Letters from The DUCK LADY

Radio Record, Volume XIII, Issue 11, 21 August 1939, Page 22

Letters from

The DUCK LADY

HE last few nights have . been: bitterly cold. Egmont rears her head in the thickest mantle of snow seen for years, and living in a caravan is not too hot. Not too hot, anyway, from the point of view of temperature. But, somehow, one forgets chilblains and shudders and shakes in the early morning once warm clothing is on. And-those moonlit nights when every leaf on the hedges stands out, mysteriously black, and the football field looks like a sheet of silver. It wouldn’t be wrong to expect a small boat to come a-sailing. And the thrill of creeping from the benzine-heated atmosphere of the caravan to the community kitchen to get water for a hot bottle. Perhaps it mightn’t be a thrill to many in the winter, butwhat’s the good of grousing? This is all leading up to the — housing shortage, and, if we are sufferers who refuse to suffer, it’s all to the good. Houses are completely nonexistent, and that’s that. After living in rooms, sharing half-houses, and existing ‘ in semi-demi-fiats, a caravan seems like heaven. At. least we are on our own-and that’s a lot these days. My experience of looking for . rooms, houses, flats, or even a _ghelter has not been edifying. ‘I didn’t realise until I had made a few rounds what peculiar people exist. It’s a wonder to me that some of the . people advertising rooms to let don’t demand six months’ rent in advance and then invite you to live in the woodshed to avoid dirtying the back veranda, the front porch, or the path leading to the washhouse. ‘Human nature might be the better for so philosophic

an outlook on life. A dust bath to freshen oneself up; a good meal, and a fight that’s soon forgotten, to work off animosity. We wouldn’t be torturing ourselves. with worries about money. and food and clothing; ‘work would be available for all, and the mother of the household wouldn’t have to carve a line between her brows puzzling out where to put the ever-growing family. There’d be -houses to spare. Only a few people live glamorous lives nowadays. Champagne, diamonds drip-

ping from pink ears, and chinchilla wraps aren’t for the multitude. The majority of us live our lives in one spot; have our few friends; our diversions; weep over our trials, and rejoice over our successes, however few; and it is a tragic thing for a man who honestly wants to rear a family to be faced with the problem of either doing without children or letting them grow up in a tent or a fowlhouse. That’s what the

present situation is leading to. , On one hand, the leaders shout: ‘‘Children. We want more children. Populate the eountry.’’ On the other the daily papers advertise: ‘‘To Let-One Room, 15/-; cooking, light, fuel, baths extra’’; or ‘To Let for a short term, 8 unfurnished rooms, £2’’; and so on. And that’s where the husbands need a word. We talk a lot about wives and their rights and wrongs. I’m always reading that women are put on; they need this and_ that. ‘"‘There’s no 40-hour week for women,’’ and so on. It’s quite true from every point of view that there are thousands of wonderful women, hard-work-ing, brave, unselfish, who are bringing up their children under hard conditions, and doing it well. But sometimes when I think about odds and ends, vignettes of life, I wonder about the husbands — that great army of patient workers getting up every morning, rain or shine (in hundreds and hundreds of cases washing the children and getting the breakfast), going off uncomplainingly to work; coming home at the end of the week and saying, ‘‘Here’s the pay, Mother. How about a couple of bob for tobacco?’’ Men who stick at their jobs for a lifetime and who know little or no diversion; whose toil is for their families; whose pride is in their children, and who have locked away the dreams they once had of high seas, far-off countries, and deeds of valour in the air. We

should think of these men, No one ever hears of them, because their lives are quiet and uneventiul. Their Sundays are spent pottering in the garden. Perhaps a football match on a Saturday or, in many cases. minding the children while mother goes -out. I’ve seen them, hundreds of times. Seen the greying hair, the patient eyes, the tired lines round the mouth. I’ve heard them say, "‘T’l] do the washing on Sunday. Mother, I like to help’’; "You go to the _ pictures, Mother, I’ll mind baby.’’ Yes, let us forget women’s rights and wrongs for a moment and say, ‘‘Thank you, Fathers of New Zealand. You . are doing a good job.’’

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