Short Story “MANAGING”

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume LXXXIII, Issue 19786, 9 March 1927, Page 7

Short Story “MANAGING”

( By Berenice Deacon)

Godfrey Palmer frowned at the papers on his desk. It is not all honey I being senior manager of a branch I house. Headquarters, as represented Ibv a board of amazingly efficient di- ! rectors, kept a very sensitive finger on ' the pulse of their' branches. Palmer bad to submit copious reports on ad matters, and in return received bnef instructions which must be obeyed unquestionably. Recent reports had revealed that tk*s particular branch was becoming rather an expensive limb on the old tree a useful one. even indispensable —but too expensive. Palmer received instructions to effect rigid economies. The particular economy which caused Palmer’s frown, was the injunetton to cut all “passengers” out of his payroll. He knew what that meant. Old Daniel Booth and Alice Trobe wuutd have to go. Booth was drawing 50s a week ror doing a bey’s work. He was a little wisp of a man, growing daily more crippled with rheumatism and less enpatle of canning his wages. Mrs Trobe was a plump little widow who looked after the firm’s diningroom, but as she also was growing infirm and short-sighted, most of ner duties had passed, one by one, inro more capable hands. She was paid 2bs a week for warming dinners and wasning a few dishes, and very often she burnt the former and broke the latter. Yes, undoubtedly, she must go too. Palmer interviewed the old people and finding they had no private source of income (although Booth owned the small cottage in which he lived) *e wrote a long letter putting their cases before tlje directors. A few days later tame their repiy. The man and woman were each to be

pensioned on 12s a week. Palmer i-e--alised that this was generous. The oid folk had no real claim on the firm, but that did not prevent him feeling rather a brute when he broke the news to them. Their reception of it was worse than he had expected. He told Mrs Trobe first, and she straightaway burst into tears. ’Twasn’t so much that she couldn’t manage on 12s. She’d done it before and could again, but she knew she’d go to pieces having no work to do, and it being so lonely at home. Palmer sympathised rather helplessly, and was relieved when she retired sonbing from the office. 1 He mopped his face and sent for Booth. Booth took the news even more hardly than the old woman. He hadn’t expected to retire for another five years at least. He declared pathet?cally that he was still hale and hearty, but at his age (62) he couldn’t hope to get another job outside. l*e wouldn’t know how to manage on 12s a week, and the only way out was to commit suicide. When Palmer protested at his cowaidice, Booth replied that he didn’t see that it mattered very much whether he was a coward oi not. He finally leTt the office nodding his head gloomily over his resolution. Palmer looked across at his assistant manager, Harding, who had been present in the background during the two interviews. “There now, what d’you think of that?” The young man whistled softly. “Poor beggars. They’re too old to work, but they’re also too old to adopt themselves to new conditions. But they haven’t to leave right away, have they?” “Not until the end of the month.” “Then that will give them time to get used to the idea. Anyhow, I hope so. The firm doesn’t want a broken heart and a cut throat on its conscience. ’ ’ 1 Though he talked thus flippantly, young Harding felt acute sympathy both for Palmer and the old people, and for. the rest of the day wore a worried frown on his usually cheery face. Harding was very popular m the works, and quietly exercises a good ‘ deal of influence among the employees. i The next day he went in search of I Booth and had a long chat with him. i When the old man reiterated his threat iof committing suicide. Harding laughjcd and clapped him on the bac?c. • ‘‘You’re not the man I take you for, ?f i you do that,” he said bracing#,’. ‘‘Your number’s not up just yet. Why, jin six months time you’ll look back i and wonder what on earth made you ; think of such a thing. You’re going ! to be quite a comfortable old pen- : sinner. ’ ’ ' “On twelve shillings a week?”

“Yes. You have your cottage, haven’t you? There will be. no rent to pay, and it’s surprising how far : twelve shillings will go, even in these • days. Come, let’s make out a budget ; for you,” and producing a pencil and , paper, he made a list of a week-s I necessities, even including such minute items as salt and pepper. showing Booth how, by careful management, he could save over a shilling a week for tobacco and extras. In spite of himself, Booth grew interested, and even suggested cuts where Harding seemed to bp over-esti-mating the quantities of things he would need. “I never thought of working it out like that,” he admitted. “It looks more than it sounds.” Satisfied with having got the old man to face things, instead of treating it all as a nightmare, Harding left him with a half-playful advice that, if he were still doubtful about being able to- manage, the best thing to do would be to look out for a lonely widow with a little income of her own, who might be willing to enter into partnership with him. Next he sought Mrs Trobe. He found her washing down a table ancr looking very down in the mouth over it. She looked up with a faint smile when he came in. “1 shan’t be doing this much longer, I suppose?” “No, you’re going to bo a lady of leisure,” retorted Harding, smiling. “I don’t know what I shall do with myself all day,” said the old woman. “ i’ve been used to working all my life.” “Then it’s time you took things a bit easier.” said Harding. “D’you mean to tell me you won’t enjoy siting in an armchair, or going out for a stroll whenever the weather temprs you?” “I shall be too lonely to enjoy it,*” said the old woman sadly. “I’m alone here, but there’s always people a-com-ing and going, like yourself, sir, that helps to pass the time.” “I see what’s th e matter with you,” said Harding. “You want another husband . Don’t you know of any nice old pensioner who would be glad of a w’ife to look after him, a wife with twelve j shillings of her own. too. Why, I should I think they’d be falling over each i other. ’ ’ i “Go along,” said Mrs Trobe laughing. “I’m too old to think of such a I thing.” ■ “Not a bit of it” said Harding, going to the door. “There’s no age limit I nowadays. ’ ’ ‘ A few days later old Daniel Booth hobbled into the diningroom with brushes and a pot of green paint. 1 “I’ve to paint this woodwork before I go.” he said to Mrs Trobe. “Mr Harding says it’s in a shockin’ state, and so ’tis. You 've fair scrubbed all : the colour off it. ’ ’ i “I ’aven’t scrubbed it for a long time,” said Mrs Trobe. “It’s the i young girls they sends in to clean the ■ place. I expect they ’ll scour it to pieces when I’m gone. ’ ’ “You going on the thirtieth, too?” ! 4 4 Yes,’’ said Mrs Trobe shortly, and I turning away mopped her eyes with the corner of her apron. Old Booth sighed I and bent to stir his paint. Growing old ■ is a hopeless business when nobody i wants you any more. 1 “How d’you think you’ll manage on twelve bob a week?” he asked prej sently. “Oh, I kin manage all right,” said Mrs Trobe proudly. “I could manage on ten or even nine shillings, but it’s the thought of having nothing to do and nobody to see that’s worrying

tl l never thought of that,” said old Booth. “It’s going to be mighty lonely. I’v e told the bosses that I’ll put an end to mcself, and I daresay that’s what it will come to. ’ ’ “Daniel Booth, I’m surprised at you!” exclaimed Mrs Trobe horrified. “I didn’t think you was so wicked.” “I don’t see any need to call it wicked,” muttered old Booth. “It’s just pushin ’ off when nobody wants you any more. ’ ’ “That’s a cowardly way of looking at it,’’ said Mrs Trobe stoutly. “I know I grumble about loneliness, but before I’d commit suicide over it, I’d go into the workhouse.” Old Booth looked very impressed by Mrs Trobe’s courage, and as he set about his work, eyed her curiously from time to time. Later in the day young Harding burst into the diningroom. “Well, how are you getting on with the painting, Booth? Good, half done already. I was afraid Mrs .Trobe might hinder you with her gossiping. She doesn’t often get nice young man in here to spend the day with her, do you, Mrs Trobe? I’m not sure I oughtn’t to send in somebody to play gooseberry,” he laughed. Then without waiting for them to voice their protests, he was gone again out another door into the works. “Young Mr Harding do love his joke,” said Mrs Trobe. “Yes,” agreed Booth absentmindedly. “He’s a cheery sort.” Then he thoughtfully resumed his painting, but with a brightness in his eyes that had not been there ten minutes before. The job of painting the diningroom was not completed as rapidly as it had been begun. Booth knew that, under the circumstances. Mr Harding would be the last to object to his gossiping with. Mrs Trobe, and the old couple found that exchanging sympathy and advice heartened them v/onderfully. But at the most the job could only last two days, and Mrs Trobe was once more left to sigh in solitude. Two or three days before the thirtieth, when she was feeling particularly depressed, old Samuel Booth again hobbled into the dining-room. This tim e he carried a plane in his hands. “I gotta smooth off the forms and tables,” he explained. “ ’Fraid I shall be in your way a bit.” “I don’t mind that,” said Mrs Trobe. “It’ll be good to have someone to take my thoughts off myself for a bit. Being here alone I don’t seem able to do nothin’ but mope. I call it a bit of luck you having a job to do in ’ere.’’ Old Booth seemed gratified by his reception. “Well, I must say I wasn’t altogether sorry when the boss told me to come,” he admitted handsomely, and set about his planing with an air of one who had all eternity before him.

Mrs Trobe watched him at work with real admiration. In her eyes he seemed not only capable, but versatile, and conscious of the tribute paid, old Booth made use of flourishes and attitudes that weren’t at all necessary. When his eyes rested upon Mrs Trobe, they held just a glint of the all-conquering male. Harding came into the dining-room later in the day. “I’m afraid I’m making Booth a nuisance to you, Mrs Trobe,” he said jovially, “but I thought I must get these odd jobs done right away as he’s leaving this week, and I. can’t spare the other men for a bit.” “I’m afraid of the company,” said the old woman. “He don’t get in my way, not to be a nuisance.’’ “That’s all right then,” said Harding. He walked over to the fireplace. “Hello, this won't do, .you’re linoleum’s in holes. You’ll be tripping over it. I'll see if the carpenter can spare time to Jay a fresh piece.” “ ’Scuse me, sir, but if the carpenter’s busy, 1 could lay a bit of linoleum,” offered Booth. “But can you kneel about the floor with your rheumatics?” “They ain’t so bad as they might be.,” said old Booth promptly. “I think I can manage a little job like that. ’ ’ “Good,” said Harding. “Then you’d better get right on with it when you’ve finished the forms. You’ll find some linoleum to match this in the store-room. ’ ’ He moved towards the door, then turned and spoke over his shoulder. “It looks to me, Mrs Trobe, as if you’ve entertained your young man so well, he doesn’t want to leave you in a hurry. ’ ’ Then having noticed how self-con-sciously the two looked at each other, he opened the door and went chuckling into the factory. The following Tuesday morning he buist into Palmer’s office with unceremonious haste. “I say, old chap,” he exclaimed. “Booth has committed suicide.” Palmer sat up with a jerk. “He has?” “Yes—plunged into the spa of matrimony, Register Office yesterday. Sorry if I scared you, old man, but 1 couldn’t resist the joke.” “You blighter! But who has ho married ? ’ ’ “Mrs Trobe.” “Great Scott! I’d no idea. . . ” “Of course not. It was all my idea,” said Harding, preening himself. “This past month I’ve been working at i matchmaking as desperately, as a i mother with six plain daughters. The I result does me credit. ’ ’ !■ “It does,” said Palmer heartily, and Arising from his chair he slapped the I younger man on the back. “Your '‘mariage de convenanee’ lifts a weight > off my mind, Harding.”