A Journey Through Dreamland (short story)

 From the October 1945 issue of the Socialist Standard

It was a frosty clear morning when I found my foot-steps taking me towards an exclusive store in the heart of the West end of London.

I stopped outside the ostentatious entrance, hesitating before entering. In the mean time a contiunual stream of taxis and cars deposited beautifully robed ladies, escorted by men in immaculate uniforms. From their appearance they had neither toiled nor spun throughout their lives.

I mused, thinking, dare I enter in my cheap utility costume, which had taken months of saving and scrimping? I took my courage in both hands and passed through the swing doors.

As I crossed the threshold, I stood wide-eyed with wonder! Was this the sixth year of the War? Were not we all rationed? Had we not been told over and over again that equality of sacrifice was demanded from each and even one of us, irrespective of our station in life? That the rich and poor received only what was allotted to them in foodstuff and clothing? What I saw did not bear this out.

To the left of the entrance, was an array of the most exquisite blooms one could desire; Orchids, Roses, Early Spring Violets, Snowdrops, and Daffodils. I drank in their sweet aroma and enquired the price of daffodils. I was told “15/6 a bunch, Madam." I turned sadly away; this was outside the scope of my wage packet.

To the right a space was allocated to beautiful antique furniture and hand-made glass of the finest workmanship and design. I picked up a tiny Venetian wine glass, one of a set of six, and hurriedly placed it down again. £10 the set! An old antique cabinet was marked £70. These goods were not for the poor workers, they were only for the idle rich.

My wanderings carried me along to the food department. Here a veritable Alladin's cave opened in front of my eyes. If this was the kind of food supplied to the clientele of the store in wartime, what could it have been in times of peace! Arrayed upon the shelves and counters were wonderful things to eat and drink. Red Currants in Cognac, Cherries in Brandy, Asparagus in wine, turtle soup (real, not mock), Roast Chickens, various fruits and rare cheeses, fine teas and coffees. Even the dainty rolls and loaves of bread seemed to be made of a different Hour from that of the bread in my local stores. I enquired the price of the cherries in brandy, £3 10s. a small bottle. I looked around and saw the well-fed men and women giving their orders for these things. I noticed their air of general well-being, their smug contented looks and wondered whether they ever gave a thought, to the men and women who produced all these good things for them to consume.

Continuing my journey, I came to the clothing department in which I found beautiful dainty silk underwear at prices ranging from £6 to £18 a garment. Chiffon blouses at £7 each, dresses, coats, and costumes, all to delight the eyes at fabulous prices. The Linen department contained the finest household goods, towels, sheets and other things requisite for the furnishing of a home. Sheets were marked up at £8 a pair, all in delicate colourings.

I retraced my footsteps slowly into the sunshine again, my thoughts wandering back to the stores where I usually do my shopping. I could not recollect ever seeing such an array of foodstuffs on those counters and shelves. I had never seen cherries in brandy there nor fine cheeses, nor roast chickens. What usually struck me in the eyes were tins of spam, more spam, and still more spam, the inexhaustable supply of powdered eggs and milk, the tins of cheap soup, the tinned fish and other synthetic foods. The clothing department invariably displayed ill fitting utility garments made of shoddy material. The exquisite garments and the dainty underclothing were conspicuous by their absence. It was impossible to obtain any household linen unless one queued up for hours at an end.

The workers have always been rationed, they never have sufficient money to obtain more than the necessities of life not only during a crisis but during the whole time that Capitalism has existed.

The words of Shelley's poem flashed through my mind as I turned towards home.

The Seed ye sow, another reaps.

The Wealth ye find, another keeps. 

The Robes ye weave, another wears.

The Arms ye forge, another bears.

Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap,

Find wealth let no impostor keep.

Weave robes let not the idle wear.

Forge Arms in your defence to bear.

 

Anne.