Died in the Wool

Flossie saw her husband, Arthur Rubrick, standing in a doorway. She waved vigorously. The men who were with Arthur pointed her out. He gave her a dubious nod and began to make his way along a side aisle towards her. As soon as he reached the steps that led from the auditorium up to her doorway she called out in a sprightly manner. ‘Look where I’ve got to! Come up and join me!’ He did so but without enthusiasm.

‘What are you doing up here, Floss?’ he said. ‘You ought to have gone down below.’

‘Down below wouldn’t suit me at all.’

‘Everyone’s looking at you.’

‘That doesn’t embarrass me,’ she said loudly. ‘When will he get to us, darling? Show me.’

‘Ssh!’ said her husband unhappily and handed her his catalogue. Flossie made play with her lorgnette. She flicked it open modishly with white-gloved hand and looked through it at the lists. There was a simultaneous flutter of white paper throughout the hall. ‘Over we go, I see,’ said Flossie and turned a page. ‘Now, where are we?’

Her husband grunted urgently and jerked up his head.

‘Lot one eighty,’ gabbled the auctioneer.

‘Thirteen.’

‘Half!’ yelled old Ormerod.

‘Three!’

‘Fourteen!’

The spectacled Mr Kurata Kan was on his feet, yelping, a fraction of a second quicker than Ormerod.

‘Top price,’ cried Flossie shrilly. ‘Top price! Isn’t it, darling? We’ve got top price, haven’t we? That dear little Jap!’

A ripple of laughter ran through the hall. The auctioneer grinned. The two men near the stage-door moved away, their hands over their mouths. Arthur Rubrick’s face, habitually cyanosed, deepened to a richer purple. Flossie clapped her white gloves together and rose excitedly. ‘Isn’t he too sweet,’ she demanded. ‘Arthur, isn’t he a pet?’

‘Flossie, for God’s sake,’ Arthur Rubrick muttered.

But Flossie made a series of crisp little nods in the direction of Mr Kurata Kan and at last succeeded in attracting his attention. His eyelids creased, his upper lip lifted in a crescent over his long teeth and he bowed.

‘There!’ said Flossie in triumph as she swept out at the stage-door, followed by her discomforted husband. ‘Isn’t that splendid?’

He piloted her into a narrow yard. ‘I wish you wouldn’t make me quite so conspicuous, my dear,’ he said. ‘I mean, waving to that Jap. We don’t know him or anything.’

‘No,’ cried Flossie. ‘But we’re going to. You’re going to call on him, darling, and we shall ask him to Mount Moon for the weekend.’

‘Oh, no, Flossie. Why? Why on earth?’

‘I’m all for promoting friendly relations. Besides he’s paid top price for my wool. He’s a sensible man. I want to meet him.’

‘Grinning little pip-squeak. I don’t like ’em, Floss. Do you in the eye for tuppence, the Japs would. Any day. They’re our natural enemies.’

‘Darling, you’re absolutely antediluvian. Before we know where we are you’ll be talking about The Yellow Peril.’

She tossed her head and a lock of hair dyed a brilliant gold slipped down her forehead. ‘Do remember this is 1939,’ said Flossie.

1942.

On a summer’s day in February 1942, Mr Sammy Joseph, buyer for Riven Brothers Textile Manufactory, was going through their wool stores with the storeman. The windows had been blacked out with paint, and the storeman, as they entered, switched on a solitary lamp. This had the effect of throwing into strong relief the square hessian bales immediately under the lamp. Farther down the store they dissolved in shadow. The lamp was high and encrusted with dust: the faces of the two men looked cadaverous. Their voices sounded stifled: there is no echo in a building lined with wool. The air was stuffy and smelt of hessian.

‘When did we start buying dead wool, Mr Joseph?’ asked the storeman.

‘We never buy dead wool,’ Joseph said sharply. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘There’s a bale of it down at the far end.’

‘Not in this store.’

‘I’m good for a bet on it.’

‘What’s biting you? Why d’you say it’s dead?’

‘Gawd, Mr Joseph, I’ve been in the game long enough, haven’t I? Don’t I know dead wool when I smell it? It pongs.’

‘Here!’ said Sammy Joseph. ‘Where is this bale?’

‘Come and see.’

They walked down the aisle between ranks of baled wool. The storeman at intervals switched on more lights and the aisle was extended before them. At the far end he paused and jerked his thumb at the last bale. ‘Take a sniff, Mr Joseph,’ he said.

Sammy Joseph bent towards the bale. His shadow was thrown up on the surface, across stencilled letters, a number and a rough crescent.

‘That’s from the Mount Moon clip,’ he said.

‘I know it is.’ The storeman’s voice rose nervously. ‘Stinks, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Joseph. ‘It does.’

‘Dead wool.’

‘I’ve never bought dead wool in my life. Least of all from Mount Moon. And the smell of dead wool goes off after it’s plucked. You know that as well as I do. Dead rat, more likely. Have you looked?’

‘Yes, I have looked, Mr Joseph. I shifted her out the other day. It’s in the bale. You can tell.’

‘Split her up,’ Mr Joseph commanded.

The storeman pulled out a clasp knife, opened it, and dug the blade into the front of the bale. Sammy Joseph watched him in a silence that was broken only by the uneasy sighing of the rafters above their heads.

‘It’s hot in here,’ said Sammy Joseph. ‘There’s a nor’west gale blowing outside. I hate a hot wind.’

‘Oppressive,’ said the storeman. He drew the blade of his knife downwards, sawing at the bale. The strands of sacking parted in a series of tiny explosions. Through the fissure bulged a ridge of white wool.

‘Get a lung full of that,’ said the storeman, straightening himself. ‘It’s something chronic. Try.’

Mr Joseph said: ‘I get it from here, thanks. I can’t understand it. It’s not bellies in that pack, either. Bellies smell a bit but nothing to touch this.’ He opened his cigarette case. ‘Have one?’