Washing day

Washing Day

Monday is washing day. She will never forget Mondays and the endless lines of billowing washing stretching the full length of the terrace. The gossip and chit-chat beneath the tall slanting clothes props and the shouts of laughter from the turban headed woman.

The washing hung out the woman sit on the donkey stoned steps daring the rain to fall.

Monday is also the day the rent man calls, it is often a race for some of the women to quickly hang their washing out before the clock strikes one. They then retreat into their sculleries and sit there silently until the sharp raps can no longer be heard on their battered front doors; the only entrance into their two to four roomed dwellings; that often house up to ten people. Then the rain pours and whoever is in a position to pay the rent also retrieves the damp sodden washing of the lines. Arguments and trivial quarrels are overlooked and wet clothes are still brought in regardless. She recalled the time she had been a newcomer to the terrace. Some time had elapsed before she had gained the trust of its inhabitants. Until one penniless Monday her washing was bundled up and dropped in her passage. She remembered how good it felt to become accepted.

Over the years she often wondered why they didn’t change washing day to Tuesday. But then she told herself, Monday is washday and always will be.

Tuesday the house is full of steam and drying washing, pulleys stretch from wall to wall in the small humid room. However on a good Tuesday irons are heated on the small stoves, and the dry pressed clothes are put away forgotten until the following Monday.
“Yes Monday will always be will always be washday.”

She liked it here looking out of her window she could almost hear the little kids playing in the terrace; their laughter echoing in her ears. She could see the washing lines and visualize them heavy with washing, nappies swaying like white flags of peace. She knew it would not be long before the men would be home. Then the woman would abandon their places on the doorstep, all would be silent whilst meals were prepared.

Yes she liked it here it was better than that place high in the sky where there were no neighbours, no washing line’s and no friends; where the children never laughed and the rent man never visited.
She noticed that the rain had begun to fall so she ventured outside to reach for the washing line.
“Come along love” said a voice. “You’re getting soaked to the skin.”
She felt an arm around her small frame as she was gently ushered back indoors.

She returned to her seat by the window, once again lost in her memories. She turned to the Matron and smiled.
“It’s Monday,” she said with a quiver in her voice.
“It’s Monday again, washing day …..”

Washing Day

Monday is washing day. She will never forget Mondays and the endless lines of billowing washing stretching the full length of the terrace. The gossip and chit-chat beneath the tall slanting clothes props and the shouts of laughter from the turban headed woman.

The washing hung out the woman sit on the donkey stoned steps daring the rain to fall.

Monday is also the day the rent man calls, it is often a race for some of the women to quickly hang their washing out before the clock strikes one. They then retreat into their sculleries and sit there silently until the sharp raps can no longer be heard on their battered front doors; the only entrance into their two to four roomed dwellings; that often house up to ten people. Then the rain pours and whoever is in a position to pay the rent also retrieves the damp sodden washing of the lines. Arguments and trivial quarrels are overlooked and wet clothes are still brought in regardless. She recalled the time she had been a newcomer to the terrace. Some time had elapsed before she had gained the trust of its inhabitants. Until one penniless Monday her washing was bundled up and dropped in her passage. She remembered how good it felt to become accepted.

Over the years she often wondered why they didn’t change washing day to Tuesday. But then she told herself, Monday is washday and always will be.

Tuesday the house is full of steam and drying washing, pulleys stretch from wall to wall in the small humid room. However on a good Tuesday irons are heated on the small stoves, and the dry pressed clothes are put away forgotten until the following Monday.
“Yes Monday will always be will always be washday.”

She liked it here looking out of her window she could almost hear the little kids playing in the terrace; their laughter echoing in her ears. She could see the washing lines and visualize them heavy with washing, nappies swaying like white flags of peace. She knew it would not be long before the men would be home. Then the woman would abandon their places on the doorstep, all would be silent whilst meals were prepared.

Yes she liked it here it was better than that place high in the sky where there were no neighbours, no washing line’s and no friends; where the children never laughed and the rent man never visited.
She noticed that the rain had begun to fall so she ventured outside to reach for the washing line.
“Come along love” said a voice. “You’re getting soaked to the skin.”
She felt an arm around her small frame as she was gently ushered back indoors.

She returned to her seat by the window, once again lost in her memories. She turned to the Matron and smiled.
“It’s Monday,” she said with a quiver in her voice.
“It’s Monday again, washing day …..”

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