his voice. “Dimmick! Dimmick !” Gracewell’s voice was not pleasant to listen to; it cracked when he shouted.
“Mr Gracewell—”
“ Dimmick! Get in here! It’s a bloody journalist .”
“Mr Gracewell! Sir! I’m not a journalist. The Mammoth is gone. I’m here—”
“Are you here to snoop, Mr Shaw? Are you here to pry? Are you here to tell stories? You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last. But by God you will hold your tongue or Mr Dimmick will know the reason why.”
The door opened. Gracewell held up a hand.
Arthur heard Dimmick’s footsteps behind him, and the tap of his stick on the floor. He smelt Dimmick’s stale odour—tobacco and sweat. Arthur’s throat went dry; there was suddenly nothing quaint or comic about Dimmick.
“Mr Gracewell—I wouldn’t dream of—there’s no call for that sort of—I have debts, Mr Gracewell, and I’m engaged to be married, and I need the money—that’s all—I’m not here to tell stories. The Mammoth is gone.”
“Engaged?” Gracewell appeared confused for a moment. “Oh yes.” He slowly lowered his hand.
Dimmick chuckled, then gave Arthur’s shoulder a rough but not unfriendly shake. Then his footsteps receded and the door closed behind him. Arthur tried to hide his relief.
“Well then.” Gracewell sat. “Far be it from me to thwart young love. Or to thwart Atwood, for that matter. But you won’t tell the young lady to whom you are engaged what you do here, and by God you won’t write about it.” Gracewell shook his head. “Writers. Perhaps a third of the men are poets. It seems disproportionate. But it’s all one to me so long as they follow the rules. For six pounds a week, I expect obedience.”
“Six pounds a week?”
“Is that not good enough for you, sir?”
“On the contrary, it’s…” Six pounds a week; more than three hundred in a year. It was far more than he’d expected.
“Well.” Gracewell shrugged. “Not every man can do the job. Few last. A question of will. ”
“Mr Gracewell—I—I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“Well, there’s never been anything quite like my Engine. And there’s your answer; or more precisely, there it isn’t. Now, to begin with: you will be paid six pounds a week. If you do not run away there will be more—last a month and it will be seven.”
“Seven!”
“Rapid ascent. You’ll earn it. You’ll see.”
Mr Gracewell took a card out of a drawer and pushed it across the desk. It read:
COPY THESE WORDS
I, THE UNDERSIGNED, DO SWEAR BEFORE GOD THAT I COME HERE IN GOOD FAITH, AND WILL DO NO SABOTAGE, AND WILL NOT REVEAL WHAT I SEE HERE TO ANYONE.
Gracewell pointed at one of the typewriters. “Type it. Sign it.”
Arthur did so. Gracewell took the paper without looking and filed it in one of the cabinets.
“A word of advice, Mr Shaw. Pay off whatever debts drove you here as soon as you can. Debt is weakness. I will have you beholden to no one but me.”
The ringer box in the corner of the office started to sound. Gracewell picked up the telephone.
“Find Dimmick, wherever he’s got to. Tell him we’re giving you to Mr Irving. Off you go.”
* * *
The next morning there was a postcard under the door of Josephine’s office. It came from Borel’s shop, and depicted a sunny seaside vista. On the back of it she recognised Arthur’s handwriting.
Dearest love—I could write all day and not say half of what I could wish to say—nor do I know yet what quite what I mean to say—so first an apology: I did not take your advice. I went to Deptford. But one never knows these days where or when fortune may strike—and struck it has! I have employment, at six pounds a week. Underline that—it is no joke. And that is all I can say, because I cannot say yet what they mean to have me do (because I do not understand!) and so if any friend asks you what your dear heart does, you shall have to say you do not know, but you know that
“Mr Gracewell—”
“ Dimmick! Get in here! It’s a bloody journalist .”
“Mr Gracewell! Sir! I’m not a journalist. The Mammoth is gone. I’m here—”
“Are you here to snoop, Mr Shaw? Are you here to pry? Are you here to tell stories? You wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last. But by God you will hold your tongue or Mr Dimmick will know the reason why.”
The door opened. Gracewell held up a hand.
Arthur heard Dimmick’s footsteps behind him, and the tap of his stick on the floor. He smelt Dimmick’s stale odour—tobacco and sweat. Arthur’s throat went dry; there was suddenly nothing quaint or comic about Dimmick.
“Mr Gracewell—I wouldn’t dream of—there’s no call for that sort of—I have debts, Mr Gracewell, and I’m engaged to be married, and I need the money—that’s all—I’m not here to tell stories. The Mammoth is gone.”
“Engaged?” Gracewell appeared confused for a moment. “Oh yes.” He slowly lowered his hand.
Dimmick chuckled, then gave Arthur’s shoulder a rough but not unfriendly shake. Then his footsteps receded and the door closed behind him. Arthur tried to hide his relief.
“Well then.” Gracewell sat. “Far be it from me to thwart young love. Or to thwart Atwood, for that matter. But you won’t tell the young lady to whom you are engaged what you do here, and by God you won’t write about it.” Gracewell shook his head. “Writers. Perhaps a third of the men are poets. It seems disproportionate. But it’s all one to me so long as they follow the rules. For six pounds a week, I expect obedience.”
“Six pounds a week?”
“Is that not good enough for you, sir?”
“On the contrary, it’s…” Six pounds a week; more than three hundred in a year. It was far more than he’d expected.
“Well.” Gracewell shrugged. “Not every man can do the job. Few last. A question of will. ”
“Mr Gracewell—I—I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
“Well, there’s never been anything quite like my Engine. And there’s your answer; or more precisely, there it isn’t. Now, to begin with: you will be paid six pounds a week. If you do not run away there will be more—last a month and it will be seven.”
“Seven!”
“Rapid ascent. You’ll earn it. You’ll see.”
Mr Gracewell took a card out of a drawer and pushed it across the desk. It read:
COPY THESE WORDS
I, THE UNDERSIGNED, DO SWEAR BEFORE GOD THAT I COME HERE IN GOOD FAITH, AND WILL DO NO SABOTAGE, AND WILL NOT REVEAL WHAT I SEE HERE TO ANYONE.
Gracewell pointed at one of the typewriters. “Type it. Sign it.”
Arthur did so. Gracewell took the paper without looking and filed it in one of the cabinets.
“A word of advice, Mr Shaw. Pay off whatever debts drove you here as soon as you can. Debt is weakness. I will have you beholden to no one but me.”
The ringer box in the corner of the office started to sound. Gracewell picked up the telephone.
“Find Dimmick, wherever he’s got to. Tell him we’re giving you to Mr Irving. Off you go.”
* * *
The next morning there was a postcard under the door of Josephine’s office. It came from Borel’s shop, and depicted a sunny seaside vista. On the back of it she recognised Arthur’s handwriting.
Dearest love—I could write all day and not say half of what I could wish to say—nor do I know yet what quite what I mean to say—so first an apology: I did not take your advice. I went to Deptford. But one never knows these days where or when fortune may strike—and struck it has! I have employment, at six pounds a week. Underline that—it is no joke. And that is all I can say, because I cannot say yet what they mean to have me do (because I do not understand!) and so if any friend asks you what your dear heart does, you shall have to say you do not know, but you know that
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