A Short Story— JUST DIFFERENT

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 886, 1 February 1930, Page 32

A Short Story — JUST DIFFERENT

From her window, Granny Webster watched motor-cars and cycles whirling along the road. One car splashed through the creek, then chugged, chugged up the hill to Dawsons’s place. Dust whirled high; the hawthorn hedges were grey with it. An occasional jinker, with plodding horse, meekly took the gutter, pushed arrogantly aside by the usurper from the road originally planned and laboriously constructed for it and for the bullock-wagons of days gone by. Now and again springs bumped and squeaked as cars lurched into deep old ruts the iron-tyred wheels had worn. A heavy lorry, laden with logs from the mill, was in difficulties at the foot of Moore’s Rise.

Granny Webster was seated in state in the parlour. A fire glowed brightly on the pipe-clayed hearth, though the day was warm. Granny liked her bit of tire. It was comfortable -nd friendly, and old bones require lots of warmth. Spring afternoons were often treacherous.

Granny was 93 today. She drew her new woollen shawl more closely about her shoulders. Ninety-three! That was why her son’s wife, Mabel, had dressed her in her black silk gown, and a new lace cap, and new mittens, knitted by a great-grandchild; that was why a fire had been lighted in the parlour. AH far too fine for such an old, old body. Why could they not have left her chair in the warm, sunny corner between the kitchen Stove and the window? If folks dropped in to see her on her birthday, let them take their tea and cake as they did every day of the week. Granny was inclined to be fractious because of this change. Dear, dear, what a clatter that motor-cycle was making! What ailed it.. It wasn't sale day. She hated the hooting—like a mob of bellowing cattle. Rushing, rushing—making her feel restless on her birthday! Mabel had picked lots of flowers from her garden in honour of the day—roses, lilac, violets, daffy-down-dillies. There had been flowers in the two tall, green glass vases, wii h the dangling lustres on the mantelshelf that day, so long ago, when Jake had brought her, his bride, home to his house on the hill. Posies of jessamine and red geraniums and blue larkspurs. Fine big posies, with the long-stemmed flowers arranged at the nack, and the short ones in front, so that all might be equally displayed. Her gown had been white as the jessamine—with little sprays of lilac colour. and the frills near the hem edged with lilac ribbon. Her shawl, too. bad been sp igged with lilac and green. Her high straw bounet had lilac bows, ard long ribbons to tie oeneath her chin. How cosily her thick curls had nestled beneath the bonnet brim and about, her ears! Honey-coloured curls. Like great granddaughter May’s. It was scandalous the way they cut that poor child's hair. And her dresses were scarcely decent. One of the cars had crossed the bridge, and turned up the road toward the house. Oh, dear, visitors! Mabel was just about cleaning herself for the afternoon; and May was Preening before her glass. Ah, things were different in her own young days. \ anity such as May’s would have been punished severely. That chit actually powdered her nose unchecked. The car was stopping before the garden gate; another was coming up the hill. Granny’s old eye;s regarded ihe man who stepped forward to open ihe gate with resentment. Tut-tut! They were coming to the front door! Had somebody made a mistake? She

By

Hilda Bridges

was S 3 today—not going to be buried. That was Mr. Walton, the clergyman, and other men were following him, all looking important. One was carrying flowers.

A nice young fellow, Mr. Walton, but with no real dignity. That motorcycle he rode, now, and the way he had of dropping In, friendly-like, at the kitchen door! She had recollection of old Mr. Harper, the first minister at the little wooden church —of Mr. Harper riding his fat cob along bush roads. That was before his people subscribed for the hoodedbuggy, because of his rheumatism. Mr. Harper, then, driving up to her father’s house. One of the boys running to take charge of his horse. Her mother curtseying herself bobbing shyly in the shelter or mother’s wide skirts; father hastily sent for from his work; a fire lighted in the parlour. Ah! —Mabel bad heard the knocking on the door! May was giggling in the passage. Why did those men come bothering today—on her birthday? Why was her son, Jim, not at his work? She could hear him speaking to May in the passage. “Granny, dear!” Mabel was saying. She was looking red and flustered, but pleased. “Here’s such a great honour for you, on your birthday.” Granny drew herself up with the aid of chair and stick, prepared to curtsey, if her stiff old limbs would permit. Men were crowding into the room—strangers, many of them—smiling, bowing—following a stout gentleman. He cried—“ Don’t rise. Mrs. Webster! Oh, I beg of you!” She sank back, relieved, into her padded chair. Surely he was Samuel Cullen, old Ben Cullen’s boy-—Sam, who had got on and done well for himself since he had left off being such a scamp for stealing apples and cherries! What had brought Sam Cullen here? Why was he handing her that lovely nosegay? The Websters had never mixed socially with the Cullens* He was presenting the other men to her, and she was shaking hands with them. The minister, William Searle—he was Warden, now', wasn’t he? And Dr. Hart! What had brought him all this way in mid-afternoon, when he should be busy with his patients? Members of Ihe council! Mabel was asking them all to be seated, and Jim was drawing forward chairs, and carrying in more from the kitchen. Dear-dear, such congratulations and good wishes. They flustered her dreadfully! Mr. Samuel Cullen was standing before her now. He was bowing again. “Mrs. Webster.” he said, “you cannot imagine how delighted 1 am to be included in this deputation. We have called today to offer you, the oldest inhabitant of our district, our sincere congratulations on the occasion of your ninety-third birthday. 1-Ie paused, and drew a long breath. Granny -Webster quavered. "It’s real kind of you! Sit you down, sir Mabel, my dear, the elder wine and the cake ” "Presently, Granny,” Mabel said gently. “Ninety-three years! What a wonderful life-span!” Mr. Cullen continued. “Ah, many changes have taken place in those years, Mrs. Webster.” “Ay, that indeed!” she agreed. “You came to this district a little child, did you not? Your people were the pioneers,” he said. “Perhaps you are able to remember wild, untouched bush where a thriving township stands now. You have witnessed the whole development of the country. Looking back through the years you

must he able to picture the slow march of progress.” Looking back through the years! Granny Webster heard his voice only dimly now, and felt vague irritation as he droned on. Like a buzzing fly upon a window-pane, disturbing her dreams. He was saying something about the new shire hall and council chambers. The library. The splendid State school. Free education. The high school. Granny Webster was a child again, playing about her father’s first little wooden house beside the creek. Hearing the thudding of the axe, the crashing down of mighty trees. Watching father fence his small paddocks, the coming of the first green harvests. She was sewing her seam, or her patchwork—diamonds and squares of coloured cotton. Learning her letters from the battered primer. Writing copies on the big slate. “The recent installation of electricity has marked a very definite stage in our progress,” droned Sam Cullen. Mother had made candles of tallow from mutton or pork. It was a joy to watch them drawn, snow-white, from the tin moulds. How bravely they had burned in the brass candlesticks it was her pride to polish! Then father bought the lamps, and the candlesticks were laid aside. Little May had lately found them packed away, and had begged to bo allowed to bring them here to the parlour.

“The swimming pool,” Sam Cullen said.

On warm summer . mornings she had bathed with her elder sister, Minnie, in the creek. The winter flooding of the river into which the creek fell had been an annual menace. The settlers won their way at last, and men were sent by the Government to build the bridge—ihe lovely grey stone bridge! The building of the bridge had marked the commencement of the township; the inn and the store had been built, then small houses for the convict workers and their warders, and better houses for the little band of military in charge of all. The wooden church, where services were held by each denomination in turn. Her sister. Minnie, had been married there soon after the bridge was built. “Alas! tile development of motor traffic, between township and city has meant serious loss to our railway ” droned Sam Cullen. The memory of one day stood out clearly and distinctly in Granny Webster's mind. Her first visit to town. Rising long before dawn. Donning frock and bonnet of plaid: mother wrapping the big shawl tightly about her, and pinning it with a silver brooch. They had started before sunrise in the heavy market cart. She could hear the plodding of hoofs along dim bush tracks. The sky had flushed all things to rose, and the sun had risen as they came out on the hill above the new bridge. Birds twittering and singing. Father had drawn up beside a little tinkling creek, and they had boiled the billy for tea, and eaten some of the cold meat and bread which mother liad packed up. Reaching town soon after noon. The memory of shops, and of many people —restless people—a town was cruelly like an overturned anthill. Gay dresses and bonnets, and little parasols: wide skirts, and floating veils. Driving home again in the darkness. Falling asleep. Aroused by the welcoming barking of the dogs—“We recognise the benefit of quicker transit,” said Sam Cullen. The making of the road had begun very soon after the trip to town. Father and other farmers had offered labour and the use of horses and wagons instead of money. Day after day they had worked—grading, levelling, metalling. Next year the harvest wagons had gone off gaily by the new road, confident of reaching their destination without danger of becoming bogged. Splendid oxen, drawing laden wagons, passing along the road. The great teams of horses. The excite-

ment when the mail coach came pounding by. Ah! those were great days! But farmers had clamoured for a railway. Deputations had journeyed by coacli to town to demand a railway. What rejoicing there had been throughout the district when the first sod for the railway had been turned. People had driven for miles to see the puffing little train. Folk had gone off to town by train in terror of their lives, though pride had forbidden confessions of fear. Old folk had shaken wise heads at the daring of those who risked life and limb in such a monster. “The weekly picture shows. Wireless —.” What was Sam Cullen saying now ? Jake had come riding over the hill, galloping down the road and across the bridge. Jake, with his lean brown face and tall, strong body. Jake in Sunday suit of blue cloth, and waistcoat of fine brocade; frilled shirt, high collar, and stock fastened with a little gold-nugget pin. Jake had talked a lot about the gold diggings. Young men had the gold fever in those days. But his father’s death had made Jake turn back to the plough for his mother’s sake, and only on Sundays had be found time to come a-courting —to walk with her beside the creek. How shy she had been when he had driven her to the township on church Sundays!

His mother, too, had died; he had begged her then to come to him in his loneliness. There had been unhappiness and tears. Mother and father had needed her. It seemed cruel and selfish to place her own and Jake’s happiness before that of mother and father. Father had bidden her to put all thoughts of marriage from her mind. Jake must wait! Jake would have waited through the years had not Minnie come home, widowed, to set her free. Ah, they had been very happy, she and Jake! Working hard throughout the livelong day. Jake, the babies, the house, the farm, her little garden! What need for other amusement? Neighbours dropping in on Sundays. Granny Webster was smiling to herself. Wireless, gramophones, pictureshows, indeed! Waste of time and money! “All this must form for you a very wonderful vision—a pageant of progress,’ said Sam. “Today you have before you the results of modern thought and progress. Where once you saw the untouched hush you now- behold our wonderfully complete and up-to-date little township—the most wonderful and complete, I do believe, in the whole of Australia.” He paused. Granny Webster was smiling still. “It's all—just—different!” she said. From “The Australasian.”