by Tony Roper
Dolly Johnson was battering her husband's ears with everything she had heard that day about Cissie Gilchrist's man, wee pan-loaf Gilchrist, having died as she swept the living room floor. Her husband Boab sat in an armchair, not listening, reading the morning paper and grunting in annoyance when Dolly told him to lift his feet as she swept underneath him.
Mary Culfeathers undid the rope that was tied round her rubber apron as she trudged out to the front door of the wash house. She had finished the first wash that had been left for her attention and was in need of a breather. Mary decided not to go outside and risk catching a chill but just to stand inside at the entrance. As she paused at the front door, she welcomed the change from the humid atmosphere of the steamie to the cold of the late afternoon air that wafted in each time the door was opened to admit a new customer. Also there was the wee bonus that everyone who came in stopped for a chat. No matter that it was always a brief encounter, Mary welcomed it just the same. After about five minutes, the guilt and the cold got the better of her and she decided to head back in again and start on the second wash.
Doreen headed home, her shopping bag full with last-minute items. She had told John to go and have a drink with his pals because he worked hard and deserved it. This was their first Christmas and New Year as husband and wife and she had loved every minute of it. However, she was looking forward to the end of the old year and the beginning of another exciting one in the life and times of Mr and Mrs John Hood. While she hurried home, she smiled a smile of self-praise and why not? She had it all mapped out. John would get promotion because he was popular and good at his job. They would have children (at least one of each) and would not stint in their efforts to give them everything that a boy and girl needed to be a success and a credit to their parents. Her heart warmed with the thrill of being young and alive in the Glasgow of the nineteen fifties and that same heart told her it could only get better. She had just to give the house a quick dunt with a duster. Then she would visit the steamie and get rid of the grime of the old year and have everything spotless to start the New Year. She had seen her mother and all the other married women do this since she was a wee girl and now she could take her place alongside them.
Magrit was sweeping out the old year and cursed under her breath at every grain of dirt that did not surrender itself to her but obstinately stuck to the floor. To Magrit the dust seemed like a living thing that tried to take refuge in a corner which was difficult to get the brush into and so thwart her efforts to dislodge it. But this just made her curse all the more and attack it with a corner of the brush until it was captured and dispensed to the growing mound of grime that seemed to taunt her. She had started in the kitchen, then gone through to the bedroom and finally into the hallway where the combined dust from the two rooms swirled on the floor as they met. She expertly merged the last of the year's debris and swept it towards the front door. As she passed Peter, who was still comatose on the hall floor, she contrived to accidentally hit him on the side of the head with the edge of the brush. She did not apologise. Peter did not need one as he had not felt the blow anyway.
Theresa hurried home through the dark-descending early evening. She was in a huge hurry to get home and read the travel brochure on luxury cruises that she had obtained. There had been nothing suitable locally so she had walked into the city centre. She had had a brainwave. The one shop that Glasgow boasted, where you could get anything from a pie to a fur coat was Lewis's in Argyle Street. Glaswegians had always known it simply as The Poly, which was short for Polytechnic, and Theresa just knew that that was the place to get a travel brochure on cruises. Her hunch had proved correct. Not wanting to be shown the door because she was too wee and too poor, she had told the assistant that her rich auntie had asked her to collect a brochure as she was thinking of going on a cruise in the summer. Her ingenuity – or lying, depending on how you viewed it – had paid dividends and now she could not wait to get into the house, close the door of the bedroom she shared with her mother and find out all about the job of her dreams. ‘I just hope there's nobody in,’ was her only concern as she walked back.
FOURTEEN
Andy McDowell grunted as he lifted the large tin bath full of dirty washing from the floor and on to the trestle table. He removed the number twelve that signified not unexpectedly that it was twelfth in line for a service wash. It had been handed in on behalf of the doctor's wife Jeannette McInnes, with the instruction that it had to be washed and ready to be collected that night. It was Andy's responsibility to see that that would be done. It seemed to Andy that he had too many responsibilities. He was responsible for opening the doors of the steamie if he was on the early shift and he was responsible for closing the doors if he was on the late shift. He was also responsible for making sure the boilers that dished out hot water to the eighty-five wash stalls and the hot air that permeated the venting behind the stalls and allowed the clothes to be dried as they hung over the rails – or ‘horses’ as the women called them – were always in top working order. He had to order the coal that made this possible. He also took it upon himself to keep up the spirits of the women as they rubbed and scrubbed with a constant supply of banter and be available to listen to and advise on their various complaints as well. He felt sometimes that the title of Washhouse Mechanic did not adequately cover his talents.
Although numbers ten and eleven were, strictly speaking, next in line to be handed out and old Mary Culfeathers was due for one of them, Andy noticed that the load inside the doctor's bath was not so full as the others that were left, so he decided that he would give this one to old Mary. This bit of beneficence on his part made him feel that, despite being underpaid and not appreciated, he was still what was referred to by the populace as a ‘real gem’.
Lifting number twelve to just above knee height, he walked among the stalls, his wellies slapping noisily on the wet floor. As he walked, he could imagine the women all admiring the ease with which his muscular arms carried the wash load – a bit like Clark Gable carrying Vivienne Leigh out from the burning ruins of Tara in Gone with the Wind. Actually, it was getting very heavy and the handles on the tin bath were cutting into the creases in his fingers. The rim at the bottom of the bath was digging into his thighs and they were hurting as well but he would not, for love nor money, have let any of the women see that he was struggling. He started to whistle nonchalantly in the hope that he would appear even stronger. Of course, nobody took a blind bit of notice of him.
The handles of the bath were really starting to dig into his fingers and he was very glad to see Mrs Culfeathers resting outside of stall fifty-seven. She saw Andy approach and gave him a wave. Andy's face was starting to turn a dark puce colour when he finally drew level. Mrs Culfeathers gave him a worried glance. ‘Are you all right wi' that Andy? There must be an awful weight in it, son.’
Andy was forty-four and loved it when anybody called him son. ‘Ach, nae bother, Mrs Culfeathers,’ he said, lowering the bath on to the slotted wash top while the blood drained slowly from his face back into his body. He tried to uncurl the fingers of his hands but they were stuck like claws – only the feeling of pins and needles consoled him with the reassurance that they would eventually return to normal.
‘This'll be your last one the day, eh?’ He gave the bundle of washing a pat. ‘It's the doctor's – McInnes's. Do you go to him?’
Mary surveyed the bundle with a practised eye. ‘Some nice stuff they've got, eh? Be nicer when it's clean, right enough.’
She directed Andy's eye to another tin bath, containing a far bigger bundle than the doctor's did, nestling on the floor. ‘I'm finished wi' that lot, Andy. Will you take it away for me, son?’ He stole a quick look at his fingers and decided, as they were not yet uncurled from the last load, he may as well grasp the nettle.
As he bent down, Mary drew the back of her hand across her forehead. ‘It's awful hot in here isn't it, Andy?’ Andy nodded as he took a firm hold on the wash tub. ‘Aye! It's the heat that does
it,’ he said wittily.
Mary nodded, bowing to Andy's superior intellect. ‘Is that whit it is? I knew it would be somethin'.’
Doreen Hood swung into view pushing an ancient pram on to which her washing was loaded just as Andy, bent double with the tub, turned from Mrs Culfeathers stall. At first she didn't notice him as she was studying her ticket. She looked up and saw that her stall fifty-nine was just two along from Mary Culfeathers. She noticed Andy staggering with the load. ‘That looks heavy Andy. Wait till I get mine emptied and I'll let you have this pram,’ she offered.
Andy would rather have stuck pins in his eyes than be seen pushing a pram. ‘Naw, you're aw' right Doreen,’ he gasped, ‘It's nae bother.’ His puce-coloured face said differently.
‘No' be long till the bells, Andy,’ she called after him, hoping it would offer some consolation. As she turned back she saw that Mary Culfeathers was unloading her recent bundle. ‘Hello, Mrs Culfeathers – workin' away, I see,’ she said pleasantly, raising her voice in the way you do to people who are of a certain age – even when they're not deaf.
‘Nothin' else for it, eh Greta?’ Mary nodded in agreement, separating the linen sheets from the blankets.
‘My name's Doreen, Mrs Culfeathers – Doreen Hood – my mother was called Greta.’
Mary looked up from dissecting the bed linen. ‘I'm sorry, Doreen, hen – I tend tae forget things these days. I didnae mean to offend you.’ She felt foolish. She seemed to feel that more and more these days too but she didn't mention that to Doreen.
‘No offence taken Mrs Culfeathers,’ Doreen smiled, setting about unloading her own stuff. ‘I'm the same. Magrit – over here!’ she hailed Magrit who was searching the pockets of her coat and making exasperated noises.
‘I've lost the bloody ticket noo.’ Her mood had not picked up since banging Peter's head with the sweeping brush.
‘You were in front of me,’ Doreen said helpfully. ‘Just go into number fifty-eight.’
Magrit grunted tersely at Doreen and moved into stall fifty-eight. She undid her coat and placed it on a hook at the back of the stall, away from where any wet things would dampen it. As she began sorting out the various articles to be washed, she was still muttering to herself, ‘Wait till you see, I'll just get started and some wee nyaff'll come in and say, “Excuse me, is that your stall?” Well,’ she muttered on, her face tightening with just the sheer annoyance of being Magrit McGuire, ‘they'll get a moothful from me. I'm just in the mood, so I am,’ she seethed, turning on the hot tap and throwing a half dozen pairs of sweaty socks into the bottom of the large gunmetal-coloured sink.
The wash stall that Magrit seethed in was typical of the washing set-up at that time. They were about seven feet long by five feet deep and consisted of a large rustproof black alloy sink to the right of the stall that held the majority of the coloured clothes to be washed. Behind this was a set-in boiler that the women put their whites into and this contained constant boiling water. On the opposite side was another slightly smaller sink made from delft or a similar material. This was usually used to steep blankets in as they were unusually dense when wet and, therefore, much too heavy to be washed by hand. In this particular steamie, the clothes were dried out by means of putting them through a mangle and then draping them over wooden rods that were encased in a cage-like contraption, called a horse or donkey, that slid in and out of the washhouse wall. Once inside the wall, there was a continuous draught of very hot air piped along the hollow space that received the horse and allowed the clothes drying time. When the horse or donkey was pulled out to allow access to the clothes, steam would escape adding to the condensation in the atmosphere.
Soap was of the solid bar type. The women used it to attack stains as if they were hitting them with a brick. They then rubbed the clothes up and down a washing board. There was also a very effective gel that was sometimes added. The whole added up to an efficient not to mention extremely hygienic way to wash.
All of this was not uppermost in Magrit's thoughts as she continued to plan her attack on the week's grime that had affixed itself to the family wash. She had just stuffed the last blanket into the steeping sink and turned on the tap when she heard a voice over her shoulder, ‘Magrit? Is that your stall?’
There was a slight but definitely ominous pause. ‘How?’ Magrit answered without turning round.
‘You left your ticket at the desk,’ the voice continued.
Magrit's attitude softened slightly. ‘Oh,’ she replied, turning round to see that it was Dolly Johnson who was standing in front of her.
Dolly had on a dark blue bobbled cotton coat that seemed to have no waist. Her hair was encased in a yellow flower patterned scarf done up like a turban. Beneath the coat was a grey wool and mixed cotton frock and beneath that was Dolly's bowly legs, wrapped in thick nylon stockings that were held up by a sixpenny coin implanted at the top of each stocking and then twisted round till it was tight and held in place by a miracle of gravity and luck just above the knees. Beneath her legs, her feet were contained in shiny suede bootees that managed to cover her feet but not her ankles, which tended to swell up and escape gratefully over the edges of her footwear. She was smiling.
‘Is that what happened?’ Magrit said, acknowledging Dolly's explanation and holding her hand out for the ticket.
Dolly continued by studying her own ticket before informing Magrit that, ‘According to this, I'm in fifty-eight and you're in number sixty.’
Magrit could feel her attitude un-softening again. ‘Are you wantin' me tae shift, Dolly?’ her voice was taut. She was about to teach Dolly why it was taut.
‘I thought maybe you wanted number sixty?’ smiled Dolly totally unaware of the tension she had caused.
‘How? Is there somethin' special aboot number sixty?’ Magrit asked, her voice now a heady mix of sarcasm and impatience.
Dolly glanced at number sixty, then shook her head, ‘I don't think so, Magrit, but, if you want it, I don't mind lettin' you have it.’
Dolly missed the irony of Magrit's reply, ‘I might let you have it. Right now.’
‘OK, Magrit,’ Dolly said, turning to number sixty, ‘Save you starting all over again, eh?’
As Dolly turned away, she called over to Doreen, ‘Hullo, Doreen. Aye, Mrs Culfeathers's workin' away eh?’ Her voice contained a note that was permanently optimistic yet also embodied great realism. This, combined with what was often described as her cheery wee face, made it very hard to dislike Dolly Johnson.
Both Doreen and Mrs Culfeathers looked up from their tasks and replied, ‘Aye, Dolly.’
Dolly, realising sadly that this was going to be the extent of their conversation, entered number sixty and, like the others, hung her coat up at the back of the stall. She perched on a stool that was provided so the customers could have a sit-down and removed her bootees and put on a pair of her husband's old boots along with the rubber apron that was almost standard. She went through the normal procedure and began the wash. However, enduring periods of time that did not involve conversation was not a part of Dolly's personality. After barely a few minutes, she called out to Magrit, ‘Magrit, did you know Cissie Gilchrist?’
‘Aye,’ Magrit replied unenthusiastically, ‘she used to be pals wi' my mother.’
‘Well,’ Dolly announced momentously, ‘Her man's died.’
‘Has he?’ Magrit's voice signalled total disinterest.
‘Aye, he passed away a couple of nights ago,’ Dolly carried on relentlessly, waiting for Magrit to carry on as well. Her wait proved fruitless as Magrit poured all of the day's annoyances into battering one of Peter's shirts with a bar of carbolic.
Dolly turned her attention to Doreen. ‘Doreen, did you know Cissie Gilchrist?’
Doreen answered without interrupting her work, ‘I don't think so.’
Dolly watched her sinks filling up as she continued, ‘Aye, you do. Stays oot in Garngad noo but came fae here originally. She'd be ages wi' me or your granny. Well – her
man's died.’
‘Has he?’ Doreen replied politely but uninterested.
Again Dolly waited in vain for a response. She got one but not from Doreen. She heard Mrs Culfeathers' voice call out to her, ‘Dolly.’
She looked out of the stall to see Mrs Culfeathers beckoning to her, to come over to her stall. Dolly turned off the faucets in case the water spilled over and crossed to Mary Culfeathers.
For some reason best known to herself, Mary Culfeathers did not want any of the others to hear what she was about to say to Dolly. In an apologetic and low voice that was just above a whisper she said, ‘I couldnae help overhearing you Dolly! You say the lassie Gilchcrist's man's died?’
‘Aye – very sudden, Mrs Culfeathers,’ said Dolly, adopting Mary's tone without knowing it. They were now two experts on the subject of contemporaries who had left this life of toil.
‘She'll miss him,’ said Mary knowingly.
‘That's true,’ said Dolly in agreement. Then adding as proof, if proof were needed, ‘You never miss the water till the well runs dry – eh?’
Mary nodded indulgently at Dolly's flash of insight. ‘That's true, Dolly. They were a happy couple – she thought the world o' him.’ Her head bobbed up and down slightly in a mannerism that showed she was feeling the sorrow that Cissie Gilchrist was going through.
Dolly's head nodded in agreement with this. ‘Aye,’ she sighed.