This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on Sept. 2, 1939.
John Jenkins observed as he arranged the footstool in front of his reading chair, and switched the three-way light into darkness, trying to put it full speed ahead: “Monday is Labour Day and we must do something about it.”
“Every Monday is labour day for me,” retorted Mrs. Jenkins, without looking up from her darning. “Did you ever think of that?”
“Say, is this a buildup for a washing machine, or an electric ironer or something like that?”
He had the light going right now, and spoke with a gentle tolerance. Minnie was always a bit edgy when she was working on the pile of stockings. He decided to ignore her complaint.
“To return to my observation, what plans have you made for Labour Day as a good citizen of the Dominion, on this day, set apart to glorify the working man in his trials and triumphs?”
Mrs. Jenkins had her hand in one of his socks, spreading the toe to show a fair-size hole.
“What makes your stockings break in the toes — could it be an unmanicured toenail? If so, I think it would be a great way to celebrate Labour Day for you to take steps. You could also empty your own ashtrays, say for the week before and the week following, just as two friendly gestures. I think it would be a fine idea for a son of Mary to do this much for a daughter of Martha.”
John Jenkins laid down his paper.
“You have a very literal mind, Minnie. You never see past your own little circle. You have a quaint way of running the conversation down a blind alley. You are so hopelessly local in your point of view.”
She made no reply and he went on: “If you haven’t enough help, it’s not my fault. I’ve never kicked about your bills, though I do think, with a grown-up daughter and a half-grown one and an excellent maid, you are not entitled to very much sympathy. My mother did all her own work and liked it, and so did yours.”
“I’ve heard all about that,” Mrs. Jenkins said icily. Then with an effort, she changed her tone. “I don’t see why you need to lose your temper so early in the evening. You began to talk about Labour Day. Let’s get back to it. What had you in mind?”
“Well, I thought it would be nice to go and see the finals in the golf competition. We could take a picnic lunch and take Eleanor and Ruth with us, and go to the lake for the evening. I like to pitch quoits and the girls could dance there, and we could come home in good time.”
“I don’t know about Eleanor,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “I’m afraid that would seem too much like a family party for her. I heard her phoning some of her crowd about having a party here that night. She asked me first if we were going out, and I know Rupert is expecting to use the car.
“He told me a week ago he wanted it for the afternoon and evening of Labour Day and I forgot to tell you. He was feeling so badly about failing in his exams that I couldn’t very well refuse him.”
“Rupert can’t have the car,” John Jenkins said decidedly. “He can come with us if he wants to, but after all we have some rights, and I think you are making a great mistake in coddling him because he failed in his exams. He failed because he didn’t work, and giving him the car isn’t going to make him work next year.”
“I’m afraid I can’t fall in with your plan, John,” she said after a pause. “I really should go to a dinner in the hotel that evening. I’m secretary of the Homemakers’ Club and I do not like to desert them. Our new president thought we should mark the day by something really constructive.
“We are having a speaker from the city, who will talk on ‘The Dignity of Labour.’ I would really like you to come to it. We are trying to interest the young people, too, but I couldn’t persuade either Eleanor or Rupert to consider it.”
“Well,” exclaimed Mr. Jenkins, “the day and night seem pretty well planned, with everyone going their own way. Eleanor will have a party, if she can have the house to herself. Rupert is prepared to take the car off our hands — you will go to your dinner, so I suppose I can go back to the office and work. As a family we seem to get in each other’s hair, and I’m fed up trying to arrange anything to suit you all.
“It seems to me we are bringing up at least two selfish, idle young people. Ruth seems to be all right so far. And what’s this I hear about Eleanor being so high-hat with the new maid? She seems to me to be the best girl we ever had in the house. Why don’t you make Eleanor be civil to her?”
“Oh, I don’t think it is very serious,” Mrs. Jenkins replied. “Eleanor is just at the age when she likes to show her authority. She told Elsie the first day she came she must not expect to be treated like one of the family, but Elsie seems to understand her, and she just smiled and said there would be no difficulty about that.
“I think Eleanor resents Ruth’s admiration for Elsie, and she thinks that Elsie is just a bit above her station, with her trim figure and good clothes. Eleanor is inclined to be a bit snobbish, trying to keep up with some of her friends.”
Just at this moment Eleanor came in hastily carrying a bundle of clothing. She would have been a pretty girl if she were in a good humour, but evidently her little world had gone wrong.
“Mother,” she cried, “you simply must help me. I forgot to send my party dress to the cleaners and I have to have it tonight. The slip is soiled and the dress is torn, but I know Elsie can fix it, for I have seen her do her own. Ruth is making a great fuss about it because this is Elsie’s evening out. Speak to her, mother. Tell her she must do it. Her date can’t be important.”
Ruth, the 15-year-old, was on her heels.
“You’re not going to shove this off on Elsie,” she said to Eleanor. “She has a right to her evening and she doesn’t owe you anything. Elsie is the grandest person I ever knew and I won’t let Eleanor impose on her.”
“Good for you, Ruth! That’s the spirit,” said her father. “I think you are right.”
“You’re all against me,” Eleanor sobbed, and ran out of the room, leaving her finery in a heap on the floor.
At the door, she collided with Elsie who, with her hat and coat on, was passing through the hall.
“What’s wrong, Miss Eleanor,” she asked, “can I help you?”
Eleanor incoherently poured out her troubles.
“Let me see the dress,” said Elsie.
Eleanor showed her the place where the long skirt had been stepped on and torn. Mrs. Jenkins protested mildly. She never had been able to stand up to Eleanor. John Jenkins looked on with a wistful look in his eye. Ruth continued to rage, but Elsie took no notice of any of them as she carefully examined the dress.
Then she said: “Yes, I can fix it. I can make it look like new. Can you give me an hour? The slip will have to be washed and I can iron it dry.”
“Elsie, you’re an angel.” Eleanor cried. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Elsie. “I’m glad I hadn’t gone. I like a hard job — it’s fun. Come on, Ruth, I need a smart girl like you. We’ll do a job we can be proud of. Phone this number; tell them not to wait for me. Then go to my room and bring down my work basket.”
When the girls had all gone out, John Jenkins and his wife looked at each other. He whistled softly: “That girl responded like a doctor,” he said admiringly.
“‘I like a hard job,’ she said, ‘it’s fun.’ Did you hear that, Minnie? A hard job is fun! I think you had better invite her to the dinner on Monday night.”
