A LITTLE SHOPPING.
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Those Last Straws that Break the Packer's Heart !
By Fred Gillett.
A LITTLE shopping is a dangerous thing—some114. times. There is no doubt that a motor vehicle is very handy for shopping purposes. For people who live in isolated country villages the petrol car brings the luxuries of the town within the reach of all.
In the country village where I am staying there is a house called "The Three Fishers." There are six other inns in the village, but this is the only one that bears the hall-mark "Hotel." It Is not one of thoso thatched, gabled, moss-encrusted, oldest-inhabited, halftimbered hostelries with "nicely sanded floor, and varnished clock that ticked behind the door." (The varnished grandfather clock vanished some time ago— bought by an American tourist.) This hotel is built of stone, and has recently been overhauled and redecorated (not rebushed, for a good hotel, like good wine, needs no bush), provided with spacious diningrooms, lounges, and a lift, with a view to attracting such visitors as actually are, or might be expected to be, on the road.
Having consulted my pass-book, with a view to what actually was rather than what might be expected to be, to my credit, I decided to put up at "The Three Fishers." A coincidence, in short.
It is situated in a wooded country. There are rugged rocks and deep valleys in all directions; the ruins of a Plantagenet castle—all that is left of it since Cromwell bombarded it—stand on the rocks above, while a shallow river, "by whose falls melodious birds sing madrigals," takes the line of least resistance in the valley below.
The morning is very quiet. White fantail pigeons are cooing on the roof of the garage. Mine host, wearing a pull-over and no collar, is busy with the induction pipes in the cellar. Mine hostess is in the refectory, supervising catering stunts. Other members of the staff are polishing bra.sswork in the bar and decorating dining-tables for the avalanche of visitors that will arrive, or may he expected to arrive, in chars-h-banes at about midday.
A party of 80 is due for hinch. On their arrival the village will be awakened from its sleep. The long saloon bar, the tap-room and smoke-room will be filled with a clamorous throng from the Potteries, demanding all sorts of liquid refreshment; and it will then be time for me to take off my coat and give mine host a little amateur assistance behind the bar. I had never been called behind the bar until I came here. Drawing ale for a thirsty mob is quite as hefty a pastime as playing tennis—for an amateur—and pulling a beer engine is much easier than pulling a gear lever.
Catering for large parties of diners nearly every day during the summer months requires a good deal of planning and forethought on the part of the caterers. Ducks and chickens by the dozen, salmon, vast joints of meat and large quantities of fruit and vegetables must be procured. One would suppose that, being in the heart of the country, the local farmers and smallholders, even the small cottage-gardeners, would make it their business and profit to supply the hotel with all that is needed in the way of greenstuff, eggs and poultry. But this is not so.
I have been for several little motor expeditions with mine host to distant farms, to bring back eggs and poultry, and our researches have taken us through all sorts of rutty by-lanes and grass tracks, and, sometimes, have included the opening of a field gate for a cross-country bee-line to reach an isolated homestead.
The large farmers have contracts for sending their produce away to distant cities. The small-holders seem only to grow vegetables for their own consumption or as a hobby. They do not even take in one another's c42 washing. So, although living amongst peace and plenty, it is necessary for a large catering hotel to scour tha country round in search of provender, sending, perhaps, 10 miles for potatoes, t miles for hens and hen-fruit, and perhaps 20 miles for fish. This is where the ubiquitous petrol engine comes to the rescue.
It is about half-past nine in the morning, and I am writing in the smoke-room, when mine host, having washed off the dust and cobwebs after his activities in the cellar, appears spruce and debonnair, clean-collared and clad in plus-fours. He tells me that it is important to keep the contents of the cellar at a certain temperature, and—after I have verified this statement without the help of a clinical thermometer—he tells me that he is driving in to the nearest town, seven miles away, to do a little shopping. Would I like to accompany him? Of course I would. His daughter, who also has a little shopping of her own to do, will occupy the front seat with her daddy. There will be plenty of room for me at the back—that is-to say, on the journey out. On the return journey, he explains, I may be a little crowded up with the results of our shopping excursion.
He has a well-groomed Morris, which as a rule starts at one touch. As, however, the hotel stands on the top of a slope, the engine can be started by the passenger giving the car a shove off down the gradient. I know a man who never stops at a hotel unless it possesses a self-starting gradient, so to speak.
We arrive at the neighbouring town of TJxter (short for littoxeter) in about 15 minutes and park the car in the market square. Mine host and I called at various shops, where he orders large quantities of foodstuffs, which are sent to be placed in the car. As the car gets fuller and fuller of vegetation and bulky packages, I see that the seating accommodation for the back passenger is going to be strictly limited, if not reduced to standing room only.
We have completed our, purchases—all but one—but mine host's daughter is still shopping, and I fear that the result will add the last straw to our load. General knowledge question : Why is it that two men can buy half a ton of food while a girl is buying one featherweight hat? Dunno!
After we have made our semi-final purchase—which we do not wrap up, because it is for internal consumption on the premises—we return to the loaded car, where mine host's daughter awaits us, having at last made her own purchases, which take the form of various flimsy parcels containing millinery and other r frivolities.
The back of the ear is now fully occupied. There is a large salmon lying low in a long basket on the floor. There are two large hampers of peas and potatoes and one of strawberries. Also two portly bales containing packets of tobacco and cigarettes, besides many smaller packages, some soft and some which rattle as though they contained the spare parts for a kitchen range. There is just room for me to squeeze in, and I am instructed to keep order and see that the heavier parcels do not crush the lighter-than-air ones—particularly the parcel containing the new hat; that, by the way, is "the last straw" aforementioned.
At least, I thought the hat was the last straw, but it is not. We have still one more purchase to make, which has been left to the last, namely, a large block of ice weighing 1 cwt. We get it from the butcher's cold-storage room. it is put into a sack and securely tied to the carrier with several strands of rope.
As we proceed on our homeward journey, I give an occasional glance over the hood to make sure that our little iceberg is still with us and has not broken loase from its moOrings and "run amok." About halfway home there is a so-called level-crossing. It is really a very unlevel crossing, and we get over it with a bump that makes all the parcels bounce. After that I think it as well to have another glance over the back to see whether our hundredweight of ice has had a good crossing and is not feeling road-sick. The result is a hasty appeal to the driver: "Hi! Stop t" He does not hear me at first, and, as we are travelling at a good bat, it is perhaps 300 yards before he brings the car to a standstill. He turns round with a surprised and anxious face te know what is wrong.
"Ole Brer Ice—just dropped off," I explain.
What has happened? The buteher's assistant -has packed the ice into a very old sack, which burst when we bumped over the railway crossing. (Moral: Never put new ice into old sacks.) On hitting the surface of the road it did not bursi into a thousand fragments. It broke into halves. One of these halves broke into smaller pieces and lay Some 200 yards behind us. The other half (the better half) did not stop when it fell off the carrier, but continued to slide along the smooth roadway and was not able to pull hp wrhen we did. It passed us (on its wrong side) and stopped in the Middle of the road 50 yards farther on (without signalling its intention). Fortunately, this happened on a level stretch of road, and there was no other traffic in sight —although other traffic might have been expected to be on the road at the time.
Had the falling-off happened a little farther on, where the road dipped, the block of ice might have preceded us all the way home, got to the village first, and been pinched by the vjilage constable for skating without a licence.
There was nothing for it but to collect the remains of the broken ice-block, place them in the sack and deposit the sack inside the already overcrowded car. A few school-children, who collected the remaining fragments, were delighted to obtain free lumps of ice to suck. Gathering ice in July is better than nuts in May. Thus, as I said at the beginning of this article, the petrol engine had brought the luxuries of the town within the reach of the humblest country dwellers.
When the sack of broken ice had been placed on the floor of the car there was no room for my feet, so I had to sit on top of the hood, with my feet On the ice. We continued our journey. As the rapidly driven car swung round the curves of the sinuous road I expected every monient to be my next and that I should be swung off my insecure perch by anti-gyratory or centrifugal force, and feared that my shattered remains would have to be collected and put into the sack 'with the ice.
However, we reached the village without further mishap. The car was unpacked, the vegetables and tobacco unloaded, the ice and the salmon taken up tenderly, lifted with care and Placed in the larder.
During the journey I had frequently been cautioned to see that the heavier-than-air parcels did not crush the more fragile ones. Only one parcel was squashed absolutely fiat, and that was only a little one. It was the parcel containing mine host's daughter's new hat, which had somehow got pancaked -between the ice and the potatoes. This was truly the very latest straw.
Mine host's daughter seemed annoyed, although I comforted her with the assurance that, after all, there was no need to worry, (because they have ladies' bats all sorts of funny shapes nowadays; but this did not console the owner of the chapeau. So I added a rider to the effect that if would be just as well that, for future shopping excursions, mine host should use the car for light articles only and purchase a one-ton van for the -heavier transport. Mine -host's daughter added another rider: that it would be nice if daddy would at the same time buy a saloon body suitable for driving to dances, and thus get a reduction on taking a quantity.
No doubt when mine host sees this in print, the suggestion, like the car, will carry some weight.