Peace Descends on Suburbia

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23145, 17 September 1938, Page 5 (Supplement)

Peace Descends on Suburbia

Before the Tradesmen's Ballet Begins

By JENNY RONALD

VOU can almost fool the difference in any suburban street as soon as the clock strikes nine and the last officeworker lias scurried tramwards clutching the morning paper, or has pattered to the bus-stop with an absurd click of high heels. They have gone! The sti'eet relaxes comfortably and you know that in every one of the "h. and c., e.1.," cut-fi'om-the-same-pattern bungalows housewives are squeezing the teapot for that last cup of tea. Ihere is no other cup of tea like it throughout the day—no other time when one can lean back and luxuriate, ignoring the insistent clamour of unwashed dishes, of burnt porridge pots and plates of slowlv-congealing baconfat. For five, ten, perhaps fifteen minutes, as long as the benison of that cup of tea lasts, there is peace in the suburban street. The sun seems to shine more warmly then, to gather the rank lawns and spring bulbs into loving hands, to transform even the meanest garden into a thing of spaciousness and quiet delight. What is more blessed than that earlymorning pause—that change from the fast, disturbing rhythm of the morning to the sweet, slow tempo of the office rush? It is as if the whole street had slipped from a modern fox-trot into a waltz of old Vienna; and just as suddenly it assumes an air of spontaneous gaiety, <is if it, too, breathed a Bigli of relief, "They're gone!" It seems to be waiting for something with pleasant expectancy. The overture is ended. The Curtain Goes Up The stage is set, and the curtain is up on the daily tradesmen's ballet. A grocery boy comes whistling down the street on his, bicycle, his white apron flapping like the sail of a small yacht in a harbour breeze. It is the clear, stirring notes of the "Toreador Song," that lie flings so arrogantly to the waiting street. He is the opening soloist of the opera, for after him comes a picturesque train—the greengrocer with his lorry piled high with brilliant, emerald cabbages, with Brussels sprouts tenderly green as jade, and red and orange pumpkins rioting over the floor. His baskets have a piquant air, so that for a moment you get the illusion that you are at a stall in a French market, choosing your legumes with careful artistry. "Lovely day," he says, as he weighs out smooth, mellow bananas and as his brass scales swing to and fro with a faint, metallic chiine, the whole street expands in the largeness of his smile. Hero is the butcher boy in his blue and white striped apron, triumphantly bearing his white-enamelled dish and scattering his "cheerios" and "ta-ta's" with prodigal largesse—undoubtedly the comic relief. Phantasy and Realism The bag-wash man looks at him rather sourly. Staggering to his van he looks fantastically like a gnome with a sack of gold who has strayed from Hans Andersen. But there is something very real about the coal man. His grey'shirt bares a sunburned neck, grimy but very human, and he pushes his "cap back from his grizzled locks as if to prove that carrying coal is a man's job. The gears of his lorry complain a little, but he drowns them with the sudden raucous cry, "Tea-tree clothes props! Tea-tree clothes proops." His leitmotiv, perhaps? Anyway, it lingers in the street long after he has departed. The bajcer dispels his sinister presence with his delectable wares. He nas a van nowadays, so the clip-clop of Ins horses' hoofs is heard no more, aU though his basket of fresh bread still has the same inexpressibly sweet, crusty smell as of yore. But the office workers never see the secret entertainment of the "street. When they return it is primly respectable once "more. The sunshine has gone from the daffodils; the gardens have shrunk to their natural pocket-hand-kerchief proportions. The curtain has fallen on the tradesmens' comic opera. There is only grev twilight and a chill dampness in' the air. Brrrr! What's for dinner?