THE REVOLT OF ELIZABETH-ANN.

Otago Witness, Issue 3769, 8 June 1926, Page 85

THE REVOLT OF ELIZA-BETH-ANN.

By

Alice Carr Tibbits.

(Copyright.—For the Witness.) Jim Fairfax came home to it one evening at half-past 6. It was a hot evening, even as it had been a hot day, and Queen street was stifling, and smelt of dust. He thought with pleasure of his airy bungalow on the breezy slopes of Mount Albert. He knew Elizabeth-Ann would have all the meltable stuff in the ice-chest. He had always been able to rely upon her doing things as they should be done, at the right time. Hft wife was a prize; other men did not hesitate to tell him so. He knew she excelled in all the wifely virtues, and constituted an ornament to his household withal. She was a pleasure to behold, was Elizabctli-Aiiii, and could boast of having the loveliest head of hair in Auckland. His first shock came just as he had put the car in the garage. Pauline—his eldest of four-s-racing around without the regulation play-apron so rigorously insisted upon by Elizabeth-Ann, informed him that “ tea was not ready yet; mummy had been to get her hair cut, and she had only just come home.” The second blow was when he saw ElizabethAnn, shorn of the beautiful, black, curling tresses which had reached far past her waist. “Good God! ” he said, and stood still. Elizabeth-Ann laughed—a queer little laugh. “ I should have thought you were accustomed to shingled heads by now; you have them around you all day in the office. Anyway, I suppose I look as well as anyone else.” He pushed the hair from his hot forehead. “You—you of all people! Pauline, call the others in and let us get some tea.” After some little delay the meal was arranged, and they sat down in considerable constraint. > “ I hate to be late home,” said Eliza-beth-Ann, “ but you see I omitted to make an appointment, and there were crowds waiting to be shingled.” “Crowds of fools! ” exploded Jim. “ And I was lucky to get done at all to-day. . . No, Kathleen, mother didn’t make jelly to-day; she hadn't time, dear. You shall have a nice, big, red one to-morrow. Junket? Sorry, Noel. You don’t often have to go without those nice things, do you?” “ Run along now, you kids. I want to talk to your mother.” Jim’s tones betrayed suppressed annoyance, which burst bounds as soon as he was left alone with Elizabetli-Ann. “ What the —what on earth did you do it for? There wasn’t one woman in 20 had hair like yours. Bift you’ve been different lately. I’ve seen signs. Nothing you’ve done or left undone exactly, but something in the atmosphere of you.” Elizabeth looked at him bravely. “You haven’t seen any difference, I am sure, because I haven’t been different. I have only felt that I should like to be. Other women seem to adapt themselves to every change, but I have never been anything but Elizabeth-Ann.” “Well, what’s the worry? As Eliza-beth-Ann you’ve always been admired haven’t you? Didn’t I marry you? When once a woman’s married she ought to be content - . . you’ve four jolly kids—” “Yes, they’re darlings; but for 30 years I’ve been just living up to my name, and it is so very staid in a world of Jeans, Junes, Joans, Pearls, Dawns, and other appellations in modern use. I wish I’d had the sense to bury it years ago, before it grew to me. I’m tired of always doing the right thing, and feel like "turning everything topsy turvy—” ‘‘le gods!” Jim broke in. “I never would have believed it! What an upset in a man’s life!” “Of course you can’t understand,” said Elizabeth-Ann; “you can’t imagine what it is like to have tons of hair weighing on your head on a hot dav like this; to have to brush and twirl, devise and manipulate that it shall never look other than charming whatever your state of health or humour . . . really—it’s almost as much trouble as a baby.” “Trouble! You’ve four of the beet kids . . .” “Of course I have—” “Well, then?” “You can’t understand. All my married life seems to have gone like clockwork. I haven’t had any breaks from that married feeling; one wouldn’t expect me to have with a name like mine. Always I seem to have been saying ‘ goo,’ and singing lullabies and things to the babies, and getting everything nicely ready for your home-coming at night. Now I feel like thinking of myself for a change.” Jim’s jaw seemed to get squarer. “Look here, my dear girl, we’ve gone along nicely in the old-fashioned way, and I’m not going to consent to ultra-modern ideas now ; not likely! It’s the first time I’ve come home and found tea not ready, which speaks for itself. As for yoUT hair ... it waa a crime!” “I look nice with it shingled, I know it.” “Yon look .like every other female from six to 60! Ask a man! Women will tell

you anything to make you as silly as the rest of them. Will it grow again?” Elizabeth-Ann’s mobile face grew firmer in line. “In time. That is, if I allow it to do so.” Jim came closer, he took her gently by the shoulders. “I insist, dear.” “Yes? After all, the hair was mine, I think.” “But you’re mine! Belong to me, to the children, to the home; that’s why it matters so much. Faugh! when I think of it! Why, your head is nearly a facsimile of my own!” Elizabeth-Ann was beginning to realise that “this freedom” was not to be won without pain of sorts, but because her longings were not a sudden phase or flash, but rather the product of slow evolution, she clung to the flag valiantly and refused to capitulate. “I’m sorry you don’t like me, but you’ll get used to me after a while like every other innovation. I feel years lighter and younger already, that’s worth something, isn’t it?” Her gay smile, which gave no hint of the tears at the back, did rot create a reflection in Jim’s face. He was worsted, and he knew it, but he bad no intention of accepting the fact gracefully. He strode to the door. “Elizabeth-Ann ” “Call me ‘Betty,’ Jim, it’s much prettier.” “Betty, be hanged!” You’re no more like a ‘Betty’ than I am like an ‘Algernon.’ Good old Elizabeth-Ann is nice enough foi\ me, and long hair. I’ve warned you.” “There’s still quite a lot of the Cave Man about you, Jim,” said Elizabeth-Ann sweetly, “I think it is time I prepared Donald’s bath.” “Oh . . .” Jim was opening the door. “You still intend to supervise their ablutions! Of course they’re well past the age that requires you to say ‘goo,’ but—” “Don’t be silly! You know I’ve not the least intention of neglecting them; anyone knows I’m a good mother, but that doesn’t say that all my life I’m to be nothing but a—a ” Jim had closed the door hastily. “A perambulating maternal instinct!” said Elizabeth-Ann with flushed cheeks. It had taken Jim a long time to become pleasant over the revolt. ElizabethAnn certainly was different, but there was really nothing dreadful to complain about. The house was still quite orderly, and the children well cared for. He had got used to the shingle, although he did not pretend to like it, and she looked one of the smartest women in town. Of course, she was beginning to take a great deal of interest in things that didn’t actually concern him or the home. Sometimes he marvelled how she managed it all, leaving no spot of deficiency upon which he could lay his finger. He had said he would have his way. She, noiselessly, but with amazing certitude, had had hers. The revolt had not passed without censure and praise from outsiders. Mrs Gordon Campbell-Coldnose happened to be in the chemist's when Elizabeth-Ann called in to get some headache tablets. It provided an exciting bit of gossip with the chemist’s wife. The chemist's wife rather liked Eliza-beth-Ann, and but for business principles would have defended her strongly. Mrs Coldnose was a power in the suburb, and could lose nothing by unharnessing her opinions, which she did as soon as Elizabeth-Ann’s trim tailor-made form and modestly-abbreviated skirt had taken its departure. “Scandalous! She must" be "quite thirty, too. Twenty-eight to thirty, anyhow', because I knew her mother (such a sensible woman), called them all good plain names in the hope that they’d live up to them; I know, too, that she gave them to understand what a man expects when he marries, so it is not her fault. Fancy wearing short skirts, and getting her hair shingled, and attending lectures and taking up her music and all that sort of thing now. Dreadful, I think.” “I think she looks very nice,” ventured the chemist’s wife, “and, after all, she has been a wonderful wife all these years, you know.” Mrs Coldnose sniffed. “It’s a matter of opinion. Do you know’ what I really think?” “No.” Secretly the chemist’s wife detested the haughty Mrs Gordon CampbeiiColdnose, but business was business, “I haven’t the least idea.” “I believe she is ‘mental.’ ” “Oh, surely not!” exclaimed the chemist’s wife. Anything less “mental” than the capable personality embodied in Elizabeth-Ann she could not imagine. “I’m certain of it,” said Mrs Co!3nose firmly, “you’ll see.” The chemist's wife knew her husband had almost finished making up the prescription. She leant over the counter, lowering her voice to subdued tones. “Of course, lie did have rather a good time, don’t yen think? Most week-ends in that little hut in the Waitakeres.... relaxing or something. ... she waa always at home with the children. I

used to see him tearing by in that twoseater with just the dog. . . “Well, he couldn't ake six in a twoseater, he—” “No, but lie could have bought a larger car, even if it had to be a cheaper one. There's always some way . t . ah, here’s your tonic.” “Marvellous prescription! I had been taking it for a month before my attention was drawn to the fact that it contained strychnine (the writing of most medical men is so illegible, isn ? t it?), but when I knew I nearly fainted, and should have refused another dose but for John, who said 1 had been looking ten years younger since taking it. Wonderful what those powerful poisons can do in just the right doses. A most remarkable man • • • 1 have a bottle always at hand, and if anyone is ill 1 prescribe a tablespoonful in water. The effect is electrical. Summer had gone, and winter. Spring was merging into long w r arm days of glowing sunshine and soft breezes, of dusky starlit nights when the fragrance of pale mghtflowers so loved of moths stole up through Elizabeth-Ann’s open casement. Not far away was the >ea. When the moon climbed up it would gleam like a sheet of silver at the foot of the cliffs, and she would see the dark irregular line of the Waitakeres. She had been very happy. Her revolt haa been perfectly successful in every way, and she had the comfortable satisfied feeling of something accomplished. It had been delightful to renew' the pastimes of her youth; to find herself not grown too old, but simply out of practice; to march along side by side with the things that were happening at the moment; to find that she could count in other wavs as well as being just Elizabeth-Ann. Mixed with all the joy of the new things was an abiding satisfaction that she had not back-slided in any of the old, and she smiled to herself in the darkness. How people had talked! The unkind things they had said! Hadn’t Mrs Camp bell-Coldnose even predicted divorce! W hat delight she had experienced in wearing just the very newest and smartest of frocks and hats; what a lot people missed who didn't revolt. She dwelt on the night when Jim had come home and found her with shingled hair. How ar |B r y he had been! She had nearlv wished it on again, but when the next day came hot and steamy, and there were no long curls to be brushed and arranged she had been thankful for her courage. Tt had, however, been months before peace, perfect peace bad reigned in the home. The moon was creeping up, a big golden balloon, and Elizabeth-Ann watched it, fascinated. What a wonderful old world it was. She wished Jim . . Suddenly she withdrew into the shadow. Jim had just reached the gate, and was bidding goodnight to some man; Jim was laughing to himself as he came up the garden path. ‘"Kids in bed, eh?” “Two of them. The other two are in next door. What were you laughing at Jim?” ’ “Old Watkins, lie was funny. Worried over you, my dear Elizabeth-Ann. Wanted to know if he could be of any use in bringing you to your senses.” “What did you tell him?” “Just laughed and said we’d muddle through . . .” “Jim . . “Yes, dear.” “1 ve thought of the loveliest name' . ‘Petronella.’ ” “Um—you could call her ‘Ella,’ but supposing after all it is a boy!” “Well, if it is—l don’t like two of the same name in one house, but we’ll christen him James and call him ‘Jack.’ ” Here endeth the revolt.