Gwinny on Meat-day

AT SCHOOL, when learning the art of literary composition, we were bidden first to introduce our subject, then to develop it, and finally to produce a conclusion; this formula we shall now adopt. First we shall introduce Gwinny; then we shall introduce meat-day; then we shall examine the two in combination, and by that time, we trust, a conclusion will have occurred to us.

Gwinny Bell was born in this district, but she was twenty when she came to live in the Lane. She had then been married to Alf for two years, and their eldest child had already won a Blue Ribbon at a Baby Show. The brothers and sisters who followed him have since won others—so many that Gwinny has made them into a cushion cover. But this is by no means the only family trophy. Nowadays Gwinny contents herself with awards for her jams and bottled fruits, but before her marriage she won many laurels at swimming, tennis and basketball. Alf, in his younger days, was a champion weight-lifter and shot-putter, and he still tosses crates of pineapples around as if they were matchboxes. The two elder boys bid fair to follow in his footsteps, and the elder girl has collected two Certificates of Merit for physical culture. As for the twins (who are known, naturally, as Ding and Dong) they have had the three-legged race at the school sports all sewn up for several years now, and their younger sister only recently carried off several prizes in the girls’ under-ten events.

All this athletic prowess seems quite a matter of course when you consider Alf and Gwinny. Alf stands six feet two in his bare feet, and weighs seventeen stone; we doubt, however whether he would have qualified, even in his youth, as Mr. Universe, for his physique, though powerful, is less reminiscent of the Greek god than of the gorilla. In strength and size Gwinny is a fit mate for him, but her Amazonian proportions are beyond criticism. She has abundant, fair hair, not yet touched by grey, and worn in thick plaits around her head, bright blue eyes in a fresh and comely face, and she carries herself like an Empress. In a way she looks too young to be the mother of two grown-up sons and, a nineteen-year-old daughter, to say nothing of solid, twin schoolboys, and a bouncing schoolgirl. But when you see them all together—as you do every Sunday morning, when they assemble, brushed and scrubbed, for Church—it is clear that only Gwinny could have mothered such a family.

And when you see her working down in the pines, or pegging out her vast quantity of vast garments on the line, or striding along the Lane to visit one of the neighbours, you seem to hear Wagnerian music, and lo!—the scene dissolves. Fade out the serviceable working clothes, or the best frock of gay, floral rayon; fade out the felt slippers, or the patent leather shoes; fade out the battered, week-day hat, or the Sunday straw with its purple flowers, and its little pink veil. Fade in accomplished draperies which reveal the limbs they should be covering, and shining breastplates which proclaim the curves they guard; fade in gold sandals laced about the ankles; fade in a horned helmet over blond, wind-driven hair. Fade out the timber cottage sitting on high stumps, crowned with corrugated iron, and surrounded by pineapples; fade in an abode of gods, resting on legend, crowned by clouds, and surrounded by enchanted air. Fade out, Lantana Lane . . . and fade in, Asgard I

Or, to put it more briefly, fade out Gwinny, and fade in Brunny.

Gwinny was, of course, called after the erring and somewhat shrewish consort of King Arthur, whom she in no way resembles. You might think that, having carried this name through life, she would have had enough of Malory (or, more probably, Tennyson), but on the contrary, each successive christening in her family has demonstrated afresh her addiction to the Arthurian romance. For this, however, neither Malory nor Tennyson may be held directly accountable. The story, as we have it from Gwinny’s own lips, is as follows:

Her parents were devout folk who sent their children to Sunday School, where the eldest girl was so impeccably regular in her attendance that she was rewarded with a handsome and lavishly illustrated book entitled Tales of the Round Table. Introduced into the house just before Gwinny (the youngest) was born, this work had a profound effect upon her mother, who determined to name her new child Guinevere if it were a girl, and Arthur if it were a boy. It turned out to be Gwinny, and Gwinny was reared upon jousts, chivalry, Excalibur and the Holy Grail; the grosser aspects of life at the Court of Camelot appear to have been, very properly, omitted from a Sunday School prize.

Gwinny’s mother so frequently lamented the fact that she had discovered the entrancing land of Lyonesse too late to bestow the names of its knights and ladies upon all her children, that Gwinny, when the time came, resolved to console and delight her with grandchildren who should enjoy this advantage—and has faithfully carried out her plan. The eldest boy is Tristy, the second is Gaily, and the elder girl is EElaine. Then come the twins. Gwinny says she did think of Balin and Balan, of course, but she felt they were a bit too unusual, so she decided upon Gareth and Lancelot—names which, as she pointed out, would have shortened nicely to Garry and Lance, only someone started this Ding and Dong business. (Someone also started calling Alf King Kong, but since this might have hurt his feelings if it came to his ears, it was dropped.) There is general agreement that the youngest child got off easily with Lynette.

We know what you are thinking; Gwinny appears to have missed something. What, you ask, no Arthur? . . .

No; no Arthur. On this point Gwinny is dumb—but Rumour is not. And what Rumour says is that when Alf was courting Gwinny, he had a very active and pertinacious rival—a massive young footballer, whose name was Arthur Bilpin—and one evening, at a Church social, these two fell out. Students of the classics will find the incident reminiscent of that great encounter between Hector and Achilles, for it seems that young Bilpin’s nerve temporarily failed, and Alf pursued him three times round the parish hall before they came to grips. Then he turned at bay; for a few sensational moments it was Rafferty’s rules, and no holds barred, but at last a haymaker from Alf stretched his antagonist on the grass. What Gwinny thought about this scandalous affair we cannot say, but she married Alf. Alf himself was overcome by shame and remorse, for he knew it was not right to indulge in mayhem at a Church function. The fact remains that in his family there is, conspicuously, no Arthur.

But it is not difficult to guess what Gwinny has called their farm. Hereabouts the farms are rarely named, though some people feel that this is a pity, and always mean to set an example with a board on the gate; but somehow they never do, and the farms continued to be known as Smiths’, Browns’, Joneses, and Robinsons’. Often they do have what we might call private names, but these are strictly unofficial, and the Postmaster-General’s Department never hears of them. Ken Mulliner’s house, for example, is surrounded by nut trees, so he calls it Nuttery Hut, and Jeff Jenkins, who has a poultry farm the other side of Dillillibill, naturally capped this with Chookery Nook. Dick Arnold, with stately simplicity, calls his place The Pines, and the Griffiths, whose house is in a pretty advanced state of disintegration, always refer to theirs as Tobacco Road. But although Gwinny went to a lot of trouble painting CAMELOT on her gate in red letters, beautifully edged with gold, the name was never generally adopted. This may have been due to some slightly embarrassed feeling of delicacy on the part of the neighbours, because the Bells’ is a picket gate, and when Gwinny painted the name, she had to put the letters on separate pickets, which was quite all right until the last two fell off, and then it looked rather silly. However, by that time the whole gate was pretty decrepit, and a year or so later Alf built a new one; so far Gwinny has not put the name on it, and we all just call the place Bells’.

Gwinny is really something of a prodigy. Besides all her other skills and attributes, she can attend to an almost unlimited number of things simultaneously, and she has a memory which would put any elephant to shame.

Let us join her for a few moments at tennis—not when she is playing (though she does play, of course, and is no mean performer), but when she is sitting out. Sue, Marge, Myra and Biddy are having a ladies’ doubles, and Gwinny is seated (very upright) on the bench outside the wire, conversing with Amy about the forthcoming Church Fair, watching all that goes on, and knitting a jumper with an extremely complicated pattern for EElaine. We cannot presume to say, guess, or even tentatively imagine just how her remarkable brain works, but if we were able to make a recording not only of her speech, but of her concurrent thoughts, it would probably run something like this:

“Yes, I said I’d go to the cake stall with Aunt Isabelle (purl 5, knit 2) but we really need a third (I must get home in time to press Gally’s trousers for to-night), and Alice can’t help this year of course (knit 2, slip I, pass the slipped stitch over), so I asked Edith, Tony, you’d better call the dogs away from the tea things (repeat this row three times), and she said she could come in the morning, it’s thirty-love, Marge, that ball just got the line, but she has a dentist’s appointment in the afternoon, look, love, Keithie’s playing with a cow-pat (that’s two rows), Myra, the jeep just went down the Lane, so Aub should be here soon, pick up that cardigan, Lynette, it’s getting trodden on, so I’ll try to find someone else (three rows). Hi, Sue, it’s to the other side, your ad. Ken, how about lighting the fire for tea, no, the games are five-four, Biddy, you served first (decrease once at the end of the next and every alternate row fifteen times), but it’s a bit hard, because everyone’s doing something else (that cow in the Lane looks like Griffiths’ Blessing), you’ll find the tea in the biscuit tin, Henry (purl 5, knit 2 together, make I, wool forward knit 1, slip 1, purl 5, knit 2 together, turn), that was a let, Marge, I heard it touch, children, come away from the tank, but I expect we’ll manage if we have to, yes, I brought some milk, Dick, it’s on the bench in the shed, Myra, you’re serving from the wrong side, yes you are, it’s thirty all (knit 2, slip 1, wool round needle knit 1, purl 3, knit 1, repeat three times), it just means I can’t leave the stall, see, because Aunt Isabelle gets the change mixed, Ken, don’t let the children go near the fire. (I hope Tristy remembers to pump some water for the washing. . . .) “

Gwinny can keep this sort of thing up indefinitely, and think nothing of it. She is never confused, she never forgets anything, and nothing escapes her notice. She is the only person in the Lane who is really equal to meat-day.

Except for Herbie Bassett and Joe Hardy, we all have calendars, with certain days marked, hanging beside our telephones. Gwinny rarely refers to hers, but the rest of us are always rushing to them in a panic, thinking : “Is it our day? . . .” And relaxing with gasps of relief. No, thank goodness, it isn’t!

But even our calendars sometimes fail us. Myra Dawson once turned over two leaves by mistake, and marked July instead of June, and Heather Arnold had a dreadful time for a while, because Dick insisted on regarding calendars as spills for lighting his pipe. When this kind of contretemps occurs, someone’s ’phone rings, and a voice says apologetically: “Look, I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but could you tell me if it’s our meat-day?”

Now and then, too, things are thrown into fearful confusion because somebody has to go down to the city on his meat-day, or is invited to a wedding, or succumbs to ’flu, or is in some other way unavoidably prevented from fulfilling his duty. But Gwinny can always rattle off an accurate account of even the most complicated adjustments.

“No, it was Dawsons’ day on Tuesday, but they changed with Kennedy’s and then Kennedys found they couldn’t go either, so they rang Arnolds, and Dick went, so that makes this Friday Dawsons’ day, and next Tuesday will be Kennedys’, and the Friday after that should by rights be ours, but we have to go and see Alf’s sister in hospital, so we’ve changed with Ken Mulliner, and we’ll take the next Tuesday, and then we’ll be back at the Griffiths, and we can go on by the calendar unless Sue and Henry have visitors for lunch that day, and if they do they’ll have to swop with Hawkins, and do the following Friday instead, and that’ll get us back to the Achesons.”

Time was when the butcher brought our meat to our doors twice a week. But nothing can stay the onward march of progress—which, indeed, gathers impetus so rapidly that it begins to remind us of an incident which once occurred in Gadara. It is difficult to work and stampede simultaneously; consequently the three sections of the community which always keep on working whatever happens (namely, farmers, artists and housewives), are liable to get trampled on. So now the meat is brought from Rothwell, dumped on the verandah of the store at Dillillibill, and after that it’s up to us. We try to be philosophical about this little alteration in our domestic arrangements, and hope that it means someone is better off somewhere.

Behold Gwinny, then, on her meat-day, glancing hurriedly at the clock as she puts the dinner in the oven, and calculating that if she is not kept waiting too long for the mail, she will just about get home in time to take it out. She has put on her floral rayon and her white sandals, but goes hatless and stockingless, for this is not a visit. She makes no list, because of her fabulous memory, but she checks over in her mind that she needs salt, soap, matches, a new dish-mop and a dozen twopenny duty stamps for herself; that she has to get a reel of number forty white cotton for Myra, two dozen fourpenny stamps and four letter-cards for Bruce Kennedy, and three air-letters for Aunt Isabelle; that she has to leave some eggs at the store for Sue Griffith, and pick up a rotary-hoe blade which someone is leaving there for Ken Mulliner, and get him a packet of ready rubbed, and post letters for the Achesons, and collect Joe Hardy’s groceries.

She hurries down the steps, waving to Alf and the boys, who are picking in the farther patch, and drives the ute out from under the house. EElaine, who is packing in the shed, puts her head out to call: “Timber-chalk!”and Gwinny waving again reassuringly, adds timber-chalk to her mental list as she turns out the gate, and sets forth along the Lane. She drives fast, but of course (being Gwinny) efficiently. It is no thanks to the owner of a placidly ambling cow, but entirely thanks to her unshakeable presence of mind, that there is not a skittled Jersey at the bend before Achesons’; and had it been anyone else’s meat-day, Amy Hawkins would not have been observed racing breathlessly, waving her arms, from her house to the back gate. But Gwinny observes her—we can only suppose out of her left ear, because Doug Egan’s truck, with a load of wood-wool and fertiliser, has just come round the corner, taking up two-thirds of the Lane—though not, admittedly, more than it needs. Gwinny adroitly steers her offside wheels on to the last available inch of roadway, gets by with a centimetre to spare, and stops neatly at the Hawkins’ gate.

“Ooooo-ff! “gasps Amy. “Oh, dear, am I puffed! I heard you coming, but I thought I was going to miss you.” She produces papers and money from her apron pocket. “Listen, Gwinny, would you mind getting some things for me at the store? Here’s the list. And you might just ask if they’ve got laying-mash in yet? And this is a pattern I promised Helen Miller—I said I’d get someone to leave it at the store for her. And this is for Mrs. Hughes, eight and tenpence (yes, I know there’s thirteen and four here, but I’ll tell you about the other four and six presently). This belongs to the raffle money, but I got mixed because the kids were playing up, and gave her eight and tenpence short. And the four and six is for stamps—a dozen fourpennies and half a dozen pennies. And if you wouldn’t mind just posting these letters, only this one has to go by air mail, so it’ll want extra postage, and you can put it on out of the stamps you get. . . .”

Gwinny undertakes all these commissions imperturbably, and continues on her way. She herself would never get mixed, and give someone eight and tenpence short, even if all her kids were playing up at once, but she feels no scorn for Amy. She bowls briskly along the main road, and should anyone ask her to-night—or six months hence, for that matter—what she encountered on this two-mile stretch, she would reply without hesitation : “A Land Rover, young chap in glasses, some fowls in the back—Australorps. Jim Bray driving his cow along to the Mullinses bull. Pale blue Cadillac with a Victorian number-plate, man and a woman with a lot of luggage and some golf clubs. Mal Rayner from Rothwell, in his Ford—going to see his girl at Tooloola; had his right hand bandaged up. Tom Andrews with a load of pigs for the saleyards. Old Blatt’s dog, limping on its left hind leg.” It would be no matter for surprise if she could recite the numbers of all these vehicles, too.

Without appearing to take her eyes off the road, she also possesses herself of much interesting local information. From certain garments hanging on the line, she knows that Maud Ashwell’s sister is staying with them again; from branded cases outside the Wylie’s shed, she learns that they are now sending their fruit to Adelaide; from a glimpse of Judy Blake walking across to the Grahams with a billy in her hand, she understands that the Blakes’ cow has been dried off; and from the sight of Des Wilkie unloading a bag of cement from the boot of his car, she correctly deduces that he is going to mend his leaky tank at last. All these matters automatically file themselves in her mind, to be produced when required as material for conversation.

Arrived at the store, she parks her ute, and is immediately accosted by Bill Weedon from The Other Road. (There are only two roads—not counting the main highway—in Dillillibill; our Lane, and the one which we call, condescendingly, The Other Road). Bill has a sugar-bag full of potatoes, and he would be obliged if Gwinny would just drop it at Ken Mulliner’s . . . and how’s Alf keeping? . . . And what’s the chance of a drop of rain? . . . And Cheerioh.

Gwinny descends from her ute, and looks about her as she straightens her skirt. The store stands a little back from the road, with a camphor-laurel tree and a couple of petrol bowsers in front of it, and about these assorted motor vehicles are negligently parked. The Post Office opens off one end of the store verandah, which is crowded with Dillillibillians waiting for their mail; at the other end, Bill Hawkins, as Secretary of the Cricket Club, is pinning on the wall a notice which says that the D.C.C. will play the M.C.C. (away), on Saturday the 18th—but this does not mean what you think it does; the Dillillibill boys will go no farther than Malandaba. Just at Bill’s feet the sacks containing the meat are piled, and towards these Gwinny makes her way, pausing to separate and admonish two little girls who have come to blows over a bright green ice-block. She mounts the steps on to the verandah, and begins to pull the sacks about, reading the labels affixed, and setting aside those destined for the Lane.

While she is thus engaged, Jenny Robertson from The Other Road comes along to greet her, and ask her to tell all the womenfolk in the Lane that the next meeting of the C.W.A. will take place on Thursday week. Gwinny immediately objects that this won’t do, because Thursday week is the Bowling Club’s monthly Ladies’ Day; Jenny claps her hand to her head, and says, oh cripes, she had forgotten—how about Friday week, then? A dog sidles up and begins to show more interest than he should in the sacks, so Gwinny routs him with a smack he will remember, and points out to Jenny that most of the ladies will be very busy on Friday week, preparing for the Junior Farmers’ ball on Saturday. But there’s nothing on for Tuesday fortnight, so she can tell the Lane to keep that day, if Jenny will attend to The Other Road.

She then grasps the sacks, takes them over to her ute, and returns with Sue’s box of eggs—this time entering the store, where she is at once involved in several conversations while waiting to be served. But she manages some small items of business at the same time. All the Dunks—father, mother, son and daughter—are busy attending to their customers, but Gwinny catches Mrs. Dunk’s eye, sets the box on the counter, and calls out: “Eggs—Griffith.” Mrs. Dunk nods, jerks her head towards the floor near the entrance, and responds : “Rotary-hoe blade—for Ken.” Holly Dunk, sorting newspapers, looks up to say that Joe Hardy’s groceries are in that carton over there, and Gwinny, as she nods acknowledgment, perceives Mrs. Hughes coming in, immediately collars her, and gives her, together with eight-and-tenpence, a lucid explanation of how this sum came to be erroneously abstracted from the raffle money. She then hoists Joe’s box of groceries on to her hip, picks up the rotary-hoe blade, and makes another journey to the ute.

Returning once more, she posts all the letters (except, of course, the airmail one), re-enters the store, places the pattern for Mrs. Miller conspicuously propped up against a pyramid of tins containing baked beans, and, observing Mrs. Dunk momentarily at liberty, proceeds with her own purchases, and those of Amy Hawkins, not forgetting to ascertain that laying-mash is now available, and to buy the reel of cotton for Myra Dawson. By now Holly has the newspapers sorted, so there is a bulky bundle ready for the Lane, and presently Gwinny once more emerges, laden, into the sunshine, and crosses the road to deposit her burdens.

Now for the mail. She finds the Post Office counter lined four deep. Mr. Davis, the postmaster, whom nothing can hurry, astonish or disturb, is waiting with monumental patience while Jenny Robertson (a bit of a muddler, Jenny), scrabbles in her bag, strews the counter with sixpences, threepences and coppers, and finally admits in despair that she is fourpence ha’penny short. Mr. Davis briefly instructs her to drop it in some day, and waves her aside. Things go ahead pretty briskly then, until Old Blatt has to collect a registered package, and sign for it; this threatens to create another bottleneck, so Mr. Davis moves him up to the far end of the counter, where he can take his time over it, and turns to Gwinny.

Gwinny says rapidly:

“Three dozen fourpennies, half a dozen pennies, four letter-cards, three air-letters, one dozen twopenny duties, and mail for the Lane.”

While he is assembling her needs, she finds the pitiable Jenny at her elbow again with another problem, and a chaotically scrawled bit of paper.

“Gwinny, I’ve got to arrange a tennis match for the kids—they’re playing the Tooloola juniors, six each team, and they say they want everyone to play everyone, but somehow I just can’t get it worked out. . . .”

Gwinny is watching the clock, and thinking of her dinner. She glances with astonishment at the deplorable bit of paper, and interrupts hurriedly, but kindly:

“It’s quite easy, Jen. You want to write it down in numbers, or numbers for one team and letters for the other, if you like. One and two play a and b, three and four play c and d, and so in for the first round and then one and two play c and d, and three and four play e and f, and you go on like that, and then in the third round one and two play e and f, and three and four play a and b. . . .”

“Have a heart! “cries Jenny wildly. “Say it again? . . .”

Gwinny snatches a telegraph form and a post office pen, and writes the whole thing down for her. Jenny thanks her abjectly, and goes off, chewing her handkerchief as she studies it. By now Mr. Davis is ready with Gwinny’s requirements, and in three seconds Gwinny is ready with the exact money to pay for them. There is still air-mail postage to be affixed to Amy’s letter, and when she has done this, and dropped the letter in the box, she returns to the ute to sort the mail.

This she does sitting in the driving-seat, and continues to do it without pause while several other people come along to talk to her for a few minutes, and then drift away. There is a newspaper for every house in the Lane, except Herbie Bassett’s, and a copy of the Farmers’ Weekly for everyone, and four copies of a women’s magazine with a lovely picture of Princess Anne on the cover, and one copy of a men’s magazine with a picture on the cover which is the kind of picture Gwinny disapproves of, and hopes Tristy and Gaily do not see; this is addressed to (of all people!) Joe Hardy’s Uncle Cuth who, Gwinny thinks, is old enough to know better, and ought to be ashamed of himself. There are also two English newspapers for the Griffiths, a sporting paper for Ken Mulliner, and a scientific journal for Bruce Kennedy. These form the foundations for neat piles arranged on her lap, and along the seat beside her, and she adds to them thus:

“Hawkins, Arnold, Hawkins (only a circular), Acheson, Master Tommy Hawkins (that’s for his birthday), Dawson, Dawson (from New Zealand, that must be Myra’s mother), Griffith, Tommy Hawkins, Dufour (French air-mail—funny writing!), Griffith (that’s their fruit cheque), Kennedy, Acheson (that’s Biddy’s sister, probably to say her baby’s arrived), Hon. Sec. Bowling Club (that goes with Hawkins’) Bell (receipt for the insurance), Mulliner, Dawson, Bell (about time Olive wrote!), Kennedy (that’s his fruit cheque), Arnold (that’s his fruit cheque, but I bet he didn’t get much for his last lot), Hon. Sec. Tennis Club (goes with Ken’s), Acheson, Dawson (that’s his fruit cheque—he would be sending to Newcastle just now!), Bell (that’s our fruit cheque), Mrs. B. V. Kennedy (wonder what the V. stands for?), Tommy Hawkins, Bell (that’ll be my pattern), Mr. T. Bell (now who’s that ,writing to Tristy? . . .) parcel for Tommy Hawkins (bless him, he’s doing all right. . . .).

When everything is sorted, and each bundle secured by an elastic band, she starts up her engine and—thinking again of her dinner—steps on the gas. About a mile short of the Lane she overtakes Herbie, who has been keeping an appointment with a fallen tree which is sending up a new, perpendicular trunk from the old one in a manner which calls for constant observation. She stops to pick him up, but tells him to ride in the back so that he can get the meat out of the sacks, thus saving her a few minutes. Herbie volunteers to take the Hawkins’ parcel in while she is delivering Joe’s, so when she stops at the corner, he jumps out and makes for the gate.

“Hoy!”says Gwinny, stopping him in his tracks, and beckoning him back with a jerk of her head. “Papers—mail—stamps—groceries—tell Amy they’ve got laying-mash in, and C.W.A.’s on Tuesday fortnight.”

Thus briefed and laden, Herbie sets out again, and Gwinny, having gathered up Joe’s belongings, ducks under the wire near the green ute, and takes a short cut through the Cobblers’ Pegs to the door of his shack, which stands open; she can see Joe and Uncle Cuth far away down in the pines. The table is swarming with ants (and no wonder, she thinks, with all those crumbs left lying around) so she sets the box of groceries on one chair, with the meat on top, lays Uncle Cuth’s disgraceful magazine on another, and buries it beneath the newspaper and the farmers’ Weekly, which has nothing more suggestive on its cover than a picture of a self-priming, non-corrosive, high-pressure centrifugal spray pump. Next she seizes a broom, and with a few swift strokes sweeps the ants and crumbs from the table and out the door, after which she replaces the broom and bustles back to her ute, where Herbie is awaiting her.

Down the Lane she goes, and stops at the Achesons’. Herbie’s gate is almost opposite, so he again offers to do the delivering, and swears that he will not fail to tell Biddy about the C.W.A. meeting. This enables Gwinny to go straight on to the Griffiths’; here Aunt Isabelle comes running out to collect everything, and astounds Gwinny by fervently pressing her French air-mail letter to her lips. Gwinny decides to ring Sue this evening about C.W.A., because Aunt Isabelle does not seem to be in a state to remember messages; she waves farewell, and drives on to the Kennedys’, where she finds Marge grubbing about in her garden, so everything is quickly disposed of, though Bruce comes hurrying up at the last moment with a pile of sacks which he would like her to dump at Ken Mulliner’s if she wouldn’t mind.

Gwinny wouldn’t mind at all, and continues along the Lane, waving to EElaine as she passes their own packing shed. The Dawsons have gone down to Rothwell for the day, so she enters their house by the kitchen door, rearranges the things in the fridge to make room for the meat, puts the mail on the table with the reel of cotton on top of it, finds Myra’s grocery list, and scribbles : “C.W.A. Tues. fortnight” on the bottom of it. She then proceeds upon her way, feeling that luck is really with her when she finds Dick Arnold waiting for her at his gate; she has got through it all in quite good time, and there is no one left now except Ken. He is nowhere to be seen, which is a pity, because she doesn’t think she can manage his meat, his mail, his papers, his rotary-hoe blade, his bag of potatoes and his pile of sacks in one journey to the verandah. However, she manages them in two, starts up the ute again, turns in the narrow road with one dazzling sweep, and makes for home.

Gaining her own kitchen at last, she deposits her burdens on the table, and hastens to open the oven door. Had she been late, EElaine, of course, would have rescued the joint, but this has been unnecessary, and all is well. Thanks to Herbie, and her other bits of luck, she has reached home with a good ten minutes to spare before she need call the family in. So she ties an apron over her frock, and begins to set the table. She thinks she might even get a few rows of knitting done before it is time to dish up.

Faith is rewarded, for no less than three conclusions punctually present themselves.

The first is that human beings reveal their more amiable aspects, retain their good humour, and keep their affairs coasting along not too badly when engaged with others in a loose, flexible, slapdash and not particularly efficient system of their own devising; but immediately begin to betray extreme prickliness, asperity, mistrust and jealously of their rights—to say nothing of a really distressing solemnity—upon finding themselves strait-jacketed in a tight, unyielding Organisation. Should some well-meaning, but grievously misguided Authority ever set up a Lantana Lane Meat Transport Committee, with a Constitution embodying Rules contained in Clauses and sub-Clauses, and providing penalties for Neglect or Evasion of The Same, we shudder to think of the arguments, the stallings and the recriminations which would ensue.

The second is that Gwinny is wasted in the Lane. For in the outer world Organisation is firmly entrenched, and we must make the best of it. There are literally millions who, given a pencil and a bit of paper, could (and do) whip up blueprints of quite infallible Systems capable of dealing with every conceivable problem in human affairs, except humans. Consider the multifarious enterprises which, with the passing years, grow bigger and bigger, better and better, more and more perfectly organised until no one can cope with them any more. How they need a Gwinny! Consider that we are moving steadily from the many mickles to the muckle which they proverbially form—the little businesses being swallowed by the big businesses, the suburbs being swallowed by the cities, the little nations crouching beneath the wings of the big nations from whose benevolent shelter they never will emerge; consider all this, and then reflect that some day one solitary human being will be called upon to administer the ultimate Muckle. . . . Heaven shield us if it should be anyone but Gwinny!

Therefore, the proposition that she should prepare herself for this high destiny by seeking, somewhere outside the Lane, a sphere where her remarkable gifts might be more fully exercised, is the essence of our second conclusion.

And our third is that we hope she won’t.