It was a clear day with
a light breeze when Win had to go to the hospital. She was surprised
that she had been able to hang the washing out on the line in the
garden that morning without wondering if when Alf got back they would
be covered in soot from the smog. One last wring of the sheets
through the mangle, feeling its cold rivets on her soap roughened
hands as she pumped the handle. There was always more water that came
out than you thought. It was always clear. Never soapy when Win did
it, oh no, not like some of them that left the sheets still
half-flecked with grime so the water was grey and foamy as it dripped
down the sides onto the tarmac in the yard, making its way to the
drain which gurgled in gratitude. No amount of Atrixo seemed to
soften her hands, not even applied six, no seven times, letting the
cream seep into the skin until she felt the familiar chalky residue
once it had done its work, supposedly softening her skin to that of a
baby's. Not even parafin filled gloves worn in bed would do the trick
for Win's reddened fingers, cuticles seeping. And Alf didn't like
that, if those gloves touched him in the night. She knew if they
touched his face it reminded him of the days in the cellar, wearing
gas masks made of the same warm-smelling rubber, filtering the air
and protecting them against poisons. She'd hated those masks, feeling
and smelling her own breath come back to her, magnified,
concentrated, and sometimes she's hyperventilated so much she had to
take it off and breathe into a paper bag.
There were birds in the
sky, tweeting like a dawn chorus. To her they seemed too loud, too
much. Birds were always happy, cooing, huddling, singing, not afraid
of the night coming or then the morning coming after that. They
sometimes made a mess on the washing and she had to clean it again.
But twice this time. She'd have to fill the metal tub in the yard
from the kettle on the range, boiling and boiling the water til the
kitchen filled with wet smoke that seemed to settle on her skin.
Pleasant at first, then maddening, clinging to the hairs, giving her
a chill. Only way to stop that was to shave them. No hairs on her
arms and that wet feeling would never have to be felt. Arms that were
covered in small scars from previous scalds with boiling kettles.
Sometimes she liked it when she scalded herself, the burning
sensation a visceral reminder of her toil, her commitment. She could
almost feel her skin sizzling in the heat. Then she could sink her
arms into the tub filled with soap flakes and lather and scrub and
lather and scrub and lather and scrub and lather and scrub against
the board as hard as she wanted, smiling to herself knowing only she
would know the extent of her sacrifice.
Even when the stain
wasn't there any more the filth clung to it. So she'd have to do it
all again. Boiling, soaping, lathering, scrubbing, so the
condensation beaded on her brow until she could stand it no more and
wiped it with her tea towel. That tea towel was hers, no one else
could use it. No one could touch it. It was the only one that she
could use on her skin as she boiled and starched it every night, safe
in the knowledge it would be clean for the morning. On winter's days
she sometimes came down the stairs early enough to see the last dregs
of the dawn to make the cup of tea and it would still be wet. So in
the winter she bought a second tea towel and she came to boiling one
tea towel one night, then two the next so there'd always be one that
was dry to use. Couldn't use a wet tea towel to wipe a wet face. It
was the water in the trenches that caused her brother's trench foot
and the gangrene in his leg. Just the water, being stood in it day
in, day out. Soapy water scalding hot was different, but cold wet
water was a breeding ground for all those diseases that killed people
when Win's mum was young, the ravages of cholera taking their toll on
a quarter of London, like a modern day plague. One good thing about
the war, the Nazis bombing those terrible slums in East London where
families lived like rats and rats lived like families.
She pegged the whitened
washing on the line- not like the neighbours she disliked who put the
pegs fully in their mouths, smoking a cigarette at the same time.
This was a good little street with houses built just after the war,
brand new when they moved in with a full range, a Belling oven and
hob. At least the Jewesses tied their hair up and they always kept
their children clean and well behaved. Win'd heard that they had two
of everything- cups, bowls, plates, knives, forks, spoons, saucepans,
frying pans. She'd always known that Jews should seperate meat and
milk but no one she knew had actually done it, apart from these
refugees from Germany, now settled in their little community. She had
loved it when she walked down to the market and saw the men with
their caps on and their curly hair, tendrils bouncing around their
ears, all gutteral voices and wild hand gestures. So different from
the men she'd grown up with. She was sad if she had to go out on a
Saturday when they were all indoors, doing nothing. She'd often
imagined how hard it must be to not be able to listen to the wireless
or draw or read but now, yes now, she understood. She had wanted more
than anything to have two sets of everything- cups, bowls, plates,
knives, forks, spoons, saucepans, frying pans. So she'd made it that
way. No-one else knew but when she'd cooked she'd secretly always had
her cups, bowls, plates, knives, forks, spoons, saucepans and frying
pans hidden in a different cupboard from everyone else's. It meant
that she had to ban everyone from her kitchen when she was cooking so
they wouldn't notice, but they weren't surprised by anything anymore.
And no-one knew, a happy little secret carried in the pit of her
stomach, warm like the throbbing burns.
Win's pegs lived in the
little metal box in the washing basket; the box that Alf had given
her when they went to the pictures one day. It had chocolates in
then, wrapped up in golden wrappers which was good as they glinted in
the light from the screen so you could see how to open them. They
were alright for Win, those ones in the wrappers, they hadn't touched
the box at all. Tasted better than the rationing chocolate that came
in bars and you never knew whose filthy hands had been on them.
They'd taught them about germs in school, little buggers who's stick
to anything that they could, lurking and festering and breeding until
everything was covered in them and there was no choice but to wash
them or throw them away. It wasn't a choice. No Alf, it wasn't a
choice. It was a necessity. She sometimes wondered how other people
carried on with their lives, knowing that there were germs on
everything- a tea-cup, a hanky, even a bar of soap. Only the soap
powder flakes for her now as they came in a box and you could close a
box up quick sharp so nothing could get to them. And for her, just
her she had bought some carbolic soap from a man at the market who
managed to get it from the hospital a few miles away. So he had said.
Still it was only tuppence and it made her feel safer.
To make sure she looked
nice for the doctors her hair was set. Only June was able to set it
for her. Salon girls were too busy flirting with the boys coming in
for their short back and sides and drawing on their beauty spots to
be able to do it properly. And they didn't have those blue barbers
jars where they disinfected the combs after. Who'd want to have a
brush used on them that had bits of other people's hairs in? Could
get nits. No, but June could do it, after she'd washed her clean her
hands the way Win wanted. Lather the soap in the palms until it's
half cream, half foam. Then spread on the inside of the little and
ring fingers, then ring and middle fingers, then middle and index
fingers so that when you got to the biggest gap between the index
fingers and thumbs you had plenty of soap to do it with and the other
fingers were clean. Give them all a good rub, wring them once, twice,
three times. Rinse them with the hot water (the tap had to be left
running), and you were good to go. June still wore her wedding ring,
and it did sometimes scrape but that was her own business. Win
couldn't wear her wedding ring anymore, the hands were too scaly and
the gold had made it itch until it bled. The scabs from the scalds
were the worst on her hands, and Win'd picked and picked at them so
they stung and stung in the soapy water so much they brought tears to
her eyes. It wasn't that she'd have minded the pain of wearing it,
but her hands had swollen so much it wouldn't fit past her knuckles.
Alf didn't like it but Win needed to be able to do her washing and
she couldn't do that with a ring that wouldn't slip on easily.
Win didn't wear finger
waves any more, she was far too old for that. The doctor's had said
it didn't matter what with the things that'd be going on up there but
that wasn't the point, was it? She didn't know that they'd have a bit
of it off and wash it all out, so she looked like an upside down
Father Christmas' in a rain storm whose razor had slipped. Win's
eyebrows had been plucked like a young girl, arched and filled in
with pencil, sharpened and sharpened and sharpened again. And the
lipstick, always the lipstick, no woman was a proper lady without it.
She was sure the doctors would be impressed with her brown skirt suit
with the peplum on the hem. It made her look like she had hips, hid
her frame, a frame that had grown slimmer and slimmer quicker and
quicker these past few months which is what made Alf take her to the
doctor in the first place. Didn't want to go to that waiting room
full of germs but she needed to be a good wife and she knew she
wasn't being the way she wanted to be. Alf had made it clear she
wasn't a good wife after Tony was born. So she went for him, seeing
the germs crawling on the children as they played with paper
aeroplanes whilst she breathed in through her Dettol soaked
handkerchief held in kid leather gloved hands.
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