Consolation

Evening Star, Issue 23693, 28 September 1940, Page 3

Consolation

Written by MARY SCOTT , for the ‘ Evening Star*

Of course they are older now. School is so much second nature that the end of holidays "is no longer a tragedy. School has its great joys, its excitements, its distractions, its companionships. It should certainly have its cultural interests, hut so far L have not observed that any member of my family is particularly obsessed by these. Still, as I have said, the children—who are no longer children now, save to their parents—have grown hardened to holi-day-ending, to leaving home, even to the saying of that hateful word goodbye.

Therefore one lias no longer to steel oneself, to be determinedly bright and bracing during the last week. No need now to avoid all mention of return to school, to shun like the plague all sentimental approaches, all reproofs or small private lectures. Now it is possible to say quite severely to the adventurous daughter “I do hope you will fry to do an occasional spot of 'work this term,” or to suggest to Elizabeth that after all lessons have their place,in the school curriculum, even if it be far behind games. Once upon a time tears would have hovered near at such a rebuke; to-day 1 merely encounter a baffling amiability' and an immediate change of subject. If I think to wring their horrid little hearts because the parting draws near 1 shall have a rude disillusionment.

Not that a parent with any sense of sportsmanship would take advantage of such hazardously-acquired hardihood. Certain subjects are still wisely avoided. One may mention! the parting with parents, but it is as well not to stress the separation,from pet animals. One would not dream of men-, tioning tbe possibility of the pet lamb missing its owner, of the bay pony waiting vainly for carrots at the garden gate, or of the cocker spaniel visibly fretting. For the matter of that, the last 24 hours are usually too hectic to allow of much pining. For how many years have. .1 been saying: “Let us have no rush over outfit those holiday's; the only way is to start in good time.” For how many' years have we had tbe same scenes of rage and turmoil, the same crescendo, rising steadily through irritability to annoyance, and finally to repressed passion, while missing stockings arc sought and gym. tunics are, furiously ironed. About midnight upon the last night a temporary lull leads me to ask confidently, “ Surely everything is finished at last? ” The adventurous daughter-—-whoso pose is one of maddening calm through crises of which she is usually the sole creator —makes airy' gestures and says, “ Practically. That is to say. of course I haven’t started to pack.” Remonstrance invariably produces the infuriating reply, “ Now, now, just leave it all to me. T beg of you-—do not create a scene.” How often have I thought unkindly of the science mistress whose favourite cliche has been adopted into our household! But I do not argue, 1 go to bed and

so do they—to do what they call “ trusting to luck ” in the morning. Four years ago 1 should have yielded, and trusting to luck would have meant trusting to mother. I would have set to work and packed and 1 would not have dared speak my wrath lest a small figure tree]) miserably' to m.v side in the night watches with tears of penitence. Tlie figures still enter my room, it is true, during the hours of darkness, but fbeir intentions are predatory rather than conciliatory. When f remonstrate they merely say, “ You never use that soap; 1. may -as well have it,”_ or “ You’ve got millions of handkerchiefs. Do struggle, darling, against the sin of meanness.” The matter ends with a dutiful peck, and at last the family is abed.

The morning? Well, no use to pretend to enjoy the morning. This is really the last lap, and We all know it. The earc-frce holidays are over—if even holidays can be called care-1 reo to-day. The third term, with its welter of examinations, looms ahead. Moreover, who could protend to enjoy going back to town in the spring, when lambs are noisy in every paddock, when the hush is white with clematis, when the horses are getting uppish and require constant riding? Who wants to see acres of bitumen and miles of polished corridor while the daffodils are still golden in the old orchard? Who wants to sleep in a cubicle, to wake to the screech of sirens, to look from one’s window to a warp of telephone lines scarring the sky? Tn short, why go to school in September? But we arc too busy to think very much about it. Now that it has really conic to the last morning wc are all very polite and thoughtful of one another, controlled and carefully' casual. Feelings are less to be exploited than ever nowadays; as I heard Elizabeth remarking vngnelv to -her pony; “The least one can do in war time is not to add. to-things.” 'So farewells are brief and bright, and hands wave in airy reassurance. “ Sec you at half-term.” They have gone. And! 1? OF course f am desolate. 1 have always been desolate—for how many years?—after such partings. ■ T walk heavily hack to the silent house, certain that I am miserable. Then something strikes pleasantly upon my sub-consciousness. Tbe silent bouse. The perfect quiet. I stand still and listen. Not a sound. No laughing, wrangling voices; no everlasting wireless; no ping-pong balls; no galloping of names’ hoofs in the paddocks; no barking of ecstatic dogs. Tt is dreadfully quiet. Dreadfully? Of course. The quiet bus always been dreadful when the children leave. T repeat it firmly, and then I sigh—yes; it, is a sigh that ends almost on a note of relief. Blessed quiet. Silence has its beauty. Darting has its consolations. Horrified-, T catch back the thought. Consolation when the children have gone? And yet. Yes, this must indeed mean that 1 am growing- old.