THE PRICE LIST

Evening Star, Issue 22442, 12 September 1936, Page 2

THE PRICE LIST

; Written by Mabv Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] ft had been a depressing day. Although town was crowded lor the weekly stock sales and business seemed brisk, nobody appeared any the happier. The shopkeepers had a harassed look, and one heard complaints everywhere, and the answer, “ Sorry, but prices are going up, you know.” The words recurred again and again with an iteration that presently became maddening, seeming like the refrain of some popular song—“ Prices are going up.” It was true enough. Indeed, in the course of that afternoon’s shopping 1 had found it painfully true. Everything was dearer. The money that I had expected comfortably to suffice was exhausted before my list. Small, uninteresting items at the grocery counter, stationery, produce, drapery—everything was just a little more expensive than I had anticipated. And, if I looked my surprise—for I belong to the lesser breed of shopper, the weakkneed type that can never voice disapproval and will depart with feeble excuses or even purchase unwisely rather than courageously complain—the shop assistants smiled, hardly and brightly, or regretfully and sympathetically, according to their kind, and said: “ Yes, it is dear, but prices are going up, you know.” Yes, I knew. Everyone not deaf and blind must have known by the end of the day. All my acquaintances had the same sad tale, every friend seemed obsessed by the one unpleasant subject. “Isn’t everything dreadfully dear; how are we going to manage ” “ Aren’t prices ruinous? Where is it going to end?” “Well, I suppose somebody’s making money, but personally I’ll soon be on the bread line.” “ There’s no pleasure in shopping now with prices all going up.” _ .

Their expressions were anxious, or merely fretful. No one seemed to want to talk about anything except expense, rising prices, to buy or not to buy. It was a sordid, worrying business, which the majority of shoppers seemed to resent and a few—a very few—to enjoy in a ghoulish fashion. “ We’ll all be bankrupt soon,” they would say with grim satisfaction. In short, nobody seemed happy. Presently it affected me, too, although usually I enjoy shopping. Not because I am in any sense a notable shopper or a clever one; on the contrary, as I have already said, I have a contemptible preference for buying in the first shop rather than trudge, about after bargains, an ineradicable prejudice in favour of continuing always, and perhaps dully to deal with the same firms. No, it is neither for competitive reasons, nor to display my own skill that I enjoy these excursions into the shops; it is_ because of the human element with which these spots abound. I find the people behind the counters the kindest, most sympathetic of advisers; their constant politeness, their unfailing understanding amaze me. I shudder to think how I should behave if forced to stand all day on weary feet, to humour endless caprices, swallow occasional insults, to smile and smile, to be all things to all men, -always to remember that the customer is at all times and on all occasions right. Such a task would be pure purgatory to me—and yet how amiably they perform it! Yes, most unhesitatingly I take off _my hat to the shopkeeper and his assistants. _ - Nor is the human element confined to one side of the counter; the customers, too, are interesting, amusing, stimulating. In a smallish town one knows many of them, and sale day is an occasion for greeting your friends. The world seems a jolly, friendly place, and one feels oneself something of a social success. Therefore, provided that my fun is not spoilt by a conscience that sternly demands economy, or by my family that puts upon me various irksome commissions“ Just go round the shops till you match this,” or “ Tell X I _ refuse to pay this account until it is correctly rendered ” —my shopping excursions are somewhat in the nature of a weekly picnic. But not to-day. And this was the more of a pity in that, after a week’s pitiless rain, it was a peculiarly lovely day. It was one of those beguiling, wistful afternoons of early -spring whose blandishments convince one that anno domini means nothing; that one is on the threshold of life, young, eager, triumphant. And now it was all spoilt, simply because “ Prices are rising.” At least, so I felt as long as I stayed in town. But when at last 1 crept out of it, knowing myself poor, incompetent, dull, when I left streets behind me and was able to look across the green of spreading pastures to the regal purple of the mountains, or up at the clear, frail yellow of the evening sky—then, quite suddenly I realised that the day was not spoilt after all. Spoilt? Why, its real essence had not been even touched. What did it matter that cornflour had gone up a penny, soap twopence, and luncheon threepence? There were so many things left to me that had not risen in price, that were beautiful beyond compare, precious above rubies—and yet within the reach of the slenderest purse. And so, clutching my empty one, I began to count all the beauty and the joy and the splendour that have not risen in price, that cost just as much or as little as they did last year, that will still be ours when wo are even poorer and older than wo are to-day. There is a loveliness of Nature all about us, the breathless hush of early morning, the chatter of running water, the whistle of wind in the tree-tops, the silence as we walk below them in the spellbound forest, the age-old call of the restless sea. There is the soft glamour of mist on the plains, the glory of sunrise on the hills, of evenings by the sea, the little, anxious cry of birds seeking their mates in the dusky gloom, the friendly faces of the first "stars that prick the evening sky. There are the hundred delightful smells that bring romance and stir memory, the scent of dry grass, of wet bushmould, the smell of new broad, of wood-smoke, of a horse’s warm neck. How enumerate these precious, priceless things in Nature? There are books in the running brooks and good in everything. This good is ever with us, untouched and untouchable. There is the quiet security of home, the perfect understanding of a love that has long discarded words but that speaks in little, fugitive glances and half-unconscious movements. There are the breathless, disjointed confidences of children, their half-abstracted caresses as they lean heavily against you, their unthinking, instinctive trust in your word, your protecting presence. There is the joy of friendly meetings after long absence with never the need to explain or justify, but only the knowledge that friendship is eternal. And, should human contacts fail, there is still much left that is within the poorest means. _ Picture galleries arc yet free; music is still to be heard over the air in every public place, libraries have not yet increased their subscriptions. And if they do, if books become yet dearer and ‘ Punch ’ jtself more expensive, there arc still human stories all about us, crowded with

pathos, brimming with humour. Laughter is not taxed and jokes aro free currency. Our senses of humour aro as yet included in no schedule; they may work 24 hours a day without the intervention of any court. Then let us exploit them to the full, and realise that with them is yet available the best of life, that a thousand joys aro still accessible, still with us—even if “ prices are rising’’-