Mine at Last

My great-grandmother, Jennifer Rendall, wrote a weekly column for the New Zealand Home Journal, signed simply "Aunt Jenny". This is one of my favourites. – Rewa

It was love at first sight. Thrilled and enchanted I stood rooted to the spot gazing with rapture. Then, suddenly spurred to action, I hastened eagerly inside intent on the capture of my charmer.

To a demure young lady in clinging black I confided the story of my infatuation. “Would Madam care to try it on?” she inquired pleasantly. Madam would, Madam was palpitating to do so.

A simple little thing, this “chapeau,” but oh! so chic, a creation, an inspiration, it was sheer desecration to call it a hat. It snuggled closely to my head as though it loved to be there.

“It was just made for Madam,” sang the demure young lady, “it suits perfectly.” I knew it, the mirror had already impressed that fact indelibly on my mind. This triumph of creation should be mine, must be mine, was as good as mine already.

“And the price?” I asked breathlessly.

Like a cold douche came the gentle murmur, “Only three guineas, Madam.”

Three guineas! Why, that was just what Micawber expected to get for the six little pigs we had brought into town with us. Adorn my head with six little pigs! Impossible. Three ton of turnips then, or half a ton of potatoes? No, never. Slowly and sadly, I laid it down.

“Madam would do well to secure it,” insinuated the D.Y.L., “it won’t stay here long.”

“Well,” I said as cheerfully as possible, and with more than a touch of Micawber’s fatalism, “if it is to be mine, nobody else can possibly get it, so I’ll just wait till it gets cheaper.”

Three months later I again saw my little charmer. A cheap (?) sale was in progress, and with trembling fingers I lifted the little red ticket. “Forty nine and six,” and sadly I turned away.

Spring passed, summer came and went and once more we met. Just as chic as of yore, no faintest sign of age or wear about it. “Two guineas” proclaimed its placard. “Four pigs, now,” I said, turning away in exasperation.

Next time I went in it was gone and I had only a memory to cherish.

One day when winter had almost departed and that showroom was blossoming into spring beauty I stood there with a friend awaiting an assistant’s leisure. While waiting we amused ourselves by turning over a great box of hats. “Your choice, two and eleven,” said the flaunting placard.

With much hilarity we turned them over, till with a sudden thrill I caught a glimpse of familiar colour right at the bottom of the box. I dived, and with a glow of triumph rescued it.

“Mine, at last,” I gasped with joy.

“I’m afraid there is some mistake,” doubtfully said the little assistant to whom I took my treasure, “I’d better enquire.”

“I won’t take it if it’s a penny more,” I said, seething with rage, as I watched her approach her chief and ask a question.

That lady glanced over her shoulder, cast a glance of venomous hatred at my hat, and said viciously, “two and eleven,” and almost I cheered. Plainly she was very tired of that hat.

Going home I told Micawber all about it. “I didn’t need it now any more than a frog needs a tail coat,” I told him, “but you see, it’s really been mine all this time and that wicked woman has kept me out of my rights with her guineas and things. Don’t you think I did quite right?”

“You did just right, you’re a marvel,” he agreed, wagging his head in solemn approval.

– Aunt Jenny

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