THE EXPECTED GUEST

Evening Star, Issue 22578, 20 February 1937, Page 2

THE EXPECTED GUEST

GATHERING IN CAMP [Written by M.E.S., for the ‘ Evening Star.’] When Uncle Edward wrote that he intended to pay our camp a visit we were tranxiy dismayed, tor Uncle Edward is no camper. Nor is he one ox t.iose easy-going, urbane o.d genc.e----i :.i who enjoy roug.:.ng it even tor a i ay; on the contrary, he is a germ Lend and a diet maniac. Not content with the vitamines that entangled the footsteps ol the housekeeper 10 years ago, he has taken unto himself seven devils worse than the first, and talks of cerfeals, starches, and acids, with gruesome details as to exactly what happens to the internal organs of those fool-hardy enough to mix them. Altogether, scarcely the typo of visitor to be welcome at such a camp as ours.

For we do not camp on the modern method, on a fashionable beach, in some well-furnished bach at whose door the milkman and baker call; on the contrary, we claim to have possession of one of the few beaches left untrodden by the feet of the week-ender and unlittered by the pineapple tin of the excursionist. It is not an easy beach to get at—that constitutes one of its advantages; having reached it, the camper must stay put, unless, like Uncle Edward, he is one of those plutocrats who can afford to charter special launches by the day. Moreover, the nearest store is three miles away across the sandhills, _ and it is even further to the next little settlement of baches. Therefore, while ideal as a retreat from the world our camp is not particularly suited to the entertainment of fastidious visitors. When we heard of Uncle Edward’s threatened invasion, the two burning questions to be solved were the eradication of all crudely visible germs and the provision of a suitable diet. Put in the loose but picturesque words of the boys of the party, we had “to clean the camp up and find some unholy looking messes for the old geezer to eat.” The first was simple enough; Uncle Edward was only coming for a day, therefore anything that would not reach his standard of perfect hygiene was simply removed bodily to a cache in the bush, only about a hundred yards from the camp, hut entirely invisible even to uncle’s eager eye; perfectly easy to bring it back when, ho had gone. The second was a different matter. What was our guest eating at the moment? Fortunately the greens stage had passed, and the minced liver phase had faded into an unpleasant memory; oblivion had overtaken the dry toast era, and. Uncle Edward now remembered prunes only to execrate them. Had he begun once more on the same old cycle ? If so, lupins and grass were the only greens the camp provided. A FISH DIET. It seemed an emergency demanding action, therefore we tramped through the sand to the post office; an SOS to a cousin in town brought back the amazing answer: “ You’re in'luck. The old boy’s on a fish diet.” It seemed almost too good to be true. It was. Impossible to imagine Uncle Edward rejoicing in the only diet easily available in camp; we might have known there was a catch somewhere, and that not of fish. After weeks of excellent fishing, of) hauls so magnificent that we could hardly bear to look a flounder in the face, and line-fishing so superb that a stuffed schnapper held practically no appeal—suddenly, after all this plenty, came famine. Four days before our visitor’s advent the fish ceased to bite; worse, they refused to lie about in the mud and be netted. Heavily we trudged through sand to the store, and at first enthusiastically, then listlessly, finally with loathing in our hearts, we opened tin after tin of corned beef. Corned beef and Uncle Edward I The thought was fantastic,; to him all tinned foods had long been anathema. • Once more we dragged the nets; once more we sallied forth with lines; drag we never so thoroughly, bait we never so wisely, it was a case of “ we’ve caught no fish to-day ” and to-morrow was not only Friday, but the day of Uncle Edward’s visit. EMERGENCY SUPPLIES, But we could nob leave it at that; the whole reputation of the camp was at stake; had we not boasted for years of our prowess? In face of criticism — “ you farmers are lucky chaps; can never afford a holiday myself ”*—had we not answered superbly: ‘‘lt costs nothing at the beach; you see, we practically live on fish?” Were we now to eat our words and invite our visitor to eat our corned beef? With a sigh and a moan wo took our lanterns and our flounder spears and went forth into the stilly—and uncommonly chilly—night. I have forgotten the exact extent of the mud flats and the mileage of the bay; I only know that between the five of us we must have covered a good 50 of them between 9 and 1 a.m., and that wo brought back a large portion of their surface upon our frozen persons. But what did that matter? We also brought back three flounder apiece; a poor enough catch, perhaps, but at least 15 fish should sustain Uncle Edward s ebbing strength for one whole day. But when we returned to camp, expecting to find the women folk asleep, we were greeted by one of those regrettable examples of lack of faith that have estranged many husbands. Our wives were seated exhaustedly drinking tea in the cookhouse, while round them were strewn fish—fish of all sizes and descriptions; nor did they show any wifely enthusiasm at our prowess or even offer us a cup of tea to thaw us: they merely said coldly: “How could we depend on you? We walked across the bay to that camp five miles off; we pretended we were paying a call; then we hinted—simply cadged for fish. They’ve got lots, but then they’re what you’d call real fishermen.”' Not, you will agree, a pleasant overture to Uncle Edward’s visit. ELUSIVE MILK.

The second blow followed swift: “ We called for letters at the post office; there was one from Cousin A.; she mentions that Uncle Edward only eats fish when cooked in milk.” Milk? Our laughs were hollow. Our only milk comes out of one of those tins that are anathema to Uncle Edward. Worse was to follow. “ They told us at the camp that there are lots of cows on that Maori place running wild with their calves. Surely it would be easy enough to milk one ? The Maoris wouldn’t mind; anyway, they’re all absentee owners. Why, how you invent difficulties! What’s the use of calling yourselves farmers if you can’t manage what one little calf does so easily?” The argument followed wellworn lines, but already our spirit was broken. When the first pale streaks of dawn lit the sky we sallied forth to see if, perchance, there was one cow on that Maori run that had once belonged to a milking herd and would allow us to milk her.

There was an aged Jersey who eventually yielded a reluctant quart—but not until we had had adventures with other and less accommodating cows that would make those > of a Spanish bullring pale into insignificance, Moreover, even when we found that one quiet cow, the rest of the herd—and particularly a bull of eager if mistaken chivalry—seemed to resent what they obviously feared as a precedent; when eventually we escaped with that pallid fluid from the ring of horned and interested onlookers we decided that Uncle Edward’s visit was a mistake. But how bitter a one we were to learn. It started badly, rua launch man deposited him at the further beach, so that , he arnyea breathless 1 from a walk through the b**sh track—exhausted, but flushed with pleasure from his first good deed of the day. “ Found a horrid rubbish dump in the bush, not a hundred yards away from your camp. Woinder you ro not dead of disease. Yes, I stayed to set the beastly thing alight. Less germs now! What’s that ? Fish. Never touch the stuff. A mass of gems! Milk? Only if it’s out of a tin. The truth is, the only pure food we ever get is what is canned. You’d be amazed to hear the number of germs killed in the process. Eat only tinned foods, and you’ll be healthier people.”-