The Wash House

2020

The auctioneer licked his lips. Down to the last two bidders. He stood to make a killing on the commission- a little more spruiking should do the trick.

“Ladies and gentleman, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity to secure a piece of local history.”

A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

“This property was owned and occupied by one family for almost 100 years. It has been lovingly cared for and is a time capsule of life as it used to be.”

He waited for the gravitas of his speech to sink in to the assembled throng. People are so gullible.

His hyperbole continued unabated. “There are hardly any properties like this that are left in the area”. A quick look at the mushrooming town houses and apartments confirmed his claim. “Of course it needs a little work, but in the right hands this property will shine like a jewel.”

Sarah cast a wary eye over the run down “gem” of a house. Paint was peeling from its weatherboards and the sag in the roofline indicated some structural problems. Tall weeds sprouted from the overgrown, once cared-for garden beds. But she had to admit, the location was fantastic and the original features- pressed steel ceilings, ornate fireplaces and polished timber floorboards- made it all the more desirable. Walls could be knocked out, a second storey added and that terrible lean-to laundry demolished. With a little money and imagination, it could be turned into the best home in the street.

She squeezed her partner’s hand. “Geoff, we’ve got to have it. I don’t care if its beyond our budget, it’s too good to pass up.”

Geoff glanced at their rival, a well-to-do looking Chinese man. Probably an investor or agent. Versace suit, Mercedes parked out the front. Deep pockets. He turned back to Sarah and whispered “We’ll do our best, but that guy might be able to outbid us.”

The auctioneer continued. “We are at $900,000. I’ll take increments of $5,000.” The Chinese gentleman raised his hand. Immediately, Geoff countered. The game of ping pong continued until it reached $950,000. The Chinese gentleman was on his phone, and a lively conversation- accompanied by gesticulation and pointing- ensued. Then, he shrugged his shoulders, hung up and ruefully shook his head. No agent’s fee for him.

The auctioneer eyeballed Geoff and Sarah. He had milked it for more than $100,000 over the reserve. Time to land the fish.

“Are we all done?”

Silence.

“At $950,000, going once. Twice. SOLD to the couple on the left. Congratulations!”

****

Sarah’s head was in a whirl, as if she was drunk or had been smoking weed. She was filled with a simultaneous feeling of excitement and trepidation. Bringing this house up to scratch would require a huge investment of money, time and effort.

Contracts were signed, account details exchanged and hands shaken. The house, occupied by the Jones family for almost 100 years, was theirs to do as they pleased.

Geoff looked disdainfully at the primitive laundry attached to the rear of the house. It’s flimsy skillion roof looked like it would barely keep out the rain and holes gaped in the weatherboards. Creepers from the garden wound their way through the gaps and had anchored themselves around the rafters. Mosquitos swarmed around the pool of water that seeped from beneath the old concrete troughs. “This will be the first thing to go. I can’t expect you to do the washing in a dump like this.”

Sarah raised her eyebrows in mock protest. “So, the laundry is my job, is it? Along with the cooking and cleaning I suppose. Why didn’t we just buy a cave so you could drag me home by the hair?”

Ouch! Geoff was smart enough to know when to retreat. “You know what I mean. Whoever does the laundry, this wash house isn’t up to scratch.”

“What did you call it?”

“A wash-house. That was the term for a laundry, back in the day.”

Sarah looked around the dilapidated room. She noticed the floor was bluestone, worn away where generations of women had traversed it as they went about their domestic chores. She smiled. “You know, maybe we could just fix it up. So many women would have slaved in here, washing clothes for their families. To tear it down seems a little…” she searched for the right word. “…disrespectful.”

Geoff looked at her blankly.

She put her arm around him. “I just mean, let’s not rush into anything just yet. This wash-house has a sort of atmosphere. Can’t you feel it? It’s as if the spirit of those women is still here somehow”.

Geoff still didn’t get it. “Trust me”, said Sarah. “I’ve got feeling that we made the right choice.”

1920

 It was Monday. Wash day. The night before, Mary had grated the coarse soap into the water and left the washing soaking in the copper. Her husband’s blood-stained clothing and apron needed special attention. She had rinsed them in cold water and rubbed soap into the heavy garments to loosen the congealed blood- trademark of a butcher’s work- until her knuckles were red.

To most women this chore would represent the most terrible drudgery. To Mary, still intoxicated by love and the memory of her recent wedding, it was a novelty, a homespun wifely duty that she was anxious to fulfil. To see Jacob set off to work in crisply starched clothes, carrying a clean apron under his arm, filled her with pride. Look at my handsome man, splendid in his white outfit, ready for a day’s work.

But Mary knew HER day’s work was just beginning. After chopping the kindling, she carefully set a fire under the copper. She rolled up some pages from last week’s Argus- something about “Prohibition” in America- before wedging them in between the sticks of wood. As she placed the match against the paper, a tongue of blue flame licked upwards. Soon an orange blaze began to consume the pile of firewood. Holding a long copper stick, Mary stirred the clothing like a witch might stir the ingredients of her cauldron. Slowly, steam began to rise from the water and bubbles gathered around the edge of the bowl. Soon, the soupy mixture began to boil, dislodging the accumulated dirt and grime from the clothing she had immersed.

After half an hour, Mary judged that the laundry was as clean as it was going to be. The fire had died down by now, but the water was still scalding hot. Carefully, she used her copper stick to ladle the clothes into a large concrete trough, where they could cool enough for her to handle. She ran the cold tap over them to rinse off the soapy water and cool them more quickly. Finally, she ran them through the heavy wringer which clamped onto the side of the trough. Heavy overalls were the worst; her arms were jelly as she struggled to turn the handle to draw the clothes through. Water poured from each garment as it went through the rollers, splashing onto her legs.

Eventually the trough was empty and a pile of clean, damp clothes lay in her basket. Mary wiped her forehead and stretched her aching arm until the feeling began to return. Hanging them out and then ironing them were still to come, but she took a moment to admire her handy work. Somehow, she found a sense of satisfaction and pride in the most menial of tasks.

1930

Tom stood on the shoe box so that he could reach the taps. It was the middle of the night. Moonlight streamed through the window of the wash-house and cicadas chirped a loud chorus that, to his relief, covered up the sound of the running water. The house was in darkness and no-one had stirred while he had tip-toed through the passage, out the back door and into the laundry.

It was a ritual he had repeated many times. He carried the damp, rolled up sheets and wet pyjama pants under his arm. He felt the cool breeze caress his bare bottom but he didn’t care- as long as he could wash and dry everything before morning, no one would know.

He had been wetting the bed for two years, off and on. It had stated not long after his father had left. He used to cower in his bed, listening to the yelling that came from his parents’ room. It was especially bad on Thursdays, when his dad was paid. He stayed at the pub until closing and always came home with an armful of beer. Sometimes he would throw his dinner on the floor and abuse his mother. Sometimes he would hit her. When Tom had tried to protect her, his Dad would hit him. “You little bastard”, he would yell, “I’ll teach you to respect your father.” He would take off his belt and lay into him, leaving scarlet marks across his buttocks, that would turn into purple and yellow bruises.

Then one day, his Dad was gone. He found his mother sitting at the kitchen table, her head buried in her hands. “What am I to do? How will we survive?” she cried.

Life became even harder than it had been before. The drinking and the violence had gone with his father, but they barely had enough money to survive. To make ends meet, his mother took in laundry, slaving over the copper, wringing out the heavy clothes, drying them and ironing them until they looked like new. Only to repeat the process the next day, and the next.

Tom loved his mother. He could not bear to make more work for her, so he had to wash his bedding and clothes in secret.

He heard a voice behind him. “Tom, what on earth are you doing?”

He hung his head in embarrassment and shame. Then he felt an arm around him and a warm voice that made everything seem better. “Darling, don’t worry. I’ll wash your things. Grab some new pyjamas and hop into my bed. I’ll be along in a minute to give you a cuddle.”

Suddenly, the world seemed kinder.

1940

Mary’s back ached and her arm throbbed. The doctor had called it “tennis elbow”, the result of years of washing and wringing out clothes. She chuckled at the irony; she had never played tennis- or any other sport for that matter- in her life. There had never been any money or time for luxuries like that.

It must have been late, but she had one more job to do. Tom was home on leave and being sent overseas the next day. She wanted to make sure that his army uniform was perfect for the occasion- the soldiers would be marching down the street to the cheers of the crowd. HER son was going to be the smartest one there. She thought back to another time and the sight of her own father marching proudly to war. It was the last time she had ever seen him…no, Tom was going to come home safe and well. God couldn’t be that cruel.

She picked up the iron from the stove top- it was heavy and made her wrist ache, but years of experience helped her to glide the surface over the khaki shirt and trousers, until the collar was crisp and the creases in his pants so sharp that you could almost have cut yourself.

Suddenly she felt a strong pair of arms around her. “You’ve got my uniform ready! Love ya mum.”

1950

“Just sign here love”, said the delivery man, “and it’s all yours.”

Angela was beside herself with excitement. Their first washing machine sat proudly in the laundry like a gleaming white monument. No more boiling clothes and nappies in a copper and manhandling them through a rusty old wringer as her mother-in-law had done. Now everything could be washed at the touch of a button.

She couldn’t wait until Tom came home- she had to use it now. Besides, he would only take over- as men always do- and tell her that it was “a husband’s job to read the instructions and show her what to do.” She thought it was a pity that “a husband’s job” didn’t extend to washing the clothes as well.

Angela took the nappies from the metal bucket, placed them into the machine and cautiously pushed the “on button”. She heard a whirring noise as water began to fill the bowl. She sprinkled washing powder over the top as the agitator began to rotate. She stood, transfixed, as the nappies moved around the bowl as if they were alive and soap bubbles began to rise. Angela looked at the instruction booklet- according to it the washing and rinsing were automatic. All she had to do was lift the clothes into the spin dryer when they were done, shut the lid and turn it on. There was no need, it said, to be there during the wash or spin cycles, so she decided to sit and have a cup of tea. This was luxury!

Half an hour later the machine was spinning the nappies dry, rattling and sounding like an aeroplane about to take off. The instruction book reassured her that “Noises emanating from the machine are normal during the spin cycle.” Suddenly she became aware of another noise- the racket had woken Veronica who was bawling her lungs out. The nappies would have to wait.

1970

No doubt about it, Angela thought, we need a new washing machine. She looked ruefully at the worn out twin-tub and noticed that it was full of water. A pair of sheets were scrunched up in the bowl. Veronica must have been doing some washing before work. She pushed the button, but the agitator didn’t move and instead made a heavy clunking sound. Angela shook her head- maybe this was it. It had already been repaired several times, and the mechanic had warned her that it was on its last legs. “It doesn’t owe you anything missus, you must have had it for 20 years! Time for a new model.”

Easy for him to say. It had taken years to pay it off on the hire purchase, and since Tom had passed away, money was very tight. Veronica and Jack paid some board, but buying a new washer was out of the question. They might have to do without, use the laundromat or maybe recommission the old copper which had been stored in the back shed for years. If her mother-in-law had been able to do it, she could too.

Whatever happened, the sheets couldn’t just stay in the machine. The only pair, Veronica would need them back on her bed. She would have been expecting them to be washed and dried by the time she got home, so Angela would have to do them by hand- just like the old days.

As she lifted them out, she noticed a large dark stain. It looked like blood. She was worried- it also explained why Veronica had woken up so early to throw them in the wash. Angela was reminded of one of Tom’s stories about wetting the bed when he was little. But this was more serious- why would a perfectly healthy girl have bleeding like that?

Angela waited anxiously for her daughter to come home from work. Suddenly the back door slammed and Veronica trudged into the kitchen, looking pale and tired.

“Are you all right love?” her mother asked.

Veronica burst into tears and ran to her mother’s arms. “Mum, don’t be mad, but I think I had a miscarriage last night.”

1990

Jack turned to the builder and looked him in the eye- he always thought the direct approach was better with trades people. Let them get the upper hand, and they’ll walk all over you.

The builder drew in a long, deep breath for dramatic effect. “Well, it’s a pretty big job. Restumping, new wiring, knock out some internal walls, new kitchen and bathroom…and a new laundry. You’ll be looking at eighty grand.”

Jack gulped. O.K. so he had inherited the house from his mum, but he had to pay out his sister Veronica. The place was too big for her anyway…she had a partner but no kids, and he had two with another on the way. But his wife would only move in on one condition- that they do the old place up.

“Well Mr Jones, what do you think?”

Jack didn’t want to give too much away, but it was actually the cheapest of three quotes he had obtained. Still, he would really struggle to raise that much money.

“Any way we could cut it down? My limit is seventy.”

The builder thought for a moment. “Well, if we didn’t do the roof and rebuild the wash-house, it would save a bit on the construction and plumbing.”

He and Jack walked into the lean-to laundry which seemed to be holding up the back wall of the house. “It’s actually pretty solid. Bluestone floor is good- people like that sort of thing these days. Gives it character. If you- I mean your wife- can live with it, give it a coat of paint and put in a new washer. I reckon I could do the rest for seventy.”

Jack thought for a minute. Surely a new kitchen and bathroom would do the trick. We can do the laundry later on- it’s only for washing clothes after all.

He extended his hand and the deal was sealed. “Done! When can you start?”

Jack picked up the phone. “Hello honey. Yes, it’s all organised. Got him down to seventy grand. He can start in two weeks. Yes, it’s great. There’s just one small catch. The laundry is going to have to wait for now. I know it’s a dump. But in a couple of years we can fix it up. I promise.”