He picked up his pen and began to write, firmly crossing out “pulchritude” and putting “callisthenics” instead.

IV

The Factory down by the river was making beach-balls for Australia, which in six months’ time would be bouncing over the firm sands of Sydney. Children tawny as the sand would play with them, strong swimmers would push them far out to sea, small Brad mans with improvised bats would smite them to tideline boundaries, swift brown girls chased by swift brown youths would toss them like Atalanta’s apple to the eager pursuers. Meanwhile it was Edna’s task to see that there was no flaw in them, and with deft fingers she drew them one by one over the nozzle of the compressor, turned on the air, and watched them swell till they were as big as ripe melons. It was a sight for the Garden-god, who surely has an eye for such things, when Edna lifted the many-coloured ball off the air nozzle and stood for a moment holding it before her. For in a splendid way they matched. There were no angles, no straight lines such as nature abhors; but tumescence in the happiest conjunction, a symphony of curves.

In a light haze of french chalk a dozen women and girls worked on the bench with Edna, putting in the valves and rubber patches and blowing up the balls to test them. Close at hand Jim and Joe, who six years after the war still wore their green Commando berets, stood as it were at the head of the production line. Jim operated by hand a somewhat primitive-looking machine which lowered the formas into liquid latex, and after an appropriate interval transferred them to a homely little oven where they were dried by means of naked gas-jets in exactly the same way that one cooks a Sunday joint. When they were done Joe took charge of them and dipped them into a tank of water on top of which floated a scum of mixed rubber paint, iridescent like petrol in a pool. When they emerged from this bath they were rainbow-tinted with streaks and whorls of red, yellow, blue and green. After a second drying they were peeled off’ the formas and passed to Edna and her women for testing.

Upstairs in the packing-room eight more women were employed; and at busy seasons there would be at least another dozen at the long testing-bench. But to-day the work went leisurely in an atmosphere like that of a family party. The compressor kept up a low whine, and the air released from the beach-balls made an intermittent soft sigh, but since there was no noisy machinery everybody could talk to everybody else. When Jim in his harsh corncrake’s voice said: “Carrots is right. What we wants is ’ouses,” the conversation at once became general.

“’Ouses and a bit more rations,” agreed Joe, “instead of these faldadiddles and goings on.”

“Mind you,” said Jim, “I ain’t against fun, don’t anybody think that, us all needs a bit o’ fun these days. But who’s going to pay for it, that’s what I wants to know?”

“Us,” said Mrs. Greening, the blowsy woman next to Edna. Her name was pronounced Grinnin.

“Us? How?” said another woman.

“Bit on the fags, bit on the booze, bit on the pools, bit on the PAYE. We allus does pay for everything.”

“’Course,” added Jim, with a glance at Edna, “I’m not saying aught against Beauty Competitions. Apart from putting ideas into folk’s heads, I dare say they don’t do no ’arm.”

“You’ll be too snooty to know us, ducks,” said Mrs. Greening, prodding Edna in the ribs, “when you’re on the fillums and we pays sixpence to go and see you.”

“Not me”—Edna laughed— “I only went in for a lark. I haven’t won it yet, anyhow.”

“But you will, ducks. You got more personality than her. The stuck-up bitch,” said Mrs. Greening.

“Oh, I dunno. She’s all right. We shan’t quarrel, whoever wins.”

“You’re too easy-going, ducks.”

“Well, it’s only a lark.”

The whole of life was a lark to Edna: the cheerful companionship of the long bench, the chi-acking over cups of tea, the naughty stories Mrs. Greening whispered in her ear, the Saturday-night dances at the Town Hall, walking out on Sunday afternoons, holding sticky hands with boys in the pictures. It was “just for a lark” that she had accepted Robin’s invitation to tea in his studio, after he had explained with engaging frankness why he couldn’t possibly design the same dress for both the finalists and must therefore have a design in readiness for whichever of them turned out to be the chosen Queen. “Your personalities, your colouring, and if I may say so your figures, my dear, are absolute opposites.” Edna had giggled; and she had a charming giggle, which came from very deep down and was like the gurgle of a mountain stream bubbling up between the ferny rocks.