George Fraser had little to say while he and Brant travelled by underground to Wembley. Talking was difficult in the swaying, roaring train, and he wanted time to think over what Brant had told him.
If what Brant had said were true, then Robinson had cheated him out of at least twenty pounds. George considered what he could have done with all that money. Twenty pounds! Why, he could have bought a second-hand car, he thought dismally. He had always wanted a car. He had no idea what he was going to say to Robinson when he saw him that night. If it hadn’t been for Brant, he probably wouldn’t have had the nerve to raise the matter at all; but now he had to make a show before this unpleasant, disturbing intruder. He would have to make a shot at persuading Robinson to fork up the twenty pounds. He hadn’t much hope, as Robinson never seemed to have any money, but it might be worth trying. Of course, Robinson might turn nasty. He might even demand the return of all George’s specimen copies of the Child’s Self-Educator and then tell George to go to blazes. Then what would he do? It’d mean he’d be out of work again, and that thought appalled George.
Well, it was no good worrying, he decided gloomily. After all, Robinson was cheating him, and he couldn’t expect to get away with it. He’d tackle him politely and firmly, and hope for the best. It wouldn’t do for Brant to think he couldn’t handle the situation. Brant seemed now to be regarding him with a little more respect since George had mentioned Frank Kelly. George pulled a face. He hoped Brant wouldn’t say anything about that to anyone. He shot a furtive look at the blank, hard face. All he could see was the disagreeable, raw-looking scar and one vacant, glittering eye. Nasty young customer, he thought uneasily. Proper dead-end kid. He wondered if Brant believed him. You couldn’t tell where you were with a fellow with such an expressionless face. Anyway Brant hadn’t asked any questions, and he seemed to have accepted Kelly after a momentary glimmer of surprise.
The train pulled into Wembley station, and with a sigh of relief George got to his feet. He was glad to have something to do. He didn’t want to think about Brant nor what he was going to say to Robinson that night. He forced this disagreeable prospect to the back of his mind and shambled along beside his companion.
“Now, our first job is to call at Radlet Road school,” he said, as they walked briskly up the High Road. “I called in there yesterday and planted our circulars. You see, unless we know where the kids live, we can’t get any orders. It isn’t like selling vacuum cleaners, for instance. With vacuum cleaners ifs a straight door-to-door canvass. But in our line we have to know which homes have children and which haven’t.” He paused while he fished a cigarette from a crumpled carton and offered it to Brant.
“I don’t smoke,” Brant said shortly. They were the first words he had uttered since leaving the train.
“Oh, all right,” George looked at him blankly, and lit up. They moved on, and George said, “Well, we’ve got to get the names and addresses of all the kids at the various Council schools. It isn’t easy, because the teachers don’t want to help us. You’d think they’d be glad for the kids to have the hooks, wouldn’t you? But not they.” George breathed heavily through his thick nose. “Of course, some of ’em do help, otherwise we’d get nowhere. But the majority are a lazy, suspicious lot. We have to persuade the teacher to pass our forms round the class and get the kids to put their names and addresses on them; then we collect the forms next day and make our calls. It sounds simple, doesn’t it, but you wait… you’ll see what I mean before long.”
All the time he was talking, Brant strode along at his side, his face expressionless and his eyes blank. For all George knew, he hadn’t heard a word George had said.
This indifferent attitude annoyed George. All right, he thought, lapsing into a sulky silence, you think it’s child’s play, but just you wait. You’ll find it’s not all beer and skittles. You wait until you try to get an order. Be as superior as you like, but with a dial like yours you don’t stand a hope. Do you think anyone will want to look at you when you try to talk to them? They’ll slam the door in your ugly mug, you see if they don’t, and it’ll serve you right. Take you down a peg or two, my lad. That’s what you want. Be superior if that’s how you feel, but you’re riding for a fall. You can’t say I haven’t tried to be friendly, but I’m damned if I’m going to put myself out if you don’t meet me half way.
He was glad when they reached the school. Now he could show Brant how successfully he had cultivated the headmaster the day before. They crossed the deserted playground and approached the red-brick school building. In spite of his outward show of confidence, George could never enter a school premises without a feeling of guilt. The LCC had forbidden canvassers to call on Secondary and Council schools, and George always had it at the back of his mind that he would run into a visiting school inspector one of these days and he ordered ignominiously from the school.
He paused at the main entrance, and with an uneasy smile pointed out the notice pinned to the door.
“See that?” he said, anxious that Brant should share his own secret uneasiness. “‘Canvassers and salesmen are not permitted on the school premises’ I told you it wasn’t easy, didn’t I? It’s only when the headmaster’s friendly that we can get anywhere.”
Brant didn’t say anything. He glanced at George with sneering contempt in his eyes.
George pushed open the door and entered the long passage, which smelt of disinfectant, floor polish and stale perspiration. They walked down the passage, past a number of classrooms. They could see through the glass partitions into the small rooms, each containing a number of children at desks. The children spotted them, and heads turned in their direction with the precision of a field of corn moving in a wind.
George shrank from their inquisitive, staring eyes. He hunched his great shoulders and hurried on towards the headmaster’s office.
The headmaster looked up from his desk and frowned at them. He was a little man, thin and old. Two or three strands of greying hair had been carefully plastered across the baldness of his head. His large, mild eyes were tired, and his shoulders, under his shabby coat, drooped as if the burden of his responsibilities were too much for him
“Good afternoon, Mr Pickthorn,” George said, with the overpowering heartiness he always assumed when working. “What a magnificent day! Too good to be in, but we’ve all got our living to make, haven’t we?” He stood over the headmaster, large, friendly, anxious to please. “We can’t all go gadding about when there’s work to be done, can we? Noses to the grindstones, eh?” He lowered his voice and winked. “Not that you and me wouldn’t like to be at Lord’s today.”
It had taken George some time to conquer his shyness when meeting strangers, but now that he was sure of what he was going to say, he was becoming quite a fluent, if automatic talker. He hoped that Brant was being impressed. That’d show him how to talk to prospects. Brant would have to shake up his ideas if he thought he was going to make a successful salesman. People liked to have someone call on them who was cheerful and bright.
Mr Pickthorn smiled vaguely and blinked up at George. “Ali,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “Yes, Lord’s.” Then he glanced at Brant, and the friendly look drained out of his eyes. He glanced hurriedly away, his thin mouth tightening - There! George thought triumphantly. See what happens when they look at your ugly mug. Go on, be superior. I don’t care. At least, they don’t look away when I talk to them.
Feeling the changing atmosphere, he went on hurriedly, “I was passing, Mr Pickthorn, so I thought I’d pick up those forms I left yesterday. Arc they ready?”
Mr Pickthorn fiddled with his pen tray, placing the pens and coloured pencils in their racks with exaggerated care. “No,” he said, without looking at either of them. “No, I’m afraid they aren’t.”
George felt his heartiness, bolstered up by the feeling that Mr Pickthorn liked him, oozing away like air from a leaking balloon.
“Well, never mind,” he said, with a fixed smile. “You don’t have to tell me how busy you are. I know what you headmasters have to do. Work, work, work, all day long. Suppose I call hack tomorrow? Perhaps you’ll find time to get them done tomorrow.”
Mr Pickthorn continued to fiddle with his pens and pencils. He did not look up. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said abruptly. “As a matter of fact, Mr Herring, my assistant, drew my attention to it. He’s quite right, of course. I wasn’t thinking Of course, the hooks are good. No doubt about that. I’ve known the Ch ild’s Self-Educator fo r many years, but as Mr Herring pointed out, it’s encouraging canvassers, and the Council doesn’t approve.” He opened a drawer and took out the packet of printed forms that George had left with him the day before. “I’m sorry,” he went on, pushing the forms across the desk to George. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He gave George a fleeting, embarrassed smile, again glanced at Brant, and then pulled a pile of papers towards him.
“You see?” George said, when they were in the street again. “Now we’ve got no calls for tonight. The rotten little rat! Couldn’t do enough for me yesterday. I spent a whole hour listening to him talk about his blasted garden. As if I cared! He promised me faithfully to distribute those forms. Oh, well, it only goes to prove.” He fished out his carton of cigarettes and lit one. “We’ll have to do a cold canvass tonight. It means wandering up and down a street looking out for kids, asking them where they live, or spotting toys in the windows or gardens. That’s a job I hate! Everyone watches you, and sometimes if you do ask the kids who they are, they get scared and start howling.”
Brant shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. His indifferent expression infuriated George
“Well, what do we do?” Brant asked, as if to say, this is your mess, and it’s up to you to find a way out.
Choking back his irritation, George took out his list of schools and studied it. “We’d better go over to Sherman Road school,” he said. “It’s about half a mile from here. That’s the best school in the district. If we don’t get our forms in there, we’re properly in the soup.”
Brant shrugged. “All right,” he said, falling in step beside George. “So long as we get something done today.”
George shot him an angry glance. “It’s all very well to criticize,” he snapped, “but if you think you can do better, you’d better try.”
“I’ll take over if you make another mess of it,” Brant returned in his clipped, indifferent voice.
George could scarcely believe his ears. He walked on in silence, fuming with rage. If he made a mess of it! Of all the cheek! And he was teaching this smug brat—that’s all he was—a smug brat! He’d take over, would he? All right, they’d see about that. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to let him make a fool of himself. As if anyone would listen to him, with his scar and his straw hair and his shabby clothes. Then George’s caution asserted itself. The kids at Sherman Road were of a better class than in any of the other schools. He couldn’t afford to take chances with this school. Every form that was filled up might mean an order.
In the school lobby they found the same depressing notice warning canvassers and salesmen that they were trespassing. Underneath this official notice was another notice written and signed by the headmaster.
Can you read? Then keep out! No canvassers or salesmen will be seen during school hours. Any attempt to enter school premises without an official permit will be immediately reported to the local authorities.
Chas. Eccles.
Headmaster.
George read this notice and experienced a sinking feeling it his stomach. “I’ve never seen anything like this before,” he whispered, furtively looking down the passage that led to the classrooms. “Doesn’t look very hopeful, does it?”
Brant shrugged. “You can always tell him you can’t read,” he said with a sneer. “He might even believe you.”
George flushed, and without a word walked down the passage to the headmaster’s office. He wished that Robinson was with him. Robo would know what to do. He didn’t care a damn whom he tackled or how rude people were to him
George tapped on the door and waited.
“Come in,” roared a voice.
They entered a small, hare room. A big, fleshy man, with a large blond moustache on a round, flat face, frowned at them.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he shouted in a voice made harsh by constant bullying.
George gave him a nervous smile. “Good morning, Mr Eccles,” he said, his heartiness wavering. “Forgive me for intruding like this, but I was passing, and I felt that you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s Self Educator is now ready.”
Mr Eccles leaned across his desk, his hard little eyes boring into George. “What?” he shouted. “Selling something? Where’s your permit?”
George took an involuntary step back. “Now, please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Eccles,” he said, trying to control his rising colour. “We’re not selling anything. It’s just that we thought you’d be interested to hear that the new edition of the Child’s SelfEducator is—er—ready. It’s a magnificent job. Two hundred additional coloured plates, and all the maps have been revised. There’s more than two hundred thousand additional words, bringing this wonderful work of reference right up to date.”
“Hamm,” Mr Eccles grunted. “You people are not supposed to be on the school premises, you know. I haven’t the time nor the inclination to talk to salesmen. All right, thank you for calling. Good afternoon,” and he picked up his pen and began to write.
Had George been alone, he would have slunk out of the room, but the cold, still, hateful figure of Brant made retreat impossible.
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr Eccles,” George said, his face now the colour of a beetroot, “there’s just one other point I would like to raise with you. You know the CSE, of course. You’ll agree with me, I’m sure, that it is a most useful set of books and its reputation in the world of letters is second to none. Any child possessing this magnificent work of reference has an obvious advantage over the unfortunate child who is without it. The task of the teacher is considerably lightened if a child can turn to the CSE and find for itself the answer to those awkward questions that a child is always asking his teacher.”
Mr Eccles laid down his pen and pushed hack his chair. His movements were deliberate and ominous.
“If I thought you were trying to sell something on these premises,” he said with deadly calm, “I would give you in charge.”
George shuffled his feet. “I assure you, Mr Eccles,” he stammered, “I—I have no intention of selling anything, no intention at all. It’s just that I hoped for your co-operation. Unless teachers are prepared to assist us, we are unable to let parents know how invaluable the CSE—and who would deny it?—would be in the home.”
Mr Eccles rose to his feet. To George, he seemed to grow n stature, and broaden like a rubber doll that is being inflated. “You’re canvassing,” Mr Eccles said in an awful voice, “I thought as much. What is the name of your firm?”
George had visions of a complaint being lodged by the LCC. Although the World-Wide Publishing Company was fully aware of the methods used by their salesmen, officially these methods were not recognized. They were all right, so long as there were no complaints. If there were complaints, then the salesmen were sacked.
George stood staring stupidly at Mr Eccles, his face red, his mouth dry and his eyes protruding. He visualized the arrival of the police and being marched through the streets to the police station.
“Well?” Mr Eccles shouted at him, seeing his confusion and enjoying it. “Who’s your firm? I’ll get to the bottom of this! Pm going to stop you touts bothering me and my staff. Every day someone calls. If it isn’t vacuum cleaners, it’s silk stockings. If it isn’t silk stockings, it’s expensive hooks that no one can afford to buy. Pm going to put a stop to it!”
From somewhere in the rear, where he had been standing, Brant suddenly appeared in front of George. He walked straight up to Mr Eccles and fixed him with his cold, expressionless eyes.
“There is no need to shout,” he said, in his soft, clipped voice. “We’ve been received at all the other schools in this district with courtesy, Mr Eccles. Surely, we are entitled to your courtesy too.”
Mr Eccles glared at Brant, then quite suddenly moved back a step.
“We are men trying to do a job of work,” Brant went on, his eyes never moving from Eccles’ face. “Just as you are trying to do a job of work. As representatives of the World-Wide Publishing Company we are entitled to a hearing. The World-Wide Publishing Company has been dealing with the teaching profession for two hundred years. Its reputation for integrity and good work is known and commented upon by the London County Council. The Child’s Self-Educator is known a ll over the world.”
Mr Eccles sat down slowly. It was as if he had suddenly lost the strength in his legs. “World-Wide Publishing Company,” he muttered and wrote on his blotting paper. “All right, I’ll remember that.”
“I want you to remember it,” Brant said. “I’m surprised that a man of your experience does not know who published the Child’s Self-Educator. Have you a set you rself’?”
Mr Eccles looked up. “Who—me? No, I haven’t. Now, look here, young man—”
“Then you will be glad to hear that you are going to be presented with a set. That’s why we’ve come to see you.”
“Presented with a set?” Mr Eccles repeated, his little eyes opening. “You mean given a set?”
“Certainly,” Brant said, his hands on the desk. “We’re anxious that every teacher should have a set of the CSE, but, for obvious reasons, it is not possible to give so many sets away. It has been decided, however, that the headmaster of the best school of each London borough is to be presented with our deluxe, half-calf edition, free, gratis and for nothing.”
If Mr Eccles was surprised by this news, George was utterly flabbergasted.
“Well, ’pon my soul,” Mr Eccles exclaimed, a sly smile lighting up his face. “Why didn’t you say so before? Sit down, young man. I’m sorry I was so abrupt just now, but if you only knew how I’m pestered all day long, you’d appreciate I’ve got to do something to protect myself.”
Brant drew up a chair and sat down. George, standing by the door, was forgotten.
“I understand, Mr Eccles,” Brant went on, after a moment’s pause, “that your children’s handwriting is of an exceptionally high standard. Mr Pickthorn of Trinity School also boasts of a high standard. We are organizing a harmless competition between schools, and I suggest you might like to co-operate. All we need is a specimen of each of your pupils’ handwriting, which will be sent to our head office, and the pupil with the best handwriting will be given a beautifully inscribed certificate and ten shillings. Mr Pickthorn has been happy to help us in this scheme, and we would like your pupils to compete against his. Whatever you decide, of course, will not influence my Company’s decision to send you the CSE, which should reach you early next month.”
“Pickthorn?” Mr Eccles snorted. “That old muddler! None of his brats can write. He’s got no method. Why, in a competition, it’d be a walk over.” He frowned down at his blotting pad. “I’d like to do it. ’Pon my word, I would. I’d like to wipe old Pickthorn’s eye, but it’ll disorganize my day. A thing like that’d need a bit of arranging.”
Brant shifted in his chair. “It took less than ten minutes at Radlet’s,” he said quietly. “All you have to do is to get the children to write their names and addresses on a piece of paper, and we will judge their handwriting from that. It s a simple system, and we shall not need to bother you further, as we shall have the name and address of the prizewinner. Surely, that’s not going to upset your school?”
Eccles looked a little blank. “Well, if that’s all it is,” he said doubtfully. “I suppose I could arrange that. All right, I’ll do it. Will you call hack sometime tomorrow?”
Brant stared at him with bored eyes. “We have a lot of ground to cover, Mr Eccles. Could we wait? It shouldn’t take a few minutes.” He paused, and before Mr Eccles could speak, he went on, “By the way, I suppose you would like a bookcase for your set of the CSE? I think I could persuade the Company to part with one. It’s a nice piece of furniture, light oak with glass panels.”
Mr Eccles got to his feet. “Yes,” he said, beaming, “that sounds magnificent. Hmm, yes, by all means.” He rubbed his hands together. “Well now, you wait here and I’ll get these kids to work. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
As soon as he left the room, George said, “Have you gone mad? What are you playing at? The Company doesn’t give sets away, let alone bookcases. They don’t even sell bookcases.”
Brant stared at him in a bored, detached way. “He doesn’t know that,” he said, and his thin mouth sneered.
“Well, he soon will when the books don’t turn up,” George said, now thoroughly agitated. “He’ll report us. Why, he might even tell the police. There’ll be a hell of a stink about this. And what’s all this about handwriting competitions? I really think you must be out of your mind.”
Brant looked out of the window. “Can’t you see?” he said with that patient voice that people reserve for tiresome, questioning children. “We’re going to get the names and addresses of all the brats in this school. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You made a mess of it, so I’ve fixed it. I said I would, didn’t I?”
“You’ll jolly well pay the ten bob out of your own pocket. I’m not going to throw money away like that,” George snapped, flushing angrily.
The cold eyes flickered. “Don’t be wet,” Brant said. “No one’s going to pay ten bob. Let the brat whistle for it.”
“What?” George exclaimed, starting forward. “You’re not even going to give a prize after telling all those lies?”
“You dumb, or something?” Brant’s face showed a faint curiosity. “Your pal Kelly wouldn’t pay ’em a nickel, would he? What’s the matter with you—slipping?” He stared at George until George had to look away. “Anyway, why should you worry? We won’t be here next month. They don’t know our names, and if they complain to the Company, we can deny it. It’s their word against ours.”
The enormity of such a swindle paralyzed George. He sat down and stared stupidly at Brant.
“It’s cheating,” he said at last. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Aw, dry up!” Brant said, a vicious snarl in his voice. “The whole business is a racket. The Company doesn’t care how you get business so long as you don’t tell ’em. They don’t pay you a salary and they don’t care if you starve. All they’re interested in is to get a mug to sell their hooks. Robinson cheats us out of ten bob on every order we get. Do you think he cares? He doesn’t give a damn so long as he gets his rake off. These teachers are only out for what they can get. It’s a racket from start to finish.” He leaned forward, two faint red spots on his thin cheeks. “It’s us or them. If you don’t like it, then get the hell out of it and leave me to handle it. I’m out for what I can get, and I’m going to get it. So, shut up!”
George flinched away from the savage anger that faced him, and for a long time the room was silent except for the distant sound of children’s voices coming from the classrooms.