His ghostly essence like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep!”
Measure for Measure.
Nothing in all the various confused and contradictory orders issued by the capricious and neurotic “Dora” gave such unalloyed festive delight as the edict against “hoarding.” It opened the door to all the little spies and scandal-mongers of every neighbourhood, especially to the provincial types of these gentry, who are always of a more inquisitive and slanderous disposition than the same class found in large cities, for the reason that they have little other excitement beyond the gratifying stimulus of inquiring into their neighbours’ affairs and meddling with them if they can. The “Hoarding” order suited them down to the ground and set them all on the alert, peering into windows and peeping through open doors—following their “dear friends” into shops and taking eager notes of their purchases, till every eye grew hard and sharp as a gimlet, and every nose as pointed as the beak of a crow. It was astonishing and amusing to watch the alteration for the worse in the looks of men and women during this period; the theory of “psycho-suggestion” was amply verified in the visible fact that people who were previously open-faced and good-natured were almost unrecognisable in the sudden “squeezing-in” of their features to the ugly furrows of suspicion and meanness.
“Some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them,” says the sapient Malvolio; and I frankly admit that I felt myself to be entirely in the latter category when I became a sort of modern heroine in a new version of Much Ado About Nothing, in the precincts of Stratford-on-Avon itself, under the sacred ægis of the Immortal Bard. A real stage was set for me, with the real “city officers Dogberry and Verges”—in fact “the whole dissembly appeared.” I was summoned for “hoarding” sugar. In plain truth I have never “hoarded” anything—not even money, as the town of Stratford-on-Avon has sufficient reason to know. I have never even had the careful housekeeper’s habit of a “store-cupboard”—my house being destitute of such lock-up conveniences, wherefore we have found it best always to order what is wanted from week to week, paying for it likewise from week to week and incurring no debts. In the affair of the sugar I could not procure enough to obey the commands set upon me by the Food Production and other Government Departments. Correspondence with Mr. Prothero had impressed upon me that there was a shortage of all foodstuffs, especially butter, and it was represented to me that every householder growing their own fruit should make as much jam as possible to replace the butter. That year (1917) was a wonderful fruit year; in my own garden, not an “orchard” by any means or abundantly stocked, there was gathered nearly a thousand pounds dead-weight of fruit. Some of it we sold—much of it we gave away—the rest had either to be wasted or preserved. “Shortage of foodstuffs” necessitated its preservation. Our local surveyor, though obliging, could not supply his customers with enough sugar to go round. The “Hoarding Act” distinctly stated that the order did not apply itself to “sugar obtained for the preservation of homegrown produce”—so I appealed to my old friend, Sir Thomas Lipton, not only because he was a friend, but because he was a grocer, and as such, would be sure to know what quantity of sugar he might or might not sell to any customer. But——! Here comes in another story!
A short time previous to the Sugar-Comedy of “Much Ado,” I had been approached by two gentlemen from Birmingham on behalf of the Y.M.C.A. and Sir Arthur Yapp (then Director of Food Economy) to help the Society by a subscription. I gave a hundred pounds; and a generous friend of mine, on hearing what I had subscribed, gave another hundred. In the warmth of this success I wrote to Sir Thomas Lipton and asked him boldly for another hundred. I received a truly heart-rending reply to the effect that he was a “poor man,” and “could not afford so large a sum,” but that if I had asked him for ten or fifteen pounds he would have gladly subscribed. I at once seized the opportunity and begged him to send the fifteen. He did so, and I wrote my acknowledgments, assuring him that when he went to heaven that Fifteen Pounds given to the Y.M.C.A. would be an extra feather in his Angel-Wing! (I do hope he will one day show that letter to Sir Arthur Yapp!) Then, feeling I had not yet done enough for the Y.M.C.A. Huts, I agreed that the Cinema company, then running some stories of mine on the “film,” should give a few “shows” of them in Stratford for the sole benefit of the Y.M.C.A., and I am glad to say that they drew packed houses and brought a substantial result. For this and such assistance as I had freely given to help on the good cause I had a note from Sir Arthur Yapp expressing his “most grateful thanks.” And now we can revenons à nos moutons—that is to say, I can return to the Sugar version of “Much Ado”—but I would earnestly request my readers to “mark, learn, and inwardly digest” what we may call “The Y.M.C.A.-Yapp Interlude.”
As I have already stated, I could not get sufficient sugar from the local grocer to preserve the fruit in hand, and as fruit is perishable, and there was no time to be lost, I rang up Sir Thomas Lipton on the telephone and asked him what he could do for me. The familiar “Glasgie” accent came harmoniously along the wire—“Ye’ll never want for sugar so long as Tom Lipton’s on the ‘phone!”
So it was settled. I and my friend (a lady who has been my companion throughout my life since my childhood, and who has generously and kindly undertaken all my household cares) set happily to work to preserve our fruit; whole in jars where we could do so, but made into jam for the most part. I would here remark, with all diffidence, that I do not revel in jam myself; but I like having it for others—such as schoolboys, for instance, before whom whole pots vanish like snow in the sun when they come to tea with me, bless their frank appetites! We had nearly completed our labours, all except the transmutation of apples into jelly and “apple cheese” (the best possible substitute for butter), when one afternoon, while I was out, a police constable called and said he must search the house for “hoards.” He brought no authority, but stated that if he were refused he would procure a search warrant. My friend, who received the intruder, was naturally rather surprised, but having nothing to hide she cordially invited the official to go all over the house wherever he would. Accordingly he tramped into the dining-room, opened cupboards and drawers, even peering into an unobtrusive little tea-caddy, and went down into the cellar and inspected the larder. He found nothing but a large flour-bin, into which for convenience had been put fifteen pounds of sugar (duly weighed) left for use with the apples yet to be preserved. While he was still on the prowl, I returned home, and though I am never much taken aback at anything Stratford-on-Avon “authorities” do, I was, I think, justifiably annoyed at having my private rooms searched on such a ridiculous charge of which I was absolutely guiltless. Moreover, the “hofficer” who had thus broken into my house without warning, was a man who had often had supper in our kitchen with beer galore, which he had greatly relished—while another detail of the matter was that for some years, since the intrusion of an unhappy lunatic-tramp into my garden, the police had been given by myself a private key to the premises, so that they could enter at any time. Therefore, if they had sought to keep me under “observation” there was nothing to hinder their surveillance, which indeed I had personally requested and was grateful for. But—as the official informed me the “hoarding” accusation came “from London”—“on account of Sir Thomas Lipton.” This rather amazed me, and for a moment I thought it must be that “feather in the Angel-Wing”! My doubts were soon set at rest by a visit from my solicitor who told me Sir Thomas was “much distressed and could not sleep” for thinking about the threatened trouble. Some one at certain Stratford-on-Avon Stores had noted the arrival at the railway station of the Lipton supplies of sugar—quite openly sent, and openly marked “Sugar,” for we were under the impression that all was in due observance of the Food Production rules, and that there was nothing to hide or to “hoard.” Naturally I wrote at once to the Lipton office requesting these supplies to be stopped, without, however, at once succeeding, as, notwithstanding my expressed desire, a fresh package was transmitted, which I promptly returned. I then wrote to Sir Arthur Yapp, feeling quite sure that his recent experience of my conduct in respect to the Y.M.C.A. would convince him that there was some “official blundering” (to quote a press term) in the absurd notion that I, whose work throughout the war had been to help, not to hinder all patriotic aims, could possibly sink to the “hoarding” level. I had written to him long before, pleading that the poor working women should not be compelled to stand in “queues,” waiting to get food for themselves and their children, on which subject he wrote me the following letter:—
“December 17, 1917.