“It’s Perfectly Simple”

Evening Star, Issue 23729, 9 November 1940, Page 3

“It’s Perfectly Simple”

To unburden oneself about one’s friends in the columns of the public Press is unquestionably a relief at times to an overburdened heart; yet it has its dangerous possibilities. 1 cannot say that when my articles have returned like bread upon the waters to the inner circle of my own family they have ever caused any repercussions; a household becomes as accustomed to a journalistic mother as to the cat upon the hearth, and is as kindly tolerant of each. But there have been times when the printed word has struck coldly across the sensitive vanity of a second cousin or a distant acquaint-, ance, and when I have received a coldly resentful bow or even a haughty note of remonstrance as punishment. Curiously enough, these occasions have always been when I have least deserved censure, when the article in question had no remotest connection w r ith the individual who fancied herself parodied, when the mere unfortunate choice of a name or an initial has roused suspicion. And such suspicion, let me note in passing, is much more easily roused than allayed; to this day I recollect my first encounter with this curious egotism. I had written of a Christmas turkey and idly called him “ Albert”; within 24 hours of the appearance of that Christmas supplement a neighbour rang me and mentioned coyly that her son (aged 24. and weighing 16 stone) had been “ rather hurt ” at my thinking him like a turkey-cock. Assurance did little to pacify her. “ I did not even know your son’s Christian name,” I reiterated. That was a mistake. In a very few days it was repeated to me that “ She thinks so much of herself that she don’t even bother to get your name right. As to writing about humble people like you and me—why, we’re not good enough for her.” Certainly that was a unique experience and admittedly with a disagreeable woman; as a rule I have found people kindly anxious to assist my flagging imagination, to give me a present of an excellent incident and say cheerily, “ There’s a story for you.” Yet, should they misjudge you and imagine that you have depicted their peculiarities,' it is amazingly difficult to convince them of your innocence, and, nine times out of 10, they are more offended because you have not written of them than because you have. But my own family, as I have said, are hardened and impervious. Therefore, it came as a shock the other day when the man of the house said suddenly, “ By the way, if that stove is really so tiresome, weld better have a go at the chimneys.” The remark came apparently from the blue, and it was not until I noticed that he had untwisted the spill with which he had been lighting bis pipe that I realised its context. For it has become my economical custom, since the scarcity of matches has passed from a jest to a tragedy, to keep a supply of paper spills upon the mantelpiece; and what better material for the purpose than my own articles? Is it prejudice, or do thev really burn with a cleaner, purer flame?' (The family’s_ reply, unanimously thrust upon me, is that it is prejudice.) In any ease, halfeharred in Ins hand, was the article in which lately I unburdened myself to your natient ears upon the iniquities of the kitchen stove. And herebyns the result: my husband was .propping to

Written by MARY SCOTT, for the ‘ Evening Star *

clean the chimneys. Was ever stronger} proof of the power of the Press? But I felt no enthusiasm for tha idea. Professional chimney-sweepers are an excellent institution. They enter your house in black sandshoes, and with a general air of playing a charade; they shroud your hearth in a decent' tarpaulin; they evince, like Miss Garbo, a desire to be alone; and, hey, presto! by the time you return from writing that long-overdue letter the chimneys are swept, _ the magician is rolling up his tarpaulin, and peace has returned to your household. But I did not feel that amateur chimney sweep would behave like that. Therefore, I hesitated and played for time; perhaps the stove would coma right; perhaps, after all, it was tha wind. “ It’s no use waiting for a chimney sweep to appear in the hush,” 1 the family told me. “ The best thing for you to do is to go out for the afternoon and you’ll find the chimneys as clean as a whistle when you come back. All we’ve got to do is pick a large bunch of fern and one of us climb on to the chimney; then we pull it up and down with a rope and it does the job. It’s perfectly simple.” Many years of married life have caused me to dread that formula. When things are perfectly simple for the men of the house they are usually unspeakably complicated for the woman. However, I yielded to force and left them to it. I chose a pleasant walk with a lovely view; I thought it would be as well ijo enjoy myself whileyot there was time, to have those distant purple hills to console me when 1 returned to my ship-wrecked house. The landscape had that sharp beauty that is so often a forewarning of trouble to come. Nor did it warn in vain. When I opened the kitchen door I was forcibly reminded of one of those modernistio pictures of general and bewildering vagueness, optimistically entitled by its painter, 1 Fog.’ The air was thick with, soot; the landscape was obscured by dust and ashes. When I had ceased to sneeze and was able to distinguish tha familiar features of my home and my. family, my first thoughts flew in simple homage to the professional sweep of the city. How does ha achieve so much and wreck so little? On the kitchen stove a heap of resinous soot was piled; it had spread on all sides to the floor, the tables, and chairs. In the middle, wearing a de» ■ feated lopk, was the flue brush and an unspeakable rag that had once been a gay oven cloth bought at a Red Cross bazaar. The large kettle sat proudly on the linoleum, cheek by. jowl with the bunch "‘of fern that had accomplished all this’ destruction. The man of the house turned to greet my en- , trance with an air of triumph and a smile which his coating of soot unfortunately transformed into the frantia / grin of a nigger minstrel. “ Thera you are,” he shouted gaily, waving tha poker as a magician his wand. “ As I told you, a perfectly^simple matter.” J With a gesture of Hitjer-like omnipotence, he stepped backwards into tha* kettle; it collapsed In its turn on to the bundle of fern, and a thick, black stream gurgled to meet my reluctant feet.

In future I must be more careful in my choice of spills. The Press can ba too suggestive.