GOING TO A JOB.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 37, 13 February 1931, Page 61

GOING TO A JOB.

A short time ago I travelled in a service car with a big, fat cook-general, who 'was going to a job on a farm. There were three of us in a roomy back seat, and I was in the middle. My neighbour on the right was not a domestic, and she was going on tour—not to a job. She had been quite chatty to me till my cook-neigh-bour on the left desired also to talk to me. I did not want to talk much to anybody—cook or tourist—for I had quite a deal to think of; but the cook was evidently lonely, and rather nervous about her new job, and obviously wanted to "talk it off." She was rather deaf and had an irritating way of saying "Beg pardon," even when she liad heard what you said. But I took myself firmly in hand and said to that same self, "Who are you that you should turn an icy stare, or a deaf ear, on a lonely soul who. wants to find relief in 'outpourings'? Just you listen quite nicely and sympathetically; she is only going half-way —all tiresome things come to an end at length." Besides, I had rather a wicked desire to shock my superior neighbour 011 the right. And the waves rolled over me. I heard of cook's special pastry—of how she had peeled the potatoes or shelled the peas, or some trifle like that for a grand banquet for Sir James Gunson, or Dick Seddon (or some celebrity) when she was quite little. How she hoped there would not be "them long, high winders to clean," as she was not very steady on a stepladder. (And I visualised her portly form on a swaying, weakly stepladder). I learned that she hated the country, as a rule, but the wages were good, so she'd stick it as long as she could, for her daughter's husband was out of work, and she sent them all she could spare. (And the bubbles of laughter within me suddenly vanished.) "There's a baby where I'm going, I b'lieve," she .said, "but-1 don't mind, I like babies." "And so do I" I said heartily. "When I get one in my arms I could scrunch it to bits." (A dainty sigh from my neighbour on the right.) "And do you like babies, mam?" and cook leaned over me to beam at the frigid lady, feeling, no doubt, that we had been neglecting her. The answer was something between a snort and a cough, and cook said politely, "Beg pardon," and my laugh would not be suppressed. Cook looked mystified; then behind her plump hand she whispered to me, "Never 'ad any p'r'aps, pore thing."

A bend in the road disclosed a comfortablelooking farmhouse, and at the gate, to meet cook, was a kindly-looking woman. "Looks all right, don't she?" whispered cook to me. "0.K.," I whispered back, and cook said "Beg pardon." I wished her very good luck, and shook her hand warmly, and we were off. "Friend of yours ?" said the lady on the right, with a sneering, acid smile. (She knew well that cook was a complete stranger.) "Yes," I said, with a very level look, "a sister." She had the grace to blush faintly; then she settled into her corner, I into mine, and peace reigned. EDITS I'-UETON.