid of any lettering and then, on the last one, again John Simson. These were of the Shirtings department and behind the most easterly was the small office in which Tom Huntley wrote his letters to all the world, letters which the office-boy collected and carried away to copy in the old press, which was in direct descent, by its appearance, from the printing presses of Caxton and Gutenberg.

Entering Simson's one advanced along a corridor at end of which, to left, was a door labelled Office. Ahead was another, a swing door, reinforced at its base with a sheet of zinc, so that it could be kicked open by men carrying loads and with no free hand. Its upper part was of frosted glass, save for a disc left transparent in the centre, like a bull's eye, toward the avoidance of collisions there. Swinging that open, most of the warehouse was revealed in one comprehensive glance.

The Shirtings department, of course, was not visible. You had to turn to right, and to right again, to enter it, but otherwise the main warehouse was clear to view between stacks of cloth of many sorts, columns of winceys, flannelette and the rest, that seemed flimsily to aid the red-painted iron columns in sustaining the roof. Upon that floor stood a long counter (of the Fancy Goods department) with a gap for further progress at either end. At that counter, Mr. Maxwell, Corbett, and Johnny Leng, over their pattern and order-books, would look up without raising their chins to see who came when the door was opened. Beyond them were more stacks of "soft-goods."

On each side of that columned interior was a gallery. Broad flights of steps on either side led up to these, with strong metal balusters on which porters, carrying great loads on their shoulders, could lay a hand to aid their balance. When Tommy Bruce first saw the galleries they reminded him of pictures he had seen of oriental bazaars. In the gallery-recesses to left and right (right: Wincey and Flannelettes—left: Dress Goods) were more columns of cloth among which one could see the warehousemen at work, and hear them, too—hear the voices antiphonally intoning words and numbers as in some strange rite.

The whole place was roofed with glass. In centre was what at first sight seemed like an enormous vat of polished wood but, on advancing towards it, it revealed itself as what, in warehouse parlance, was "the well." Looking down there, one had a glimpse of the calender-man's bald head in a haze of fluff rising from some bolt of cloth quaking through his mangle-like machine. To left was a door leading into the receiving and despatching chamber where was a hoist that rose and fell by hydraulic power between that floor and the basement. A flight of stairs, there, also gave access to the basement—the packers' quarters and old Fenwick's. At the far end of that chamber heavy broad doors opened into the cobbled court, where the lorry horses tossed their nosebags and pigeons fluttered and pottered, pecking at the scattered dole, while loading or unloading was in progress.

In that rear court, into which the lorries backed with a great clash of iron-shod hoofs, when the bosses were out, employees "dying for a smoke" would sometimes stand for five minutes having a whiff of tobacco—for the head-packer would permit no one to come to his basement for that. He was king down there, and in direct Doric, or in what Dunbar called "our ancient Ingliss", if he smelt tobacco-smoke coming from the little room in the far corner, he would hammer on the door and tell whoever was inside what that place was for, and that it was "nae" smoking-room. In the packing basement were often little gatherings of the staff, especially of the juniors. Not by any means were these gatherings always in utter truancy; but when two or three happened to meet there while employed upon some rightful labour for which they were on the salary-list of John Simson, they might take a breathing-spell.

Such a breathing-spell was being taken on the day of this chapter by Dan Huntley, Bob Simson, and Arthur Laurie, to watch Duncan Ramsay at work. Over the base of the great press he had spread a length of sacking, and with Pringle and Scott handing him the bolts, or pieces, he had built a neat stack. All watched while he slipped the sacking-ends over the pile, drew it down, smoothed it with an occasional helping hand from his two assistants.

"That's fine. Now! An easy press!" he ordered.

Peter stepped to one side and began to turn the wheel, while all looked on anxiously or admiringly to see how the pile responded.

"Fine—not a sag anywhere," Duncan announced, and plunged to his desk for the big needles and twine.

It was at that stage that a sudden emotion of levity possessed the watching juniors. They began to jiggle this way and that, joggle one against another, each shooting out a hip as though in practice for the scrums of a football match. Ramsay stitched on, heedless of them, but anon, aware of their play, felt the grudge of a labourer against idlers—or they just fussed him, bothered him.

"It's a pity some of you lads have nae work to do," he growled.

Willie Scott, either in deference to his boss's mood, or to suggest that he was no idler, interjected an inquiry.

"What stencils do ye want?" he asked.

The young men became more ebullient, and plunged into one of the hilarious games of the "wareus," each making passes at the waistcoat of another in attempts to flip it open, or inserting quick crooked finger under a necktie, and twitching it out.

"Look out! I had a tie-clip! You've sent it flying somewhere!"

The fun grew wilder. To keep one's own waistcoat buttoned while yanking open others was the object of the hurly-burly. Footsteps on the stairs caused a lull, but they were only of the office-boy, bringing his brush-container (part of the outfit, now obsolete or antique, for copying letters) to fill it with water. The lull was but momentary. Whoops of renewed laughter sounded and echoed dully from the ceiling of that packing basement in Cochrane Street.

"Hie, you young devils," Duncan yelped, "dinna get in my way or I'll gie ye a slap with my stencilling brush."

Just then down came Maitland with quick clatter on the brass-edged steps.

"Hurry up, young fellow-my-lad," he called to the office-boy, "you're to go out. Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Gilmore both want you. It's urgent."

Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Gilmore—both! The young warehousemen let their play go. They, too, might be wanted upstairs. Dan Huntley, Bob Simson, and Arthur Laurie, buttoning their waistcoats, fled to their departments by different routes, for there were two other stairways besides the one from the chamber directly above. There was a flight of steps that came down from the Shirting department and another from the far corner of the warehouse under the Flannelette gallery, both of these to the calendering basement, which was connected by a doorway with the packing-room.

Tommy Bruce, spashing water from the filled container, hurried across the cemented basement, upstairs, and smartly into the office where were Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Gilmore in close talk.

"See here, Tommy," said the cashier, "Mr. Maxwell wants you to dash along to the Exchange and go in and ask for Mr. Simson, and see him, himself. Tell him from Mr. Maxwell that Mr. Sinclair, the Canadian buyer, is coming along in a few minutes. Give me that—give me that brush and water-contraption—I'll hang it up for you."

Only a day or two later that outing of Tommy's would not have been necessary. There were men then at work in the office installing that new-fangled thing, the telephone, their activities there making each member of the staff feel that he lived in progressive days of invention and discovery.

Tommy leapt for his cap. Just as he was going out into Cochrane Street, Wem Mackay was coming in. There seemed to be hilarity in the air that day. As they passed, Wem made a flick with right hand for Tommy's waistcoat, but Tommy, chuckling, held an arm across his breast and thus prevented the disturbance of his attire—unaware that that flick of the right hand had been just a feint to deflect his eyes from the flip of the other hand. The pinnacle of that fun had been achieved. His trousers had been snapped open in one deft movement, and away he went, unaware, to George Square and down Ingram Street, sartorially shocking, or amusing, according to the minds of those who observed. He wondered why two passing gamins yodelled at him. He wondered what a very old man meant by halting and pivotting to wave a stick at him and gibber some words.

"The old goat's mad," he surmised.

It was a fine day in Glasgow. The pavements were dry. A little wind stirred the dropped packing-straw at warehouse entrances. The harness of passing dray-horses shone. From Miss Cranston's tea-rooms came odours of tea and coffee, crumpets and buttered scones. The plate-glass windows shone like upright slabs of glare ice and reflected, as in a quick shadow-show, the people going past—there and gone. Preparations were being made for an imminent royal visit to the city, a royal procession. Lintels were being decked with bunting, flagpoles were being affixed to doorways. Municipal carts went heavily by laden with gravel to be strewn on some of the streets toward prevention of the downfall of caracoling horses.

Running across Queen Street towards the Royal Exchange, Tommy raised a group of grain-pecking pigeons. They swept over his head with their little "Ohs!" of alarm and flurry of wings, and flew, a pennant of blue, over the head of Marochetti's Wellington, dropping unconscious contempt on that warrior. Slowing abruptly from a run to a young man's business walk, as though subdued by the Corinthian dignity of the Royal Exchange, he entered its portals. Within a commissionaire with medalled breast challenged him.

"Yes, young fellow?"

"I want to see Mr. Simson—personally."

"Mr. Simson. You'll find him in there—in the second room, I believe. Knock before you go in. He may be in conference with other gentlemen. And here, wait a minute. Button up your trousers before ye gang in."

"O Lord!" gasped Tommy, and then, "Thank you," he said, and adjusted his dress, wondering how long he had been like that, and who was the culprit. Had it happened down in the basement? No, Mr. Maxwell or Mr. Gilmore would have noticed it in the office. Wem—that's who it was: Wem Mackay, when they met in the corridor.

There was something almost awe-inspiring about that interior. There was a cloistral quiet, a definite dignity. His footsteps, as he thrust open a door and passed into a tiled passageway, rang loud and he felt he should tiptoe. But he was in haste, for Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Gilmore had impressed upon him the need for haste. He came to the second door, knocked, and entered.

In the middle of a large and almost palatial room was a group of men—very old men they seemed to that stripling. They were city fathers. They were a yarn merchant (business acquaintance of his boss), a wine merchant (friend of his boss), a saltpetre merchant (another friend of his boss), men who came staidly and dignified into the counting-house to inquire, "Mr. Simson in?" and who, after conference in the private room, went out as though with high seriousness to make Glasgow flourish.

They did not hear Tommy enter. John Simson was there too, but he did not hear. They were milling and whirling and whooping with merriment, each trying to protect his waistcoat while he assaulted other waistcoats. A hat was knocked off in the scrimmage—his boss's, John Simson's. Tommy saw Mr. Mackenzie, the yarn merchant, flip at the necktie of Mr. Renfield, the very venerable saltpetre merchant.

"Excuse me, sir," he began, advancing on the mêlée.

They desisted. They looked at him in amazement, wondering where he came from, how he had sprung to life there. They buttoned their waistcoats, frowning severely at him. Mr. Simson retrieved his hat from the floor.

"What?" he rumbled, just that: "What?" violently.

"Excuse me, sir, but Mr. Sinclair, the Canadian buyer, will be at the wareus in a few minutes, and Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Gilmore think you ought—should—I mean, would like to be there when he arrives."

"All right," growled John Simson, looking as if he hated his office-boy.

Tommy wheeled to the door and held it open—and lo, just as his great boss turned from the group to follow, one of the old gentlemen made a pass at Mr. Simson's chest with one hand, a pass which was deflected with a hint of annoyance—the game being apparently finished—and with the other hand furtively achieved the pinnacle of that sport.

What was Tommy to do? Holding the door open, he wondered. No, he could not say, "Sir, you are undone." That, he felt, would be as much as his job would be worth, even though he was indentured for three years. The papers would be cancelled.

John Simson strode violently along the corridor and Tommy hurried alongside to open the next door for him, but the boss, forging ahead, opened it for himself, let it swing back against the boy and strode violently, like a colonel of foot leading a charge, past the commissionaire who came to attention and saluted, then looked at Tom in the rear and winked. That had been a curious and riotous conference!

Away along Ingram Street went John Simson on one side, and on the other his office-boy. Gamins yodelled at the great man, as he branged along, but he did not appear to observe them nor to hear them. He was annoyed that the office-boy had found out that the Royal Exchange was not always as serious a haunt as it looked. He hoped the confounded infant would not tell the news to the staff. Should he advise the boy not to say a word? No, let it go.

He was several laps ahead of Tommy at the door of the warehouse. Within, Mr. Maxwell, shaking hands with Mr. Sinclair, heard the masterful tread.

"Here's Mr. Simson now," he said. "I know his walk. He'll be delighted to see you."

The tread went into the office and halted there.

"Mr. Sinclair arrived?" John Simson asked.

"In the wareus, sir, in the wareus," replied Gilmore.

Into the warehouse, with a wide sweep of the door, went Mr. Simson and advanced on Mr. Sinclair, breezy, bonhomous, holding out his hand.

"How do you do?" he bellowed. "Delighted to see you again."

"Look at your pants," Mr. Sinclair commanded, with a pointing finger.

While that quaint meeting was in progress, Tommy Bruce, as though upon important business, dived swiftly behind some columns of cloth in search of Wem Mackay to give him, if he had a chance, one smite between the ribs for what he had done.