A NIGHT OUT

New Zealand Listener, Volume 5, Issue 126, 21 November 1941, Page 41

A NIGHT OUT

(Written for "The Listener" by

K

GIRL’S night out — that’s A nothing; that comes most nights. But a mother’s night off — that’s different. There had been the usual shattering rush for the concert, It’s not so easy with a large family and no help, not even a washerwoman. Hugh and Evie were taking me in their greyhound car; very nice of them, but they’d be sure to be dolled up to the nines. Besides, they’d know in a snap that my frock did not bear the hallmark of Salon Jane’s or Fletcher’s, but was just something painfully achieved with a Weldon’s. Fortunately I was near the end of it, such as it was (and really, it was rather good, considering), and was rushing on the dome-fasteners when in meandered Mrs. B. "You just would at such a time,’ I said under my breath, snicking another length of cotton, "I’m not getting you tea, either." * He be RS. B. is elderly and comfortable with maids to do everything for her. And how she talks! Her voice went on and on, and I had to bestir myself to listen to her tremendous nothings"And would you believe it, my dear, they tried to palm off the dinner set on me without a gravy boat. It was good enough value at the price-but still, war or no war, ‘Where is the gravy boat?’ I asked. I showed them I wasn’t one of those simple simons who’d take anything-oh, no, I’ve got my wits about me. There MUST be a gravy boat, I said-I never heard of a dinner set without one. What would one do with the gravy? Oh, I made a fuss, you get nothing in this world without fighting for it. So I got my gravy boat."

(Oh, bother your gravy boat, I reflected, Why didn’t you sail ‘away in it and leave me alone?) P * * O-I had to rush more than ever. The evening meal was sketchy, but ‘still there were piles of dishes and whatnots to be disposed of. I was for banishing the family to bed after tea, but there was a noisy discussion, They begged to be allowed up for a while. "We're not babies, you know; you can’t just dispose of us like that." "You're quite young enough to get into plenty of mischief. Well then, if you do stay up, you'll keep things tidy. Remember now." I admonished, underlying it yet not being too severe about it. "You're to leave everything tidy. Books away, no raiding the tins, understand now no muddle for me to come back to. That wouldn’t be fair now, would it? Now, please, you won’t forget?" Oh, no, there would be no muddle. My last agitated appeal as, all powder and bedazzled ("ooh Mum!") I rushed through the kitchen was: "DO be tidy. Turn out the lights when you go to bed." And there was the car wait- — * * x HE concert was a splendid escape from the iron routine of rice puddings, missing buttons, and holey socks. Away from lusty wrangling voices, banging doors, muddy footprints, to an elegant adult world of bright faces and bright lights, animated chatter, wafts of scent-bits of the old glamour coming back. And then the lowering lights and of voices subsiding to. whispers, the thrilling feeling of expectancy as one by one the performers filed on to the stage. Then the two glorious biting adagio chords that herald Egmont: And that passage after the adagio when the notes

begin to trip over themselves in their wild rush ahead to pound out the main theme. One can’t listen without that heightening and widening of one’s world that Beethoven always gives. Some .queer modern stuff, Prokofieff, I think they called it, I didn’t quite get it, but I loved the Granados. f ‘After this feast of sound and fancy, a car ride, supper, a little wine, Evie’s witty mimicries, I came home: dog-tired but most vivaciously stirred by it all. % bo * UMMING a little Haydn tune I opened the kitchen door and the first thing I did when I entered the dark kitchen was to stumble over a chair left in the middle of the room. This was not enough to quieten the gaiety in my blood, though it was slightly quenching. But when I nipped on the light and the room was revealed in all its horror, I could have sat down and cried: for sheer vexation and disappointment that children can care so little, The fireplace was in chaos, datestones and muddy boots littering the

hearth, and also-which was worsethe crumbs of a chocolate cake I had been trying to hoard. On the table a medley of things; a cap, a soiled handkerchief, an open tin of biscuits, traces of biscuit crumbs everywhere, crumpled sheets of paper, inkstains. Was my night so very bright after all? I hardly knew whether to cry or rage. There was not much emotion left for anger; tears somehow come easiest, Then suddenly I saw the eggs. On the table I had left two hard boiled eggs in a saucer to be ready for the boys’ lunch next day, and some waggish spirit had prompted one of the boys to draw a face on each egg. That would be Len, because he draws always with power, and sometimes with a salty humour, . ° , na iE On each egg was a face regarding me, one with a quiet saturnine and mocking twist to it; the other convulsed in a fat, Falstaffian grin. And because I couldn’t help it, I stood there and laughed with the laughing faces on the eggs. Why could I not help it? any mother will tell you.