´óÏó´«Ã½

By kind permission of the Author

Mondays, of course, you did the whites
In the scullery’s built-in copper boiler,
Brick-faced with the little fire beneath,
Lit in the early dawn, on hands and knees,
Waiting till the room had filled with steam,
Then heaving sheets out with the wooden paddle,
Twisting to squeeze the soapy water out
Before they landed in the dolly tub,
Then rinse and twist again, then mangle once,
Then dip in water with the dolly blue,
Then twist again and fold them thin enough
To feed them through the mangle’s straining maw
But not so thin the hungry wooden monster
Wouldn’t drain them of those last few drops
That made the difference to the drying time.
Oh, for a windy day! We’d fill the line
Then hauling on the pulley on the wall
We’d hoist them high above the backyard tops.
And that was just the whites. The colours
And the woollens lasted through the afternoon.

Always it was scratch meals on a Monday
What with the whites to do. I never knew
Which was better. In the holidays
You threw your weight against the mangle handle
And with your little sister helped to jig
The dolly in the tub, and ran for chips
At lunch time, panting home to keep them hot
And wept along with Mother when it rained
And went to bed exhausted but content.
Term time was another matter though:
Porridge for breakfast, bundled off to school
Indifferently. Home to a boring lunch
Then back again at tea time, Mother worn
To a frazzle, as she said, too tired to read
A bed-time story. And, of course, no Dad.

‘This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Merseyside’s People’s War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his/ her permission. The author fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.’

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