Open Writing

Making A Little Go A Long Way

“People these days don’t take time. They have never known what it is to do without - to want,” the Wing mourned.
This remark was generated by the annual dishcloth knitting competition.

Both the Wing and Miss Constance were more than capable of demonstrating how to make a little go a long way. During the winter months they knitted their string dishcloths. It was a complete waste of money to buy such things when they could be made very cheaply and with so little effort. They had never considered purchasing a dishcloth, I was assured.

“A pair of knitting needles and string is all that is required. How much simpler could it be? Besides, it keeps us occupied during the long winter months. The Devil finds work for idle hands….”

To make silver polishing cheaper, they impregnated their own cloths.

“It’s such a pity that they don’t teach those Practical things now. There are lots of ways to save money if people knew how to do it. There is nobody left to tell them,” lamented Miss Constance.

Instinctively I felt that my time with them was coming to an end. With my responsibilities for shopping removed, it meant that I had more and more time in the kitchen. They maximised my service and I became very busy. Now it was not only steam pudding and custard, they wanted. They would demand a jam sauce as well. It was no longer carrots with the mince. It was carrots and caper sauce. The number of pots after lunch could total thirteen. This was for two old ladies!
I decided to take a few days holiday on the run up to Christmas. Amazingly, I was still trusted on the Brussel Sprout front. To cover my holiday period, they asked me to go down to the local greengrocer, and purchase enough sprouts for a week.

“Would that be about a pound?” I asked stupidly.

“Goodness me, girl, I have no idea. Use your head. You know we eat six a day. Count them out if you have to,” replied Miss Constance.

I put my coat on, and left the house feeling hassled. It seemed impossible to please these two. A neighbour stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you still working for them?” she asked, indicating the house with a tilt of her head.

“Hanging on by the skin of my teeth. I’m going back into nursing, I think. This is just too draining,” I replied.

“I think you have done really well to have stuck it this long. They are not of this era,” she observed.

This small conversation with someone who understood lightened my humour considerably.

I was unaware that in that short period of my absence, a friend had brought them a present of two pounds of sprouts. I had counted out the number of sprouts to last a week, as instructed.

When I returned to proclaim my success in having counted to fifty four, (leaving on Friday – not returning till a week on Monday =9 days) they were not interested. They were not at all amused at “the present” either. My happy mood collapsed as quickly as a soufflé when the oven door has been slammed.

“Imagine anyone bringing us two pounds of sprouts. They must think we eat like gannets. Of course, we couldn’t refuse, and obviously appeared grateful. But really! We now have far too many sprouts. We cannot waste them, so you will need to make Brussel Sprout soup,” intoned Miss Constance.

“Can you make Brussel Sprout soup?” I asked in wonder.

The disdainful look said it all. “You can make soup out of anything, Mrs. McLean.”

My mind boggled. Spare tyres? Couches? I began to get the giggles. To hide this I adopted my best belligerent attitude.

“Well, I don’t know the recipe for Brussel Sprout soup,” I countered, with my dudgeon as high as I dared.

Silently she raised her finger and pointed to the cupboard where various things resided, including the press for an ox tongue. I had never seen this used, but was informed it was an extremely useful instrument. However, I knew she was indicating the instruction manual, and the Brussel Sprout soup was duly made, though I never tasted it. Mercy spared me that dubious pleasure with my week off.

*

The Waiting Pigmy was flabbergasted when I told her. She had never heard of Brussel Sprout soup either. Faither smiled quietly to himself.

In some ways he was a contrast to the two old ladies – in other ways, he understood their values.

He had started life with nothing. Perhaps because of this, he had the ability to absorb everything life threw at him like a sponge. He exhibited a tremendous grace and courage in the face of adversity.

His father had been killed at the Somme a few months before his birth. His mother died the month after he was born and his brothers and sisters were not yet adults. His oldest sister, at twelve, was judged not old enough to look after him as a baby. As a result Faither, then Andy, was the only one destined to start his life in Doctor Barnardo’s Orphanage.

At a time when there was very little, he received an excellent education. He was taught that the difference between knowledge and ignorance was the ability to read. In his world, words ruled supreme. He might not be rich, but no-one would call him ignorant. He was never found without a book concealed somewhere on his person.

As an orphan, he had been taught that he was probably going to remain in the lower echelons all his life. Almost everyone he met would have a higher social class than he. It was essential for him to remember to be servile and respectful. He must appreciate what he had.

He had demonstrated a quiet power with my teenager that was enviable. When asked the meaning of any word Faither would reply: “There’s the Book of Words on the shelf - look it up.”
When this was first said to him, Darryl had ventured: “Don’t you know the answer?”

Faither had replied: “Of course I do. I also know never to ask something when I can find out the answer myself.” The Book of Words was well used after that.

Darryl had been at the stroppy age. He could and did answer back to me at every turn. The more cheek he gave me, the more any argument escalated. Voices became more strident. Tempers frayed.

Absorbed in a dispute one day, both of us had forgotten the silent, reading presence in the corner of the room. With the crescendo, Faither looked up from his book, briefly, through his half spectacles.

“Boy!” he said, firmly and calmly.

It came as a shock to us both. His reading had been interrupted.

We imitated goldfish, with mouths open, but no sound being emitted.

With that one word, peace was restored.

Faither, his job done, became immersed in his story again.