FRINGES OF TRUTH

Southland Times, Issue 18963, 9 June 1923, Page 9 (Supplement)

FRINGES OF TRUTH

THE REAL INVERCARGILL.

(By

“Rufus.”)

One of the peculiar disadvantages of living in the same town for the major por- ! tion of one’s life is that one is never able to form an accurate estimate of the real worth of that town. I have lived in Inverjargill for years that I shudder to count, and yet Invercargill is to me a city of blackest mystery, a riddle, an enigma. Hear the staunch Invercargillite waxing lyrical i to a visitor from Auckland over the beauties of his native-er-city, with its broad streets, its bracing atmosphere, its palatial • buildings, its verdant gardens, its Rugby football, its tepid baths—and so on. But hear the same man talking over the fence ■ to his next-door neighbour about the town i council and the potato blight, about the rise in rates and the drop in the glass. Stop! Is this the same Invercargill, this town of rain and mud and corrugated streets, of needy residents and foolish councillors? One is at a loss to decide which of these conflicting views to accept. Those eminently wise and judicious men who compose the Chamber of Commerce and the Southland League incline, so I am told, to . the former view, and it would indeed be I rash to impugn the veracity of such as these. And perhaps, after all, too much attention is paid to the unending moan of the ordinary citizen about rain and rates, perhaps he lacks the broader vifiion. Perhaps. But I have noticed, and who has not, that there is one class of people that finds in Invercargill a never-failing of delight and spontaneous admiration. For this we have their own testimony. I refer to the prominent visitors who get interviews in the daily papers. Who is there in Invercargill who has not felt his bosom thrill with urban pride when he sees something like the following appended under the name of a distinguished stranger: “I am much impressed with the great possibilities of your wonderful town. The back country ' is magnificent and the people are up-to-date and progressive. I have no hesitation in predicting a splendid future . . .” And so on. Sometimes I wonder why these enraptured visitors don’t feel constrained to come and live here. They say that great minds think alike, and they certainly do about Invercargill. Indeed the similarity is so striking that it almost amounts to a coincidence and I sometimes wonder if the papers would not find it advisable to keep a special supply of printed interviews, so that when a notability arrives ail the reporter has to do is to present him with one of these slips and say “Sign here, please.” But of course this would dispose of the spontaniety which is always such an enhancing feature.

Sometimes in moments of unworthy doubt, I venture to wonder if one of these distinguished visitors ever declined to say anything favourable about Invercargill. The affair, if it were humanly possible, would make a good story under the title of “The Man They Couldn’t Interview” or “The Reporter’s Mistake.”

“Yes,” said the hotel clerk, “He’s just returned from Europe. Might" be able to give you a good interview. Yes, room number 23.”

The Reporter went up the stairs three at a time, his eyes glinting with the light of battle, his hand clutching at the snow white writing pad that reposed in his breast pocket. Already in his mind’s eye he' could see the headlines shouting at him from the front page, “A Distinguished Visitor. Impressions of Invercargill,”. Already he could see his friend on the local contemporary gnashing his teeth in impotent rage as he looked at that accusing black type; already he could hear the Chief’s mild word of praise. Outside number twenty-three he halted, threw back the hair from his eyes, drew his patent non-refillable, self-empty-ing fountain pen from his pocket with a martial clank, entered. The Great Man rose to meet him, a friendly smile illuminating his finely chiselled features and double chin. “Well,” he said, with that bland and unaffected courtesy that endeared him to all who met him, “Another of these damned reporters, I suppose.”

“ I understand,” said the Reporter with a disarming smile, “That you have travelled extensively in Europe and the Old Country and have had vast experience of municipal affairs. May I venture the hope that your stay in Invercargill will be both enjoyable and interesting.” “You may. At the same time I would like to say that if it had not been for your infernally ridiculous train service I would not have |ieen here at all.” “Ah, then you favour the resumption of the once a day through express sendee to Invercargill.”

“No, I don’t. It beats me why they run trains to this one-horse show at all.”

The Reporter smiled at this pleasantry and said, “Perhaps you could give me your first impressions of Invercargill as coming from you they would undoubtedly be of great interest.”

“Certainly. The place struck me as being hopelessly out-of-daie and unprogressive.” The Reporter rallied and clinched, “No doubt,” he said, “Invercargill reminds you of other towns that you have visited during your travels.”

“Yes. It reminds me of Venice. Canals instead of roads.”

“Perhaps you have seen our public gardens They are considered very fine.” “Gardens! Gardens!” the Great Man became petulant. “Talk to me about your gardens! When I first saw them I thought they had forgotten to cut the grass on the side of the road. Say, where I come from ...”

“Our climate,” said the reporter hastily, ‘is specially adapted for the nianufac-

“Confound your climate. It’s the worst in New Zealand.”

Reluctantly the Reporter gave it up and said in conciliatory tones, “Perhaps you would not mind relating to me some of your experiences in Europe.” The Great Man made a gesture of impatience. “You are the third to-day that has made the same mistake,” he complained. “Try to get it into your head that I have lived in Bluff for the last fifty years.”

Next morning there were these headlines in the paper, but nothing about an interview.

DONE TO DEATH BLUFF MAN’S SAD END.

. . and the Reporter, with ghoulish satisfaction, contemplated his patent self emptying, non-refillable fountain pen, which was stained with blood from the tip of the 18-carat brass nib to the end of the patent porous safety-cap. Moral: Boost Southland.