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Page 13
[Illustration: _Overburdened Mother_. "GIT A MOVE ON, ALBERT--KEEPIN'
THE 'OLE BLOOMIN' WORLD BACK--AN' A WAR ON, TOO!"]
* * * * *
ONE OF OUR DIFFICULTIES.
Under this title I refer to a lady whom I will call Mrs. Legion, for
there are many of her all over the country, bless her conservative old
heart. She has been in service as cook or cook-housekeeper most of her
life (she is now getting on in years), and constant preoccupation
with kitchen affairs has somewhat narrowed her outlook, so that the
circumvention of the butcher, whose dominant idea (she believes) is to
provide her with indifferent joints, is more to her than the defeat of
HINDENBURG; and so far as she is concerned the main theatre of the
War is neither Europe nor the Atlantic, but the coal merchant's yard,
which disgorges its treasure so grudgingly. Not only is her first
thought for her cooking, in order--the transition to her second
thought is automatic--that her employer or employers may be
comfortable; but it is her last thought too.
With such singleness of purpose to crystallize her, she cannot
absorb even the gravest of warnings; not from unwillingness or stupid
obstinacy, but from sheer inability to grasp any novelty. That her
beloved master and mistress--either or both--should not have the
best of everything and plenty of it is, at this advanced stage in
her career, unthinkable. Even though she read it in print she would
disregard it, for her attitude to them papers is sceptical; even Lord
NORTHCLIFFE, with all his many voices, dulcet or commanding, has wooed
in vain.
I imagine that the milkman, from whom she heard of the War and whom
she thinks (for his class) a sagacious fellow, has warned her against
the Press. Anyway she has refused--and will, I fancy, never relent--to
allow any extreme idea of food shortage to disturb her routine.
"Look here, Mrs. Legion," you say, "really, you know"--you don't like,
or you have lost the power, to be too firm with her after all these
years of friendliness--"really we mustn't have toast any more."
"Not toast!"
"No, not any more. In fact"--a light laugh here--"I'm going to do
without bread altogether directly."
"Do without bread!" This with much more alarmed surprise than if you
had declared your intention of forswearing clothes.
"Yes; the Government want us to eat less bread. In fact we must, you
know; and toast is particularly wasteful, they say."
"There's no waste in this house, Sir [or 'M]." This with a touch
of acerbity, for Mrs. Legion is not without pride. "No one can ever
accuse me of waste. I'm not vain, but that I will say."
"No, no," you hasten to reply, "of course not; but things have reached
such a point, you know, that even the strictest economy and care have
got to be made more strict. That's all. And toast has to be stopped,
I'm afraid."
"Very well, Sir [or 'M], if you wish it. But I can't say that I
understand what it all means."
And that evening, which is meatless and is given up largely to
asparagus (just beginning, thank God!), you certainly see no toast in
the rack, but find that the tender green faggot reposes on a slab of
it large enough to feed several children.
Mrs. Legion may go to church, but her real religion is concerned far
more with her employers' bodies than with her own soul; and among the
cardinal tenets of her faith is the necessity for dinner to be hot.
You may have a cold lunch, but everything at dinner must have been
cooked especially for that meal, all circling about the joint, or a
bird, like satellite suns.
How to cleave such a rock of tradition? How to bring the old Tory into
line with the new rules and yet not break her heart?
"And, Mrs. Legion," you say, not too boldly, and at the end of
some other remark, "we'll have yesterday's leg of mutton for dinner
to-night, with a salad."
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