Echoes of the War

Echoes of the War

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Title: Echoes of the War
Author: J. M. Barrie
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ECHOES OF THE WAR
BY J. M. BARRIE

1918

CONTENTS
THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS
THE NEW WORD
BARBARA'S WEDDING
A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE

THE OLD LADY SHOWS HER MEDALS
Three nice old ladies and a criminal, who is even nicer, are discussing
the war over a cup of tea. The criminal, who is the hostess, calls it a
dish of tea, which shows that she comes from Caledonia; but that is not
her crime.
They are all London charwomen, but three of them, including the
hostess, are what are called professionally 'charwomen and' or
simply 'ands.' An 'and' is also a caretaker when required; her name is
entered as such in ink in a registry book, financial transactions take
place across a counter between her and the registrar, and altogether she
is of a very different social status from one who, like Mrs. Haggerty, is
a charwoman but nothing else. Mrs. Haggerty, though present, is not at

the party by invitation; having seen Mrs. Dowey buying the winkles,
she followed her downstairs, so has shuffled into the play and sat down
in it against our wish. We would remove her by force, or at least print
her name in small letters, were it not that she takes offence very readily
and says that nobody respects her. So, as you have slipped in, you sit
there, Mrs. Haggerty; but keep quiet.
There is nothing doing at present in the caretaking way for Mrs. Dowey,
our hostess; but this does not damp her, caretaking being only to such
as she an extra financially and a halo socially. If she had the honour of
being served with an income-tax paper she would probably fill in one
of the nasty little compartments with the words, 'Trade--charring;
Profession (if any)--caretaking.' This home of hers (from which, to look
after your house, she makes occasionally temporary departures in great
style, escorting a barrow) is in one of those what-care-I streets that you
discover only when you have lost your way; on discovering them, your
duty is to report them to the authorities, who immediately add them to
the map of London. That is why we are now reporting Friday Street.
We shall call it, in the rough sketch drawn for to-morrow's press, 'Street
in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. Dowey's home
therein marked with a X.
Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that there are
two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there are two. The other one
has no window, and she could not swish her old skirts in it without
knocking something over; its grandest display is of tin pans and
crockery on top of a dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip
off the utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and cold.
Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when she shows it off,
as she does perhaps too frequently, she first signs to you with closed
fist (funny old thing that she is) to approach softly. She then tiptoes to
the dresser and pops off the lid, as if to take the bath unawares. Then
she sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace to do the
exclamations.
In the real room is a bed, though