by Emily Hahn
At last Carola came out of the rinsing and toweling. Her hair stood on end; her face was pink. The other three barbers, standing by their chairs, fell back as one man, overcome by ecstasy.
“Is that the same girl who came into this shop?” demanded one of them.
For the first time in days Carola grinned widely.
We spent a week end with another sister in Illinois, and the first day was devoted to an inspection of her house, for I was curious to investigate household gadgets. I dragged my bored husband along with me, but Carola was left to her own devices. From neighboring rooms as we stood in the kitchen came loud, un-English noises as Carola attempted to pull her fourteen-year-old cousin up the stairs, or perhaps down. Screams, giggles, and protests resounded. The Major drew in his breath sharply.
“That dreadful child,” he said. “She’s getting out of hand.”
“But she’s so good!” cried Rose, my sister. “I’ve never seen such a well-behaved child in my life. I only wish I knew how you do it.”
“It’s England, that’s all,” I said. “Nothing to do with me; it’s her English school.”
“It doesn’t really seem quite natural,” said Rose.
“Oh, Carola can be natural enough. You’ll see in good time. Charles, do look at this can opener; it’s just for punching holes in cans of orange juice and things like that. Isn’t it clever? I’ve simply got to take some of these back home when we go.”
“That would be an excellent idea,” said the Major, “if we ever had tinned orange juice, but under the circumstances—”
“Oh well, skip it. Look at these rubbery things they’ve got for ice cubes. All you do is press on the bottom and the ice comes out without sticking. And they won’t break in transit; isn’t that marvelous?”
“It would be, darling, if we had a refrigerator to put them in.”
Carola appeared in the doorway, disheveled and hot. She stood there listening. She heard Rose say in shocked surprise, “No icebox? Then how do you get your ice?”
“We don’t get ice,” said the Major. “We don’t need it. The climate’s cool enough to do without.”
“Well, hardly,” I said, “but the English think it’s cool enough, Rose, and that is that. We don’t use ice.”
“Doesn’t the food spoil, though?”
“Well,” I said, “one doesn’t really get enough food at a time to give it a chance to spoil. Wait a minute, Charles, don’t go yet. She’s going to show us how the washing machine works.”
“I wouldn’t know how it works in any case,” called the Major over his shoulder, as he escaped into the living room.
“He always hates it when I talk about bringing new improvements into the house,” I told Rose. “Never mind; let’s go and see it without him. Carola, you want to come with us to see the washing machine?”
“Yes, please.”
She stumped along behind us, down the steps to the basement, chewing lustily at her gum. Rose winced at the smacking noise.
“That’s one habit I wish she hadn’t picked up so eagerly,” she said.
“Oh well, leave her alone,” I said. “She’s having such a good time, aren’t you, honey? All this food, and books, and new clothes, and the gum and everything; isn’t it fun?”
“Mmm,” said Carola.
The washing machine went into action while I watched, lost in admiration. Round and round went the paddles; louder and louder hummed the machine.
“And that’s all there is to it?” I asked.
“That’s all. It’s certainly a great help. It’s what they call a spin-dry model.”
I sighed with longing. “Wonderful America,” I said. “Marvelous America. Oh, Carola, do be careful of your frock. You’re dribbling gum or something on it.”
“Such a sweet frock too,” said Rose. “It’s adorable.”
Carola said, loud and clear, “It’s English. So there!”
“But Charles is so quiet!” said Rose. “He’s such a, well, a gentle person. You never told us.”
“Is he?” I sounded very puzzled.
“And he fits in so well,” said Mother. “We’re all surprised and pleased at the way he helps with the dishes.”
“Well, naturally. I mean, of course, he helps wash dishes; we always wash dishes in England, you see, but—well—”
I paused. It should have been so obvious, I felt, even to my relatives, that Englishmen are bullies. Just as it ought to be obvious to the Major that American women are used to having it their own way in their own country. I had hoped this visit would be a revelation to him. I had thought he would see the error of his ways. Something seemed to have gone wrong.
“He works too hard, I should think,” continued Rose. “Dauphine was quite worried yesterday when we had dinner there, the way he insisted on helping wait on everybody, and then he wouldn’t stack the dishes but helped wash them.”
“Why do you let him do so much?” asked Mother. “He has his own work.”
“Englishmen must be overworked,” said Rose.
They looked at me reproachfully. I made a strangled noise and went up to my room, where I could be quiet and could do some more thinking.
Had the Major somehow outwitted me? I feared so.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The chapters titled “Sailor’s Holiday,” “Cinderella’s Milk,” “Australian in the Henhouse,” “The Brown-Eyed One,” and some of the chapter titled “Fitzroy,” originally appeared, in somewhat different form, as stories in The New Yorker.
Copyright © 1940, 1947, 1949 by Emily Hahn Boxer
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-1936-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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