Dad was the original Irish gentleman, and part of the legacy of courtesy he had inherited from my Irish grandfather Nicholas Whittle (after whom I was named Nicolette) was to have tremendous respect for girls and women. I grew up being used to having doors opened for me, and in the early days when I was a child and hats were still worn to church, of having hats doffed to me. Swearing about women was unheard of. The first time I ever heard swear words directed at, and about, a woman, were when I started working. It was a culture shock to me, because it had never entered my mind that a girl or woman were any other than commendable of the highest respect. That was the inheritance of Nicholas Whittle. Anyhow, I digress. The other mark of courtesy Dad had inherited was of deepest respect and courtesy for all he met. And now we come to the story; the little lady in our neighbourhood.
We children adored a little lady who worked as a local gardener. She had a face with a smile like perpetual sunshine, and was as humble and loving a person as I have ever been privileged to meet. We children all loved her unreservedly, and as long as Ms. Mathilde* was pottering around the grounds and the flowers bloomed in the barren wastes of the Free State rockeries due to her herculean efforts, all was right with our little world.
One Sunday Dad was taking time as usual for his extended thanksgiving prayers after Mass while most of my brothers and sisters had escaped into the outside sunshine. I had stayed at the back of the church while Mom lit candles in honour of Mary of Nazareth and Jesus, waiting for my hero to finish his prayers so I could escort him out of the church to the family Volkswagen beetle before we all went home for Sunday lunch. I heard a little sob, and so did Dad. Dad - who never cut short his thanksgiving - looked up and saw little Ms. Mathilde kneeling near the back of the church. Her shoulders were heaving as she cried, and tears were streaming down her face. Dad left his thanksgiving and came over to her, and knelt beside her while I stayed back in the shadows at the back of the nave.
'Is there anything troubling you, Ms. Mathilde?' he said courteously, and this dignified little lady poured out her troubles. Due to her advancing age, her employer had become concerned that her gardening duties might become arduous for her.
Therefore Ms. Mathilde was being retired from her beloved garden where she felt she served God by growing vegetables for the dining table, beautiful flowers to gladden hearts and to grace the altar of God in the church. A gardening service would be employed, and Mathilde could retire to enjoy quiet days no longer toiling in the hot sun. Yet, for Mathilde, it felt as if all that had made her life worth living was over. But, she hastened to add, she did not want to contradict her employer. Brought up in a generation of obedience and humility, this good-hearted little lady was prepared to bow her head to progress. But it broke her heart.
'Hmmm,' said Dad, and - with eyes in the back of his head as every good parent has - had realised that at all of thirteen years old I was standing at the back, eyes round at the sight of this lady in tears. He waved at me, and I got the message; vamoose. So I left. Later, Dad came out thoughtfully to the car, and drove home in silence. This was a departure from the norm for my normally garrulous Dad, who gave out waves of Irish witticisms at the drop of a hat. The silence continued for a week afterwards, as he used to sit in the rocking chair when not at work, rocking meditatively backwards and forwards and saying nothing at all.
Next Saturday Dad got all of the Whittle kids in a row after spending some time in conclave with Mom. We knew that Something Was Up. He was jovial, and back to his old self. As oldest, I was given the command to organise that each child was to be dressed in their Sunday best. To catch my siblings who were somewhat like wild colts, having been brought up in the freedom of the Free State veld, was like a military manoeuvre. However, I was an expert at corralling them, and brought my elder sister talents to bear. Within 95 minutes all stood before Dad, beautifully outfitted and presented. The youngest had her Kewpie doll (insisted upon) in her arms, dressed to match her own outfit. Dad made us stand in parade from the eldest to the youngest, and checked we were up to standard. We were. Dad himself was beautifully dressed in his white tailored suit which made people often mistake him as being a consultant doctor in our town. He carried a briefcase, and told us to be on our best behaviour. We were to make a visit to Ms. Mathilde's employer. All excited, and hushed (a miracle for us) we made our way to the building.
At the office, the employer met Dad at the door. Her demeanour slightly unbent at the sight of our fresh-faced innocence and beautifully dressed selves, the very epitome of a respected family of the town. Dad was the epitome of grace and elegance as he sat, briefcase on his knees, beautiful children quietly arrayed around him. Dad explained that he had a financial scheme which promised to bring dividends in the future. It entailed the growing of plants for sale on his behalf, at a price which would bring profit. However, where would he find the time to grow so many plants...? He had heard (however), that there was a master grower on the premises who would possibly ... could possibly ... be interested in his scheme of plant growing for sale. Ah yes, said the employer graciously, possibly Dad was thinking of Ms. Mathilde. Dad looked concerned. Would it be too much to ask of a dedicated employee to possibly look kindly on his little financial venture? If the employer - with, of course, Mathilde's consent - could possibly lend her countenance to a financial enterprise, he would, of course, recompense the company on a monthly rate for the services in plant growing of Mathilde.
The upshot of it was that the next Saturday we Whittle siblings, trotting after Dad, arrived bearing 78 ochre plant pots containing plants, many of them the yellow flowered African plants which Mathilde loved most, to her outside glass nursery which had recently been evacuated. With Dad, courteously thanking Mathilde at every turn and the employer at every other turn in melodious Irish tones, we trotted in and out of the hothouse, putting plants in place, and organising the hothouse to the employer's satisfaction. Ms. Mathilde now continued providing fruit and vegetables for the company, and beautiful flowers to the Altar of God. And, as Dad turned away from the hothouse, thanking Mathilde for her consent, Mathilde bent a look on him as if he were a demigod. In that moment, I saw my Dad in a different light. He had utmost gentleness for another. It was another of life's lessons for me to learn that I learned that day from Dad - 'So in everything, do unto others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets,' Jesus Christ, Mark Chapter 7, verse 12. I realise today, that not all of life's lessons are learned by speech - they are learned by what we see others do.
*Name has been changed
*Photograph was taken by Rev. Catherine. Please feel free to use copyright free for any educational or spiritual purpose
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