I was recently struck by this passage in a memoir by Douglass Hubbard, describing in adjacent paragraphs his ability to afford a domestic servant but not furniture (!) in 1970s Rhodesia:
Between the two of us, we scraped together enough cash to buy a Rhodesian-manufactured refrigerator and electric range. There wasn’t much left from our monthly paychecks, so I decided to see if a furniture store might extend us at least short-term credit on a bed. The next day, one of the senior patrol officers in the Enqueries section sold us a small table with two straight-back chairs. Flushed with success at this budgetary win, I walked into central Salisbury to a furniture store and spoke to management about the credit and finance plans they were advertising in their display window. Knowing exactly what a single-bar patrol officer made, the manager declined my application. I was offended. Ultimately, my bank extended modest overdraft facilities to me, but only after Ormonde Power acted as guarantor.
We moved in with our table, two chairs, and a bed—and with some basic crockery acquired at a trade store. My issue uniforms took up an entire hall closet. We were soon joined by an irascible old Shona domestic named Enoch. A friend of the Cullingworth’s servant, Peter, Enoch was said to run a tight ship and understood how to launder and maintain uniforms. After long days at work, we could expect to arrive home to a clean house.
I was recently struck by this passage in a memoir by Douglass Hubbard, describing in adjacent paragraphs his ability to afford a domestic servant but not furniture (!) in 1970s Rhodesia: