SUGAR.
"Francesca," I said, "you must be very deeply occupied; for ten minutes I have not heard your silvery voice."
"I am attempting," she said, "to fill up our sugar form."
"Is it a tremendous struggle?"
"Yes," she said, "it is a regular brain-smasher."
"Give me the paper, and let me have a go at it."
With a haggard face, but without a word, she handed me the buff form, and sat silently while I read the various explanations and directions.
"Francesca," I said, "you are doing wrong. It says that the form must be filled up and signed by a responsible member of the household. Now you can say that you're brilliant or amiable or handsome or powerful or domineering, but can you honestly say you're responsible? No, you can't. So I shall keep this form and fill it up myself in due time, and leave you to look after the hens or talk to the gardener."
"Anybody," she said, "who can wring a smile from a gardener, as I have this morning, is entitled to be considered responsible. Infirm of purpose! hand me the paper."
"Very well," I said, "you can have the paper; only remember that, if we get fined a thousand pounds for transgressing the Defence of the Realm Act, you mustn't ask me for the money. You must pay it yourself."
"I'll chance that," she said, as I handed back the paper.
"Now then, we shan't be long. Which of these two addresses shall we have?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, they tell you to fill in the address in capital letters, and then they give you two to pick from. One is 1000, Upper Grosvenor Street, W. 1—"
"It is a longer street than I had supposed."
"And the other," she continued, "is 17, Church Lane, Middlewich, Cheshire."
"Let it be Middlewich," I said. "Since boyhood's hour I have dreamt of living in Middlewich. As for the other, I simply couldn't live in a street of a thousand houses. Could you?"
"No," she said, "I couldn't. We'll be Middlewichians.... There, it's done. Capital letters and all."
"Don't slack off," I said. "Fill it all up now that you've got started."
"I suppose I'd better begin with myself."
"Yes," I said, "you may have that privilege. Put it down quick: Carlyon, Francesca; age blank, because they don't want ages over eighteen; F for female, and Married Woman for occupation. Then treat me in the same way, putting M for F, and 2nd Lieutenant of Volunteers instead of Married Woman."
"Why shouldn't I put Married Man as your occupation?"
"Simply because it isn't done. It's a splendid occupation, but it isn't recognised as such in formal documents."
"Another injustice to women. I shall enter you as Married Man."
"Enter me as anything you like," I said, "only let's get on with the job."
"Very well; you're down as Married Man."
"Now get on with the children. Muriel first. What about her?"
"But she's away having her education finished."
"Yes," I said, "but she'll be back for the holidays, and she'll want her sugar then, like the rest of us. And Frederick is away at his school, probably getting much better sugar than we are. He'll be wanting his ration in the holidays. You'd better put a note about that."
"A note?" she said. "There's no room for notes on this form. All they want is a bald statement. And that's just what they can't get. They'll have to take it with the hair on. I'm cramming in about the holidays, and I hope Lord RHONDDA will be pleased with all the information he's getting about our family."
"Keep going," I said; "you've still got the servants to do."
"Yes, but the kitchenmaid's gone, and I haven't engaged another one yet."
"Don't let that worry you," I said. "Write down—Kitchenmaid about to be engaged. Name will be supplied later.'"
"You're quite brilliant to-day. There, that's finished, thank Heaven."
"Not yet. You've got to address it to the Local Food Office."
"But I haven't the remotest where the Local Food Office is. It can't have been there more than a short time, anyhow."
"Hurrah!" I said, looking over her shoulder at the document. "It says if you are in doubt as to the name of the district of your Local Food Office you are to inquire of any policeman or special constable."
"That's all very well," she said, "but how are we to find a policeman in this remote and peaceful place? I've never seen one. Have you?"
"Yes," I said, "I think I saw one last year on a bicycle."
"Well, he's probably arrived somewhere else by this time. He's no good to us."
"No, but we might find a special constable."
"I'll tell you what," she said, "old Glumgold is a special constable. I heard him complaining bitterly of having been hauled out of bed during the last air-raid on London. 'No nigher to we nor forty mile,' he said it was. He's sure to be among the cabbages. Be a dear and dash out and ask him."
So I found Glumgold in among the cabbages and asked him where the Local Food Office was, and he said he'd be gingered if he knew, he or his old woman either; and that was the question they was a-going to arst of us, because to-day was the last day for sending in. So I advised him to chance it with Nebsbury, which happens to be eight miles off and possesses a High Street; and then I went back to Francesca and told her that Glumgold advised Nebsbury—which was cowardly, but one can't spend a lifetime over a fiddle-headed document like that. Anyhow, we folded it up and posted it, and we've heard nothing since.
R.C.L.
