Big Ben In Central
p. 29 · Read in the full issue
Papua
TWO people in one corner of Papua drew up to the wireless cabinet.
Short-wave reception was coming in pretty clearly—height of the rivers, vari ous rainfalls, prices of fat sheep—all quite interesting to somebody. But the thrill of the evening’s programme was not yet.
Dutifully, they listened to this transmis sion; but with one eye on the clock.
“Now, it is nearly time for the Empire broadcast. Try to tune in, in readiness.”
Dials are painstakingly twirled, and then: “There is the carrier wave. Now take care. Here it comes!”
“Are you sure that that is England?”
“Of course! Can’t you tell an English voice?”
“It’s rather faint, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes. But look at the distance it has to travel, and the climates it comes through. It starts in the cold of an Eng lish winter, crosses seas, blistering deserts, monsoon rains, tropical heat and thunder, and yet we hear the very voice right here, at the Antipodes, and only a little South of the Equator.”
“What’s that? ‘Gales and snowstorms are raging in many parts of the British Isles.’ And here we are, sweltering in 93 degrees in the shade!”
“ ‘Parliament having special sittings on the Indian question.’ That will take a hit of settling, too!”
“Now, here’s music. My word! Doesn’t it remind you of last long leave? Do you remember the band at the Corner House Restaurant, and the fair-haired conduc tor, who walked amongst the diners play ing his violin?
“That’s a nice item they are playing —new to us, of course, in this outlandish corner of the globe.
“Listen! The chimes from Big Ben!
Can’t you fancy yourself hurrying over Westminster Bridge, or along the Em bankment, or up Whitehall, or across Par liament Square, while overhead the sonor ous notes boom out on the nippy March air? They say there is now a bigger clock than Big Ben in London—a product of the country that mostly worships big ness in everything. Well, they may make their Big Toms, and their Big Sams, but there will never be another Big Ben. His chimes always bring vision of the Homeland.”
Empire Broadcast! To some, it spells a whole heap of experimentation in coils and waves and transmission and reception and what not. To dwellers at the heart of things it may mean only news that is stale.
But to those of us who live in the outer outposts of Empire, it is a breath of home, an inspiration. We remember our race, And the homes from which we come, the high traditions of fair play and just deal ing which are the pride of all the sorts and conditions of men that belong under the British flag.
For an hour or so we can forget the miles of darkness stretching away on every side: the dense mysterious bush, standing like grim walls around the home stead clearing, and we are back in the gaily lit, busy streets of the world’s greatest city.
For just a few minutes, we are Home
again.