WOMAN IN COMMAND

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXVII, Issue 23827, 30 November 1940, Page 5 (Supplement)

WOMAN IN COMMAND

Short

lITTLE Timson was in the front garden ,of his house in Pontresina '. Avenue—just round from where I live—laboriously pushing a huge lawnmower, which showed a vicious tendency to dig its nose into the turf, and fetch him up with , a sharp jerk at every other step he took. It was painful even to witness his struggles with the cumbersome, clattering contraption; so,- as I halted at his garden gate, I called out: — "Hullo, Timson, give the old rattletrap a rest-, and come along to the club for a game."

For, in the early days of spring, when the birds do sing, I like my round of golf on a Saturday morning.

He straightened himself up painfully and came heavily to the gate, like a slave called for a moment off the chain-gang. . "Can't do it, old man," he panted, passing a sleeve across his streaming - "brow. "Mustn't neglect the garden, or it would he a wilderness in no time." Higher Authority And I knew lie was merely repeating the words of a higher authority. I saw her in the background, standing near the heavy garden roller, that was waiting in reserve till his struggles with "the mower should be ended. So, seeing that argument would be useless, I went on my" way, sadly, yet humbly that providence had not seen fit to endow me with a lawn and an enormous lawjiinower.. For a long time now I have regarded my friend, little Tinison, as an example of dual personality. In his city office he is a bold little autocrat, saying "Go" to an underling—who may be

By DERWENT MIALL,

a much bigger man than himself —and he jolly well goeth. But, once over the threshold of his home, he is another man. For, like most little men, Timson has a large wife! As the spring advanced, and Saturday followed Saturday, Timson's struggles with the lawnmower seemed to grow ever fiercer and more' protracted I was round at his house one evening after he had had a specially heavy bout of it, and was too exhausted to say much. But Mrs. Timson and I were talking, as folk will, of the war. "I see the government wants us to collect all the scrap metal we can." said I, "for munitions." .' His Wife's Frown Mrs. Timson, who was knitting one of her surprise puzzle-garments for the boys overseas, nodded. "Yes," she said. "I must look round the house and see what we've got. Old saucepans-* —" "Rusty fire-irons." I suggested. "I might find a broken kettle." said Mrs. Timson "What about pails? Frying-pans?" "And brass ash-trays." said Timson —and immediately clapped a hand to his month, warned, by his wife's frown, that he had said the wrong thing. "Then there's usually a lot of rubbish in the garden shed," I went on quickly, to cover his confusion—"leaky watering cans, broken spades, bits of iron bedsteads —and you don't know how on earth they got there or why—old wheels " It was at this juncture that I had my great inspiration. "Perhaps," I resumed, impressively, "perhaps we ought not to grudge to our country's need even things that are still serviceable. Here is the government asking for steel; well, there's a lot of steel in a lawnmower —enough

Illustrated by Minhinnick

to make a lovely bomb. Only think how proud you'd be if a bomb dropped on the head of Old Nasty was proved to bo a reincarnation, so to speak, of your lawnmower!" It was a beautiful and uplifting idea, and brought a sudden gleam of hope to poor Timson's worn face; but I felt that Mrs. Timson didn't think' much of it. And after a little further chat I took my leave and went home. Pots and Pans

On the following Saturday morning, < as I approached the Timson's gate I saw a cart standing outside it; and a grimy man was dumping old pots and pans into the cart, while little Timson and his large wife stood at the gate, watching. L came to a halt by the gate, and greeted the Timsons; and the grimy man passed into the garden again, and this time emerged carrying—l could hardly believe my eyes I was so astounded —lie was carrying the lawnmower ! A strong man, he tossed it carelessly into the cart. "Gracious!" T exclaimed. "You're parting with that:" "Yes," said Timson "We must make sacrifices in war-time, old man." Evidently he was one who could make sacrifices very cheerfully; but it was not this that startled me. What surprised me was that here was Timson the autocrat, Timson of the city office, brisk, brusque, authoritative. And Mrs. Timson put up with it. There was some haggling with the junk man, and then the cart went on its way. We watched it departing down the road —Timson watching it with the light of freedom .shining in his eyes. This was his day ot emancipation . . . Plus-four Suit Then Mrs. Timson spoke. "Well, and now you'd better go indoors and change," she said. Timson agreed quite, readily, elated, 110 doubt, at the idea of putting on that plus-four suit of striking pattern that renders him, even on days of low visibility, so easily discernible on the golf links. "You can't." continued Mrs. Timson.- "do gardening in those clothes." "Gardening?" squeaked Timson. "Gardening," I echoed. •'Of course." said Mrs. Timson. "Now that the mower has gone you can strip the turf off the lawn, dig for victory, and plant the Avhole plot with potatoes. I remember in the last war. Mr. Pribble," she went on, turning to me, "they said that the country that possessed the last crust would win. This time, it may be the last potato." My heart bled for little Timson, as I saw him go droopingly up to the house. But it is splendid to know that he, and 110110 other, is likely to win the war—that is, if the last potato is to be the deciding factor. For, considering the size of the job before hiin, I should say it's a dead cert, that, if he produces any potato at all, it will be the very last one that is ready for this year's digging.