A Day in the Life of a N.G. Housewife
pp. 43-47 · Read in the full issue
By “Imeb”
AN armful of fire-wood is thrown into the wood-box, the door of the stove squeaks protestingly, paper rustles, tea cups and spoons rattle, and the house wife is dimly conscious that her house boys are punctually on the job.
A soft tap on the bedroom door, thrice repeated before a sleepy masculine voice growls the necessary permission to enter, after which its owner promptly goes to sleep again. The feminine occupant of the room rouses sufficiently to watch the boy placfe her tea on the bedside table and decides she will just doze a little longer until the tea is cool enough to drink.
The boy pads softly around to the other table with tea for his lord and master.
Crash! A masculine voice, no longer sleepy, bursts forth —- “You dunderheaded so and so. You clumsy puk puk! What name you no look good along table, s’pose you like puttim tea!”
The boy, deeming silence his best de fence, hurriedly gathers up the damaged crockery and beats a retreat. “Missus,” unperturbed, sips her tea, while her vol uble spouse calms down. Time was, she reflects, when she, too, would have been agitated over the loss of that eggshell China cup. The regularity with which similar accidents had occurred during th© years she had spent in New Guinea, had made her blase in this respect (al though she still remembers with a twinge, the time her Stuart crystal water jug had been used as a dipper for boiling water) and a rueful smile is all she now herself.
And so another day begins.
Bathed and dressed, “Missus” is about to go out into the house-cook to give her orders regarding breakfast, when a yell of pain and rage combined issues from the bathroom.
“Whose that ’e puttim wash wash be long me?” roars authority. “You fella like cookim skin belong me, huh ? Bring im plenty cold water quick time.” And the apprehensive culprit falls over his own feet and bargCs into every article near him in his efforts to grab the water jug.
BREAKFAST over, and the man of the house out of it without further in cident or accident, she gives her orders for the day, and then sits down with pad and pencil to order stores. She calls her major domo, and when he stands before her, begins her questions re state of pantry supplies.
“What name something ’e finish along house-cook?”
He immediately assumes an air of 4ntelligence and importance, and bustles but with the remark “Me go lookim all something first time, Missus”—although he knows perfectly well just what items need to go on the list.
Back again to report: “Flour, ’e like finish.”
“Missus”: “How much ’e stop?”
M.D.: “Half, das all.”
“Missus”; “What name half. Big fella now lik lik?”
M.D.; “Big fella lik lik.”
From which the housewife concludes that there is still about a third of a tin on hand and does not put it on her list.
“Tea?” she interrogates.
M.D.; “Plenty ’e stop.”
“Missus”: “Sugar?”
M.D.: “Lik lik two mus.”
“Missus”: “Now what name? Along Friday before me buying plenty sugar, nuff along two fella week. Sikis fella day das all ’e finish—sugar ’e go where?”
M.D.: “Me no savvy, Missus.”
“Missus” (accusingly): “You fella kai kai im.”
M.D. (in hurt tone): “No got. Me no savvy kai kai sugar.”
“Missus”: “You gammon! All time sugar ’e finish quick time too mus. ’E go where? ’E no savvy walk about. Now what name?”
But as she, of course, expects, her only answer is an injured, “Me no savvy,” and then as a brilliant afterthought: “I tink annis (ants) ’e kai kai sugar, Missus.”
Knowing it to be useless to discuss
the matter further, she passes on to the next item—mentally resolving, however, that if “himself” does not soon repair the store-room lock she will have to make a proper mess of it by trying to fix it up. He would hdve to repair the damage after she had finished with it.
Inwardly chuckling over her idea, she almost forgives the cook-boy for stealing the sugar.
THE list at last complete, she dismisses the cook-boy and tells him to send in an underling to take the order to the store.
Five minutes after the boy has gone on the errand, comes the laundry-boy with the announcement, “Benzine he fin ish, Missus.”
Vexed, she answers: “You makim what name? You savvy Wenyit ’e catchem pass now ’e go finish along B.P. What name you no talkim me before?”
“Now das all me savvy, Missus. Me like lightem iron, now benzine ’e no got.”
Knowing full well that she was writing out the orders, he has allowed the mes senger to depart thinking he, himself, will be sent to the store for petrol and he would thus idle away a perfectly good working hour. He thinks himself a very clever fellow, of course, though he real ises that he seldom gets away with such things with this Missus —she is always up to his tricks. However, he considers there is no harm in trying.
She writes out the order and he grins as he holds out his hand expectantly for the “pass,” but his black face falls when she tells him to call the garden boy, and when he comes, despatches that worthy to the store instead.
Sulkily he returns to the laundry, but brightens when he remembers that the iron is not functioning properly. He purposely refrained from telling the master before he left the house that morning so that it would not be repaired until late in the day. Now is his chance to get his own back. Snatching up the iron, he takes it up to Missus, and with a triumphant light in his eyes (he does not dare to grin but it takes all his will power not to do so) announces, “Iron ’e broke, Missus.”
Furious, she endeavours to control her wrath. The ironing is already well be hind schedule owing to rain.
“What name you no talkim me along time master ’e stop?” she demands.
“Tile loose ’im, Missus,” he answers, sullenly, as he realises how angry she is, although outwardly calm.
“No got! You no loose ’im, you hum bug das all. You no like work to-day, you like humbug das all. Arright, me, me can humbug too. Along Saturday ’e come up you no can catchem tobac. Now you go work along garden to-day.”
Procrastination is never profitable, as he has already learned from previous experiments, but his memory is short. He decides that he has been very badly treated, becomes more sullen and resent ful, and answers her back.
“Arright—maski tobac! Now me no can work more along to-day. Me no boy
belong garden, me boy belong washem clos now iron ’im das all.”
Discipline must be maintained among native servants. Cook-boy and house-boy outside are all attention. Who is going to win this bout? The Missus probably will, of course, but just supposing she does not win, what an advantage they will gain. They begin to speculate as to
how far they will be able to “try” her in future.
For a moment she does nothing, and, thinking he has won the day, he turns to swagger out of the room, only to be brought to a humiliated halt as white hands smite him stingingly on his very large ears. He faces about, a nasty gleam coming into his eyes as he contemplates
retaliation, but those steady blue eyes force his gaze to the floor. She does not speak and under that cold blue stare he begins to shuffle his feet. He does not know where to put his hands —he wishes she would look away. He is conscious of the giggles and whispers coming from the house-cook as the other two boys gloat over his discomfiture.
Finally, Missus speaks. “Arright, you wait,” and she takes up pen and paper and commences to write. He knows now what is going to happen—a note to the police master. “Oh, well! It is useless to rebel against authority,” he reflects and musing, is filled with wonder, as he has been many times before, that this frail white woman, who barely comes up to his shoulder, can subdue him so easily.
Timidly, he tries the effect of an apology.
“Me sorry too much, Missus. Me got plenty shame. Me like go now work along garden. Me savvy work strong too much to-day.”
For a moment she regards him, sec retly pleased that she has gained victory Without invoking police aid, her prestige thus being considerably strengthened, and satisfied to warn him further, allows him to depart.
“The day has commenced rather badly,” soliloquises the Missus. “Good heavens! It’s my bridge afternoon and half the morning has gone”—which sud den remembrance results in her descent on the house-cook and a string of orders relating to firewood, heat of oven, pre paration of ingredients, and an hour’s
cooking making rich cakes and dainties that her guests probably will not eat— that is, if they have any respect for their figures.
SPEEDING her last departing guest, she reflects that the bridge afternoon at least has been a success, although it had been rather a strain keeping the conversation away from personal topics and scandal.
Oh, confound the animals! She ob serves that Mrs. Y’s two dogs have amused themselves by scampering all over her flower beds and she feels tearful as she gazes upon various uprooted cher ished plants.
“Missus,” from the major domo. She turns to listen, giving him scant atten tion, her mind still sorrowing over her flowers. “Pussy-cat ’e die finish.”
“What!” she jerks out, in shocked surprise.
“Dog belong Missus Y killem pussy cat.”
And she notices two tears standing in his large brown eyes. Ye gods, what a day! However, the damage is done, but she feels like shedding tears herself.
“Bossy,” half Persian, had been a cat with a personality, and well-respected by all canine visitors to her house. She had been an excellent ratter and contemp tuous of all swaggering bullies who yap ped and snapped and tried to intimidate her.
Pargu expresses himself forcibly: “Dog belong Missus killem puss cat belong you, now me like go killem dog belong Missus.”
“No got, Pargu, no can killem dog.
You go plantim pussy cat.”
He shakes his head disapprovingly.
Queer ideas they have, these whites. He prefers the creed of his fathers, an eye for an eye, two dogs for a cat. He had loved that cat, had petted and fondled it, and watched it grow from a tiny kitten into the fine specimen of smoke grey fur and green eyes it had at last become. Then his face brightens as he discerns a silver lining to this particular little cloud.
“Missus, me no like plantim puss-cat. ’E good fella kai kai too much.”
“No got! You go plantim. What name!
You sorry too much along pussy cat ’e die finish, now you talk along kai kai ’im.”
“Fashion belong me fella Sepik, Missus.
All time Sepik like kai kai puss-cat.”
“Me got plenty shame along you. You bush kanaka true. You no boy belong work along white man.”
The jibe finds its mark. To be classed as a bush kanaka, when he has been working for white masters for six) years, and prides himself upon his sophisti cation and civilised outlook on life!
Shamefacedly, he turns about.
“Arright, Missus, me go plantim quick time.”
But, nevertheless, in his heart, he de plores the waste of such delectable food.
SUDDENLY, Missus feels very weary.
She decides to retire early after dinner; and then remembers that “him
self” has two “chaps” coming for dinner that night.
A hasty dip into the recipe book in search of a quickly-made dessert, Instruc tions to the cook-boy regarding hors d'oeuvres , a peep into all the saucepans to see that everything is cooking as it should be, a warm shower, becoming dinner gown, and a fresh and charming hostess greets her husband’s guests as they step up onto the cool verandah.
She will not retire until midnight, but her husband’s friends will not even guess that she has allowed her mind to dwell on soft pillow and cool sheets in the course of the evening. She resolutely puts the thought of an “early night” from her mind and decides that it has not been such a bad day after all.