Deception and Desire (29 page)

‘I won't have a lot of newfangled working practices. Quality is our trademark.'

‘Quality need not be sacrificed.'

‘I have run this factory my way for nearly thirty years. It is doing very well the way it is, thank you.'

‘Well, we really should have another line,' Van said, changing tack. ‘ If the demand for safety footwear was to disappear we'd be finished.'

‘Tch! Working men will always need boots.'

‘Not to the same extent.' Van could feel himself losing patience. ‘It's no use behaving like a dinosaur. Can't you see times are changing? Men don't have to walk miles to work any more – they don't even have to travel there on firms' coaches. They drive their own cars. And when they get there machines are doing most of the heavy work. Give us another twenty years and people will be more interested in what they wear for leisure than for work. We have to be ready for that.'

‘Kendricks is known for its safety footwear. In this part of the world Kendricks
is
safety footwear.'

And he had remained unmoved, no matter how persuasive the arguments Van put forward.

On occasions, totally frustrated by his father's entrenched stand, Van had considered leaving and setting up on his own, but be had no capital with which to do it, and without his father's support, no collateral for a loan. Besides this he had no idea what product he could launch without the starting point of safety footwear, which was the only business he knew. In spite of an incipient ruthless streak Van could not bring himself to do this. It would break his father's heart if he set up in competition, and in any case it would be a bad move commercially – as Van had already observed, the market for heavy-duty boots was a contracting one; with both him and his father fighting for a share of it the likely outcome would be that they would both go under.

No, there was nothing for it, Van decided, but to stick it out and continue to try to change his father's mind. Failing that, he could only look forward to the day when his father retired and control of Kendricks came to him. Then he would be in a position to translate his ideas into action. The old man would probably still try to run the show from the sidelines but Van was determined that when he was in charge he would do as he liked. Just as long as it was not too late – just as long as Kendricks was still solvent and providing a strong enough base to provide him with the launching pad he needed.

For a man of Van's temperament the waiting was far from easy. The old man was nearly sixty now but he showed no signs of being ready for retirement. He still rose with the dawn and walked the two and a half miles to the factory as he had done for the last thirty years, rain or shine; he still maintained the same paternalistic outlook, fondly watching through the window of his little office as the workers turned out his beloved boots, and frequently touring the factory floor to check quality at first hand or to enquire about the health of the wife and family of one of the hands. And he still issued instructions which amounted to orders to Van, although he had graced him with the honorary title of Factory Manager.

Van sighed, reached for his box of slim panatellas and lit one. Then he pulled the letters of application toward him and leafed through them. Two men and one woman – or, more accurately, one girl, a student. Not a very satisfactory applicant – if he had been running the business he probably wouldn't even have bothered calling her for interview, but it was his father's policy to see everyone who wrote in for a job. ‘They took the trouble to apply, the least I can do is give them an interview,' he would say. As if, Van thought, that was supposed to make them feel better when he turned them down!

Van glanced at his watch. The first of the applicants was due to arrive in half an hour. That would give him just time to get some of his correspondence out of the way. He rang through for the secretary he shared with his father.

‘Could you come in for dictation please, Jean?'

Then he pushed the little pile of job applications to the back corner of his desk to make way for more pressing matters.

Dinah arrived for her interview ten minutes early. Punctuality had always been a habit with her, for it had been drilled into her since childhood.

She sat in the narrow passage outside the receptionist's office, hands in their black cotton wrist-length gloves clasped in her lap, looking the picture of composure, but feeling utterly sick inside.

Through the window which gave on to the office she could see the receptionist clattering away on her typewriter, never glancing up for even a moment, and though the door, flaking dark-brown paint, was closed, she could hear the constant whirr of the machines, a depressingly monotonous sound. She did not like what she had seen of the factory so far; it was repressive and old-fashioned, a far cry from the future she had imagined for herself, but what choice did she have? She needed a job and this one, if she could get it, would have certain advantages. The pay, though not brilliant, would at least keep her while she waited for the baby to arrive, and sitting at a machine would be better than standing in a shop or waiting at table in a café where she would be on her feet all day. And at least she could sew. She had always been good at needlework and she could not imagine that stitching boots would be so different from making a dress.

The door leading to the factory opened and a slightly built man dressed in a sports coat of cheap tweed material and poorly cut slacks came out. Dinah glanced at him expectantly but he walked straight past her and out through the door. Another applicant for the job? Dinah wondered, and felt her heart sink. Perhaps Kendricks were looking for a man.

The minutes ticked by. Dinah looked at the receptionist, still typing furiously in the little office, but the girl seemed to have forgotten that she was there. Then the door opened again and another man came out, a thickset man with dark springy hair and eyes of such a dark blue they were almost black. He was in shirtsleeves but the shirt was immaculate white, worn with a grey and blue striped tie and dark-grey trousers that were obviously part of an expensive, well-tailored suit. Gold cufflinks gleamed at his wrists. He exuded confidence and power.

Dinah stood up, smoothing the wrinkles out of the pencil-slim black skirt which was beginning to be a little too tight around the waistband.

‘Miss Marshall?' The man's voice suited him, low and crisp with just the hint of a West Country burr.

Dinah nodded. The navy-blue eyes ran over her appraisingly. Dinah felt he could see right inside her and know things that were as yet her secret and hers alone. She felt her cheeks begin to grow hot.

‘I am Van Kendrick.' His eyes came to rest on her face, his mouth, with its full, rather sensuous lower tip, curved into a cool smile. ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Perhaps you would like to come through.'

‘I don't quite understand why you want to work for us, Miss Marshall,' Van Kendrick said. ‘Boot operative seems an unlikely choice of job for someone with your qualifications.'

Dinah swallowed at the lump of nervousness in her throat. She had anticipated being asked something like this and she was ready for it.

‘I can't afford to stay on at college. I lost my mother recently.'

‘I see.' He looked at her, saw again the vulnerability behind the composure which had constituted the first impression he had had of her, and understood – or thought he understood. She was hurting inside and the hurt was born of grief and a safe world torn apart. She was very young, he thought, and also very attractive. Van was a bachelor still but he had known plenty of girls. They flocked to him, drawn by his striking good looks, his money and his personality – that blend of charisma and a ruthlessness which, though not yet fully developed, was there in embryo just the same. But none of them, no matter how pretty or how accommodating, had affected him the way she was affecting him. He looked at her and found himself wanting to please her, wanting to see the way that delicate-boned face would light up when she smiled. But even as the thought crossed his mind he dismissed it, recognising it as nothing but foolish sentimentality which had no place in business.

‘I'm not convinced this would be the right job for you,' he said. ‘It's hard work and it can be monotonous. To be frank I should think you'd be bored stiff in no time at all and I can't afford to have to keep recruiting and training new staff.'

Her face fell; she sat forward in her chair scrunching the little black gloves to a ball between her hands.

‘I wouldn't let you down. I really do need the job.'

He eyed her steadily. I'm sure there must be others, better suited to your qualifications. What exactly were you studying?'

‘Fashion design. And I'm terribly interested in shoes.'

The first small flame of excitement darted inside him. He tried to ignore it.

‘I'd hardly describe the footwear we make as shoes – not in the sense you mean, anyway. We're light years away from the fashion industry.'

‘But they're leather, aren't they? I love working with natural materials. I did a project on shoes and matching accessories. Oh, I know what you mean about your boots. I can see they are not very interesting …' She broke off, biting her lip as she realised what she had said, then rushed on: ‘But the point is, I'd be learning the technical side. Then perhaps sometime in the future …' Again she broke off, embarrassed, he guessed, at having more or less admitted that she had no intention of staying at Kendricks long enough to collect her gold watch.

He smiled, the excitement flaring inside him again as a plan began to take shape.

He had been looking for a way to branch out the moment the old man relaxed his hold a little. Perhaps, sitting right here in front of him was the very person who could help him achieve that ambition.

He thought of the two applicants he had interviewed already this afternoon – solid, unimaginative men with young families to support, exactly the kind of worker his father had in mind. Either of them would have fitted the bill, either would prove, in all probability, to be hard-working and reliable. Then he looked again at the girl, at the lovely face, eager, young and alive, and thought he could glimpse the exciting creative mind which lay behind it. His father would have chosen one of the men, he knew, but his father wasn't doing the interviewing. The choice was his – and how he was going to enjoy making it!

‘Very well,' he said. ‘ The job is yours, Miss Marshall, if you want it. When could you start?'

Instantly he was rewarded by the lovely smile that he had known would be there, just waiting to be turned on.

‘I could start on Monday,' she said. ‘And thank you, Mr Kendrick. Thank you very much!'

One day when Dinah had been working at the factory for just over a week Van sent for her.

Instantly her heart began to beat a little too fast for comfort and she felt sick with apprehension. He wasn't satisfied with her work. He was going to get rid of her. And what would she do then?

She closed down her machine and crossed the factory floor to his office, tapping at the door and waiting for him to call for her to go in.

Van was sorting through some papers in a box file on one of the big dusty slatted shelves.

‘You wanted to see me, Mr Kendrick?' she said hesitantly.

‘Dinah. Yes.' He turned his dark-blue gaze on her and she felt her colour deepen. ‘How are you getting on?'

‘Fine.'

‘You're not finding the work too much for you?'

‘No, it's … fine.'

It was a lie. She didn't like the work at all; it was boring, just as he had said it would be, and the tough leather needed for boots was difficult to manage and hard on her hands.

‘Good. Dinah, I want to talk to you. Won't you sit down?'

Nervously she eased herself into the same chair she had sat in for her interview, but instead of sitting opposite her he came around the desk and perched on its corner, arms folded, legs stretched out in front of him.

‘I remember you telling me that as a design student you were particularly interested in shoes.'

‘Yes.' That had been a lie too. She
had
done a project on shoes, but only because the assignment had forced her to. But she had thought it sounded good and might tip the balance in persuading him to give her the job.

‘I was wondering if you'd be interested in putting your talents to work for me. I have long wanted to produce something a little more exciting than safety footwear but I'm not entirely sure of the best way to go about it. I was hoping you might have some ideas you could contribute.'

Dinah was so surprised her mind went a total blank.

‘What sort of ideas?'

‘Well, obviously we haven't the right set-up here for fashion footwear. Our machinery is geared to heavy-duty stuff and our operatives wouldn't have the right skills. No, what we need is something that uses the talents and equipment Kendricks can provide but which would cater for a different section of the market – leisure wear, perhaps. I don't really know. That's where I was hoping you might come in.'

‘Well … I …'

‘Look,' he said, ‘don't think I expect you to come up with a brilliant idea like a conjuror pulling a rabbit out of a hat. But give it some thought. Perhaps we could talk about it again. Over a drink, perhaps. Or dinner.'

He saw her startled look and smiled. He knew that to most of his employees ‘dinner' meant the midday meal; perhaps Dinah thought that was what he was suggesting. ‘Evening dinner,' he said indulgently.

Bright wings of colour tinged her cheeks.

‘Oh, I know what you mean. But my landlady cooks for me when I get home.'

‘Surely she wouldn't mind if you gave her a break for once?' he said easily.

Dinah hesitated. She thought that in all likelihood Mrs Brooks, with whom she was lodging,
would
, mind. She was that sort of person, ready to take offence at anything, imagining slights where none were intended, reading implied criticism into any comment that was not unmistakably praise. And her cooking certainly left something to be desired – tasteless stews, lumpy gravy, greasy fry-ups. Dinah, who quite often felt nauseous in any case, had found herself yearning for the good nourishing food Mrs Meadows had provided, or even the frugal but wholesome fare she had been brought up on at borne in the manse, and the prospect of a restaurant or even a bar meal – especially one she would not have to pay for – was a tempting one.