PINK SATIN
VISITED a woman the other day who happened to be digging out all the old baby gear she possessed for a friend. She was on her knees before a cupboard that positively tumbled its contents at her feet -toys, garments, shawls, trappings-bits of things she had put away from dust and wear because she cherished them. She had got as far as the cot. Not the big thing with sliding bars but the small first crib that a newborn nestles into. This one was of the canvas folding variety. It stood beside her while she unwrapped and spread out its satin and net trimmings. "Heavens!" she said, "what a lot of rubbish one stows away! This never looked anything really, I suppose, and yet ..." she paused, "at the time I thought it was nice." And she still thought it was nice. You could tell that by the way her fingers lifted and held it — tried it straight — tried it in little gathers. "We took two evenings, doing it,’ she added, " Mother and I. I remember I thought I’d never been so tired. I don’t know why we’d left it so late like that. Tony was born next day." I watched her fingers, fascinated. They were so tender.
"Do you like the pink? It’s peach really, of course! He did look adorable. I used to stand and stare at him. I suppose every mother’s a fool over her baby ... but you know that warm dark skin. I was glad he wasn’t fair . . . he seemed so much more alive..." She broke off. A child of seven came into the room and stood beside us. His skin was dark and warm. "What's that?" he said. "Mind your own business! I’m sorting things — go away!" He stretched a finger to touch a ribbon bow. "Don’t touch that. Don’t you dare to touch anything!" She jumped to her feet and grabbed the child by his slender shoulders and shook him. "Get out, can’t you? And stay out! I thought I told you not to come bothering me. Tan sick and tired of you — wretched little beast!" She pushed him roughly outside the door and came heavily back to her task. I could not speak. I watched her fingers as she crammed the last of the things — hand-worked pillows, silken sheets, cover of hem-stitched linen — back into the cot. They were uncaring, rough; almost vicious. "Well, there’s the lot. And I hope they enjoy them! Women are mad to have children!" What do you think?
Ann
Slade
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/NZLIST19391124.2.49.3
Bibliographic details
New Zealand Listener, Volume 1, Issue 22, 24 November 1939, Page 42
Word Count
423PINK SATIN New Zealand Listener, Volume 1, Issue 22, 24 November 1939, Page 42
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