MALE AND FEMALE

New Zealand Listener, Volume 28, Issue 714, 20 March 1953, Page 8

MALE AND FEMALE

by

M.

B.

AM rather enamoured oftthe current TIFH ° series Films Hollywood Dare Not Make. But I feel I'am going one better in. producing some of the material that I hope some day to shape into one of the Reports Kinsey Dare Not Make, Or rather, perhaps he dares to, but I’m getting. in first. I do feel that in an age that concerns itself increasingly with the Emotional Side (I am always going to lectures on The Emotional. Aspects of Childbirth, The Emotional Aspects of the Doctor-Patient Relationship; and of course the Emotional Aspects of Hospital Board Management are always well to the fore) it is high time we gave some thought to the emotional problems of the © primary school child. I cannot pretend this is an exhaustive study-I’m afraid I’m not the type of parent to whom the children tell everything-but herewith some potentially valuable observations on Love Among the Lower Ctasses. Ed Bs * OF course it’s a very touching moment in a woman’s life when her daughter first confides to her that she’s in love. Susan must have been six at the time, and on the face of it there seemed no serious objections to the business. His was Denis Woolston, I knew his family, they were the same age and of similar intellectual accomplishment. I was quite prepared to give my blessing. "Would you like to ask him to your party?" I suggested. Susan blushed. "Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. You see he doesn’t know he’s my boy-friend. He likes Carol much, much better than me." "Awkward," I agree. Carol is Susan’s best friend. "But, dear," I continue briskly, "you can scarcely call him your boy-friend if he likes Carol much much better." "Of course he’s my boy-friend," says Susan with sad nobility, "because I shall always like him so much better than anybody else." I squeeze her hand, in gratitude for having bred a child of such sensibility. Some months later I am dusting the bookshelf when something slips out. It’s a note from Timothy, Carol’s brother, beginning Darling Susan, and ending, after many assurances of i!l-spelt esteem, with the information that a present is enclosed. Ishow the note to my husband. We are delighted for Susan’s_ sake. There’s nothing like another conquest to blunt the fangs of unrequited love. We give it to Susan. She pounces upon it eagerly, skims through the first part and fastens on the last sentence. "Where’s the present?" she demands accusingly, shaking the note in defiance of the laws of probability. "Don’t look at me in that tone of voice," I say, miffed. "I haven't éaten it." So cosy, really, what with Carol being Susan’s best friend. A double wedding? The thud of books being thrown from the bookcase brings me back to con-

"Tt isn’t there," sniffs — Susan. ‘I’m going straight round*to that Timothy's and ask him what he’s done with My Present." "Don’t you. think, dear: i". begin, but realise that any words about Nice Girls would be wasted on one. who is pursuing her object with the righteous fervour of . a deserted wife intent on her alimony. © She is back in a few moments. "Tim wasn’t in-he’s gone..to Cubs." (Learning to be a wolf; I wonder?) "But I gave Mrs. Williams the note and she says she'll ask him

about it just as soon as ever he comes in. I’m going back to play with Carol." Sense rather than sensibility, I’m afraid. An hour later she bursts in, excited. "Tim hasn’t got the present any more. He says it was ages ago and he ate it. And he’s got another girl-friend now, too. But he’s going to buy me some more as soon as he gets his next week’s pocketmoney." My egalitarian principles are affronted. "Tt don’t think you ought to let Tim buy you chocolate out of his pocketmoney. You probably get just as much as he does." ‘(And you’d think any nicely-brought-up girl would have More Pride. It isn’t as if they were still-well-,) Susan is philosophic. "O.K., Ill get him to give’ me a dub on his bike instead. And you can give us’ eightpence to get some ice-creams at the store." "Very well," I say, reaching for my purse. Eightpence is a cheap price to pay to preserve one’s daughter from the stigma of being a gold-digger. By . % a ES, I reflect, girls certainly are a worry. Now boys-boys are so much easier. George, though he’s nine now, has never given me the slightest anxiety where girls were concerned. He would certainly not be injudicious enough to leave compromising letters in other people’s bookcases. But is he, perhaps, a little abnormal in his concentration on male: friendships; is there perhaps something too defensive about his constant reiteration that all girls are mad? But there was, I console myself, Margaret Delahunty. It was one of those incidents at the family tea-table when Susan was still in the throes of her abortive affair with Denis Woolston. George had made some unkind reference to the business and Susan had retaliated by referring to Margaret Delahunty. "Well," George had retorted with considerable spirit, "I might do worse. She’s very clever and she looks nice and she’s a very good cook,"

"How do you know?" I asked, interested. George maintained an _ obstinate silence. "She let him eat her play lunch the time he forgot his," crowed Susan. I glowed inwardly. Looks, brains, a kind heart; what more could any mother ask for her son? But somehow it all came to nothing. The competition was perhaps too strong -rather sobering to think of all those eight-year-old boys so definitely knowing a good thing when they saw one-or perhaps George was a little discouraged by the fact that Margaret got five excellents in her report to his none. Men are inclined to be stuffy about female intellectual superiority. But there was obviously a gap in George’s emotional front which needed to be filled. Next time I attended an At Home at the School I decided to look over the field. A plump motherly little girl immiediately attached herself to me. "Are you George’ Botthamley’s mother?" she asked, .awed. "Yes," I admit. She snuggles up to me. "Mr. Weldon says George is one of our best workers," she confides. "Well, isn’t that nice," I purr. . "Of course he’s a bit dreamy, Mr. Weldon says." "Indeed," I bridle. Ess "And he bites his nails. But then we all have our little habits, Mr. Weldon says." I look at her suspiciously. Can it be Mr. Weldon she’s holding a torch for? But no, her eyes follow George round the room in'a most satisfactory fashion. When I get home I ask George about her. "Who is that nice motherly little girl with the fair plaits? She seems so interested in you." "Motherly, that Felicity Fairburn? Bossy, you mean. Jeepers! And what's more she’s a Thief. She went and pinched my ruler and my rubber." "Perhaps she wanted to sleep with them under her pillow." "What?" says George,

"Nothing," I say. "Jeepers!" says George. Next time I meet Felicity it’s in the holidays, at the Zoo. George disappears over the horizon. "Haven’t you got George with you?" asks Felicity, balked. "He was here a moment ago," I apologise. "Perhaps he’s gone to see the lions." "Come on, Deborah, we’re going to see the lions," orders Felicity, and sets off at a brisk pant dragging her young sister at her chariot wheels, without noticing her wail that they’ve seen the lions twice already. Perhaps a little on the managing side, I reflect, but her heart’s in the right place. * * HEN little -Jimmy starts school I have no worries that his schooldays many be marred by that distrust of the opposite sex which has perhaps prevented George from getting the most out of co-education. But sex antagonism rears its ugly head the very second day. It’s raining, and I try to put him into Susan’s. outgrown raincoat, an impeccably male garment that used to. be George's. "J don’t wear girls’ coats," he snarls. "But it’s a boy’s coat," I plead, demonstrating that it buttons on the correct side. "Tt’s a mad old girl’s coat!" he shrieks, and eventually sets off sweltering happily in his tweed. Apart from this he settles in well, looked after lovingly \by the little girl next door, an blue-eyed blonde "who tells us she’s going to marry Jimmy "when she grows. up. Susan hides the dismay she undoubtedly feels on Prue’s behalf. ' "But I thought Robert Stevens was your boy-friend," she comments. * "Prudence tosses her curls. : "He used to be but I don’t like him any more. He’s rough. He kicks." "Who, you?" asks Susan, intrigued. "No, just things. Stones and dogs." "Jimmy bites," contributes Mary, our three-year-old. "People." (continutd on nert page)

(continued from previous page) "Just members of the family," Susan interposes hastily, anxious not to lose a@ good opportunity to get the family problem-child safely settled. "Will you come to Jimmy’s birthday?" she invites, every inch the future sister-in-law. "Hell!" says Jimmy. "I’m not having girls to my party." "You’re having me," says Susan firmly. "And me," pipes three-year-old. "O.K.," says Jimmy, outnumbered. "Girls only if they bring presents." * Ea * "VW HAT did you learn at school today?" I ask Jimmy about a week later. "We didn’t learn anything." "What did you do then?" "We didn’t do anything." "Didn’t you have singing?" "Yes, but I didn’t sing. Only girls sing." "Oh," I say. "Hubba Hubba Ding Ding, I know something,’ quotes Jimmy, smacking his lips.

"What’s that?" I ask. "Just something we learnt at school. You say that to chaps who've got a girl-friend. It makes them feel all squirmy." "Oh," I say. * * "|M going) to. play with Garry today," announces Mary at breakfast. Jimmy is shocked. "You can’t do that," he explains, "because he’s a_ boy, and if you play with him you'll be his girl-friend." "Yeth," lisps Mary, pleased.

Jimmy, with uncharacteristic patience, unbends to further explanation. "Then I wouldn’t be able to play with him when I come home from school because he’d be a sissy because he’s got a girl-friend. I'd have to say Hubbahubba ding-ding." Mary is entirely unmoved. "I like Garry," she says stoutly. "His mother has chocolate biscuits." "Hubba-hubba ding-ding," says Jimmy. But he doesn’t seem to get any real pleasure from. it. ak * * NOTHER week or so passes. Susan and George have taken over the task of finding out how Jimmy’s getting on at school. I have long found his conversation unrewarding. "Who’re you sitting next to now Johnny Palmer’s¢gone up to Primer 2?" asks George. Jimmy doesn’t answer, but a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth, "Geoffrey Todd, Andrew Folson?" pursues unperceptive George. Still silence. "ETe’s sitting neyvt ta a Cirll’ cheiabe

eS See ee ee "He’s sitting next to Diana Hopkirk," says Prudence calmly. I feel a quiet satisfaction. Trust little Jimmy. Quite the term’s most eligible debuntante (I don't know her family) and very generous with her fairy cycle. "Hubba hubba Ding Ding!" shriek three voices in unison, and three fingers point in triumphant scorn. "Hubba hubba Ding-Ding yourself," retorts Jimmy smugly, grabbing the last bun,

y ES, bright is the ring of words, when the right man rings them, and I suspect Stevenson of writing that in some moment of literary frustration, We all know those moments. I know when I try to ‘ring’ a few words they come out with all the glittering sparkle and ring of a cold-boiled potato falling on to an eiderdown."--From an NZBS_ Book Shop talk.