SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

Lake County Mail, Issue 1, 29 May 1947, Page 7

SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE

We’ve all known them—those days when everything seems to go wrong; when it’s so very easy to lose sight of the things that really matter because we are worrying about those which don’t I It’s then we need someone like Mrs. Scott around.

Jcan Carson waved her hand to her daughter ftying down the path for her bus. Then she came inside and shut the door. Another busy day to face, and . she did not feel fit to cope with it. It wasn’t just that there was the week’s washing, shopping and cooking, and all the rest of it. She could manage these all right if only her mind were at ease. When one is happy, work is no trouble, she reflected as she cleared the breakfast table. But life was full of difficulties just now—her own private ones, as well as those of the big world. There was Neta. Since her demob, she had seemed almost a stranger—a ■ Granger whose whole concern seemed to H>e pleasure and adornment. Jean did not like the way she was treating John Forsyth. He was too good to be kept just hanging on with nothing definite arranged about the future. Going into Neta’s room to gather things for the wash, she was met by the fragrance of face powder. How that girl was spoiling a very good natural complexion! On the mantelpiece a photo of a sunny baby face made tears prick her eyes. What a darling little girl Neta had been—one of those cuddly, confiding kiddies everybody loved. Who would have expected such a change? Her eyes shifted to another picture. A warm, temperamental face, this one; Allan, at ten years, brimful of health and life. She was grateful Allan had come through his war experiences without a scratch. But she was worried about him. Four years of regimentation, three years in India and Burma, and still no word of lis coming home. His was a spirit straining at the leash. So much precious time was being wasted, and there was so much he wanted to do. His unhappiness was hers, for a mother has not only her own burdens to carry. Now in her own room, she stopped to pick her husband’s pyjamas off the floor. It wasn’t like George to leave his things lying about. He must be worried, too, and no wonder, with all these restrictions cramping his little business till it was almost at a standstill. Suppose, after so long, he had to give it up and begin all over again! As ( Jean reached the hall on her way down, something came flapping through the letter-box. Probably a tax notice, or an account! But no! the envelope was in her mother’s handwriting. “Dear Jean,” she read, “I feel in the mood, so. I will come and see you for the week-end, if suitable. Expect me on Saturday at two, complete with rations and my B.U.’s. It’s my birthday, and I’d like to spend it with you. But please don’t make special preparations. A shake-down and a crust will do for me!” That was just like Mother! She wouldn’t foist herself on or.be a burk~ den to anyone. She had sturdily refused Jean’s offer to make her home with them, though how she managed to scrape along on her slender means beat them all to know. Of course. Mother eyas used to scraping along. She had brought up three fatherless children by her own efforts, putting Jeans sister Margaret through college, and apprenticing Alistair to an architect. Alistair was now only a memory—the last war was to blame for that. What a blow it must have been to her mother! At the time, Jean had scarcely understood; but now, thinking about Allan, she wondered how her mother had lived through the years with such cheerfulness. The amazing thing was that the old lady— seventy-three on Saturday!— was still cheerful. Nothing seemed to down her. It would be good to see Gran again. She had better send Margaret an invitation for Saturday. In fact, being !ree, Margaret could meet Gran at the station.

Jean’s sister, Margaret, stayed in lodgings at the other end of the town. She was a “queer stick.” She had been good-looking in her day, but was over forty now, and any chances she might have had were more remote than ever. Not that Margaret had ever considered anything so lowbrow as “chances.” Till now, she had been content with her teaching and her lectures, visiting on Saturdays, and doing church work on Sunday. But recently these things seemed to have lost their savour. As she finished her solitary Saturday lunch, Margaret told herself that last dose of influenza was to blame. She was taking a tonic, and was back at school, but she had no zest for anything. Of course it might be that she was growing older. She pushed away her cup and went to the mirror. Yes, it was Quite an old face she saw reflected. No one would give it a second glance, yet she was once considered the beauty of the family. There had been boys long ago, but she was too keen on her studies; she had let them go. It was time to go to meet Mother’s train. She ran a comb quickly through her hair, arranged so unbecomingly in an untidy “bun.” As usual, she did not trouble about make-up. A hasty dab of powder, and then she donned her serviceable raincoat and well-worn brown felt hat. Five minutes took her to the station. Waiting for the train, she wondered about her Mother. What had possessed her to take this long journey at her age? She was a silly old woman. Her finelycurved lips twitched a little. She and Jean had such a job trying to make their mother be her age! The train puffed in, carriage doors opened, and folk jumped to the platform. Margaret knew better than to look for a bent figure in sober black, but her eyebrows lifted when at last she sighted a slim form in a claret costume, with hat to match,, set at a snapP3' angle over a coiffure of snow-white curls. The face beneath that hat had a warming, roguish smile. But at the moment it was directed at Margaret. Mother had done it again. Wherever she went she seemed to make friends. Very often—as now—they were of the male sex. How men loved to act the gallant towards this little lady who, though she did not hide her age, certainly made the best of it! “Oh, there’s Margaret!” They exchanged kisses. “Meet a neighbour of mine, Margaret, Mr. Miller. He’s come to Barnfield on business.” When the stranger left them, her mother smiled. “Don’t look so disapproving, Margaret! I have no designs on Hugh Miller. Much too young for me.” That was Mother all over. She seemed to think being old was a joke! Margaret did not say much on the way to Jean’s. She was very conscious of the difference between herself and her mother; of her old raincoat compared with that smart costume; of her own earless hair and those crisp, silver curls. She had not failed to note that her mother’s companion had not wasted a single glance on her; and she did not blame him. But it made you think! Jean had a cup of tea waiting for them. Gran, had had lunch on the train, Mr. Miller had seen to that. When they finished, Margaret suddenly announced that she must go. Oh yes, she would be back for tea. It was just—well, she had something to do that wouldn’t wait. Jean and her mother were left together. Under her surface brightness Gran, had an eye for the undercurrents, and she had already guessed that Jean was worried. “What is it, Jean? You’re not looking too well.” “Oh, I’m all right, Mother.” “Oh! I can see you’re not ill, but you’re worrying. Do you think I don’t know the signs?” Jean had not meant to say a word, but the old bond between them still held. Never had she failed to find sympathy, whether it was for cut knees, love troubles, or the trials of early married life. Her mother had been through so much, she never failed to understand. So it all came out—Neta’s strange atti-

tude, Allan’s impatience, George’s business troubles. “It’s everything coming at once, Mother. It just gets me down!” “I know you bottle it all up, too—that’s not good. I’m glad you told me. Don’t worry, lass, it’ll all work out in the end. Take Neta. Most girls have a phase like that. They show the worst of themselves at home. It’s natural for her to be fond of pretty things, but there’s more in her than that. Her boy John probably knows that all right.” “But she keeps him hanging on so.” “He wouldn’t hang on if there was nothing worth while to hang on to.” That was true enough, thought Jean, comforted. “And as for that rascal, Allan, I daresajr he lets off steam in his letters to you and is all the better for it. It clears his mind. But if you to see him with some of his pals out there, you’d get a happy surprise. You don’t think he goes around moping all the time?” “Oh, no. He’s got too much humour for that.” “There you are, then. His humour will see him through. He’s got a lot of hard common sense, has Allan. He’s not my grandson for nothing!” How right she was! Jean laughed from sheer relief. “You’re a real tonic. Mother. I don’t know what keeps you going, I’m sure. You make me feel that George’s troubles will come all right, too.” Gran, nodded. “Even if the worst happened, Jean, you’ve still got each other.” Something in her tone made Jean thoughtful. Mother had had so little of Dad; ten years, was it? At Jean’s age she was not only a widow, she had lost her only son. And she had come smiling through. “Gran., I’m ashamed at myself,” she said. Going upstairs for forty winks, Gran, looked into Neta’s bedroom. Her Granddaughter was at the mirror wielding a lipstick. “Hello! Is all this for the benefit of John Lucky Boy?” Neta smiled. She liked Gran. She wasn’t always nagging at a girl. “Come in, Gran. Like a shot of my new lipstick?”

“It’s too bright for me, thanks,” She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’ve got to draw the line at lipstick, though I sometimes feel I’d like to try! When is the big event coming off, Neta?” “Oh!” Neta looked away. “You mean—a wedding? I don’t know, Gran. John’s not earning very much, you see.” “And you don’t want to take a chance?” “No—l am afraid. You see, the things I like are a bit expensive.” She said it defiantly. “Aren’t you in love with John?” “Yes, I am. I’d have parted with him long ago if I weren’t.” Studying the winsome face, Gran, realised that Neta was essentially a womanly type. The flippancy her mother worried about was only surface deep. “You’ve nothing to be afraid of, Neta. When I. was young I was fond of fun myself. But a change came in me when I married. I got fond, of different things—real things. If you’re truly in love that’s what will happen to you.” She spoke with such conviction that Neta was impressed. “I never thought of that, Gran.” “Well.” The old lady rose. “Your mother said I was to take a rest, so I suppose I’d better. See you at teatime.” Tea was ready. The dumpling, was out of its cloth and was steaming on a