If you’ve ever woken up on washday, and looked out at the grey sky with rebellion in your heart - and who hasn’t? - you’ll enjoy this story by ROSE BOUCHERON WET MONDAY She opened one eye and thought — Monday. She raised herself on one elbow to see clearly above the window boxes. The bedroom window nestled under a giant cedar tree, that spanned out flat branches forming a protection against the weather. No need to look any farther. The bedraggled petunias and blue lobelias in the window-boxes were drenched and water-logged. The rooftop of the house opposite gleamed shiny and red in the steady grey drizzle. Washday, how she hated it. She flung her legs over the side of the bed and put a comb through her hair. She pulled her dressing-gown around her and made her way to the bathroom, her face wrinkled in a frown. She scrubbed her teeth. and, shuddering, sloshed cold water over her face. Peering closely into the mirror, she pulled her face into an ugly leer, and in a kind of self-torture, looked at herself in her husband’s shaving mirror. The magnifying glass showed up every flaw. She closed her eyes; she couldn’t bear to look. Making her way to her daughter’s room, she tip-toed across the floor to close the windows against the fine, driving rain. She shook her gently. “Caroline?” The flushed little face lay partly buried in the pillow. She opened two sleep filled eyes “Mummy? What time is it?” “Seven-thirty, darling.” She padded along the hall, and pushed the door open where Jeremy, her younger son, lay. A mound of jumbled clothes, trousers, vests, socks and pants lay all over the floor. His tousled head rested on one arm. “Jem! It’s seven-thirty.” “Okay. I’m awake.” She moved along the hall to the next door. “Jonathan! It’s seven-thirty!” “Mmm.” He lay neatly, his bedclothes quite undisturbed. Not a thing out of place anywhere. Every book neatly in the bookshelf, the cupboard a model of tidiness. Going back to her bedroom, she leaned over the bed. “John!” She shook him slightly. I’ll bring him a cup of tea, she thought crossly. I always do. One of these days though, I’ll stop this habit of taking tea up to him. It encourages him to sleep late. Downstairs, she looked at the hot-water gauge on the boiler, and swung the washing machine next to the sink. There, she had made a start. Putting the kettle on for the tea, and laying the breakfast-table, she felt a kind of despair. All that washing. She just couldn’t face it today. Shirts, sheets and pillow-cases. Surely there was more to life than this! Of course, she could leave it until tomorrow, but then the boys would be wanting collars and white shirts, and Caroline would need her clean school dresses. How would it be if she washed a little every day like some women she knew? No, it was bad enough as it was; far better get it over in one day. She made the tea, and slipped some toast into the toaster. Getting the cereal packets out of the pantry, she thought. I will not do that old wash today. I’II leave it until tomorrow. In any case, it wouldn’t dry outside. I’ll leave the whole thing and go off for the day. Do them good. They all take me for granted. She felt quite nasty. She collected the newspaper from the hall letter-box, and read the headlines; turned over the pages and read the news items in between pouring herself and her husband a cup of tea. She took it up to him and called him gently at first, and then louder. “John! Come on, wake up now.” “Uhh! What is it?” He rubbed his eyes. “Didn’t sleep very well last night. What kind of day is it?” “Raining,” she answered tersely. “And come on, it’s nearly eight o’clock.” Going into the bathroom, she began sorting the clothes. Sheets in one pile, shirts and collars in another. Some of these collars were frayed at the edges, eleven, twelve, thirteen shirts, should be fourteen altogether. That must be young Jeremy. Probably put it back in the wardrobe. She carried a pile downstairs, threw them in the corner of the tiny outhouse, and thanked heaven for her veteran washing machine. How had she ever managed without it? In the kitchen, she got out the frying pan, and while the eggs and warm bacon were gently sizzling on the stove, she scanned the papers again. So Rudolf Mareau was having an exhibition of his paintings at the Redbond Gallery, was he? Now that’s where she should be going today. Everyone knew how interested she was in arts. And why shouldn’t she go today? That’s what I’ll do, she thought. I’ll drop everything, and catch the nine-thirty Green Line bus to town. Be up there in an hour, and it must be ages since I had a day out in town. She began to get quite excited at the prospect. That’s settled then. I’ll have coffee in Bond Street, and walk slowly past the shops to the gallery. I’ll stay there till- lunch time… The bacon and eggs were ready, and she transferred them to the warming oven. Going upstairs again, she sorted out the pyjamas from the pillow slips, the cotton blouses from the nylon undies. She chivvied the boys to hurry, and went downstairs with another load. In the drawing-room, she opened the windows to let in the wet morning air; even that was preferable to the stale smell of cigarette smoke. She shook the cushions and picked up yesterday’s newspapers, and carried out the ashtrays. Tonight, she really would tidy the room before she went to bed. She always meant to, but somehow by bedtime it was all too much effort. The boys came down first. While they were having breakfast, she filled the washing machine with hot water and poured in soap powder. Yes, that’s, what she would do. Lunch she could have — well, where? London was full of interesting places to eat. There was nothing to prevent her going into Soho. The head waiter of whichever restaurant she chose would personally escort her to the best table an the room, while every head would turn admiringly. Who is she? They would ask. Don’t talk rubbish, she chided herself. In that old-fashioned suit, the only one you have? “I don’t like cooked breakfast.” Said Caroline plaintively. “Just cereal please, Mummy.” “Oh, stop complaining darling.” She sounded cross. Her husband looked up. He’d better get going quickly before she got really mad. “And it’s raining,” went on Caroline. “Couldn’t you give me a lift Mummy? The other girls mothers take them in by car when it’s raining.” “Oh, all right,” said her mother, with an air of martyrdom. As she took Caroline to school, the rain splashing on either side of the car, she peered through the windscreen wipers at the shining wet road in front of her. Pulling into the curb outside the school, she let her daughter out, and after a quick kiss, waited while the policeman on duty ferried the children across the road. Of course, if she could have the car for the day she could just drive on and on until she came to, say, Coventry where she could look over the new cathedral or even Canterbury or Stratford-Upon-Avon. Everyone seemed to be going somewhere, she thought irritably. In this frame of mind, she refused in admit they were all probably on their way to work. Arriving home, she parked the car outside the house for her husband who was on the point of leaving. Kissing her quickly on her taut, tired face, he thought: I’l1 be very glad when Tuesday comes. She went back to her plans. The lunch in Soho. She thought again of the nice man who was going to escort her to the corner table. Then she remembered her suit. Well perhaps she wouldn’t go to a very smart restaurant. She could browse around the shops. She must find a decent hat to wear. She opened the wardrobe to look for one, and automatically took down a cotton dress to add to the wash. In the bathroom she sorted out the socks. Now these would have to be kept until the last in case the colours ran. However many handkerchiefs did the average family accumulate? Jem’s were so dirty he must have cleaned his bike with them. “E.R.”? in the corner of this one. Now who on earth was E.R.? And just look at Caroline’s socks. She knew she would never get them clean. She sorted out the towels. She loved the exotic stripped one. She had bought it in a sale. Made you think of Spain and hot sunshine. She sat back on her heels. Just imagine, if you went to London Airport at this very moment, planes would be taking off for all corners of the world. Sunny places, full of colour. Striped towel, white barnous Arabians and dark-eyed women in saris. Hot beaches in Miami, golden girls in bikinis. The rain steadily poured down the bathroom window panes. The old Victorian house, covered in Virginia creeper, looked as if it had never known sunshine at all. Looking through the window at the white bungalow next door, with its fabulous green roof and picture windows, she glowered. All very well for her, she thought. No children and every modern labour-saving convenience she could wish for. Disposal thing or whatever and underfloor heating. This house may look picturesque, she thought, but it’s a devil to keep clean. She sighed, and began to clean the nineteen century bathroom, the wash basin with the blue china flower inlay, and the large bath with the brown rust stain. Loaded with another pile of washing, she staggered downstairs. She scrubbed the collars with a nailbrush, and switched on the washing machine. During the first load, she washed and dried the dishes. She glanced up at the kitchen clock. Ten-fifteen. She’d missed the first coach all right; with a bit of luck she’d make the next one. She would perhaps have a sandwich in the coffee shop in Green Park, and stroll through the park and feed the ducks. She must remember to take some stale bread with her. She need not be home until four. She went upstairs to find some drip-dry hangers and came down with another 1oad. Hanging the first lot of shirts on the airer over the kitchen boiler, she put in the next heap of pillow slips and sheets. Then she swept the front porch and washed off the muddy marks on the black and white tiles. After the next load she went in and vacuumed the drawing-room. Yes, she would enjoy that walk across Green Park. She dusted the drawing-room next, and got the second pile of clothes on the airer. Pity it wasn’t a nice day to put them out on the clothes line. Never mind. She folded the sheets, and held them up against her face. She had always loved the smell of newly washed sheets. With each load of washing done, her face gradually eased back to its natural expression. When the last oddments went in, she actually started to sing softly. She piled the wet washing on the kitchen table, and looked at the clock. One-thirty – no wonder she was hungry. She hummed to herself as she emptied the washing machine, and washed the kitchen floor. She pushed it all back in place and wiped round the taps, and now she was singing quite loudly. She cut herself a sandwich, and made a cup of instant coffee, and had another look at the paper. She read again the item of the painting exhibition, only this time it didn’t register. Then she cleared everything away, and got the ironing board out. She ironed the first six shirts, and put them on the rack to air. Glancing through the window at the white house next door, and noticing with pleasure a fitful gleam of sunshine, she thought: Poor soul, how lonely she must be. No one to look after her, and no one to bother about her either. She looked around the Victorian kitchen. There’s nothing so cosy as a family house. She looked up at the kitchen clock. Goodness, three o’clock. Just time to go to the shops for something for dinner. She washed and powdered her face, and combed her hair, put on her tweed skirt, and twin-set, her face now smooth and contented. With the smug air of seeing a job well done, she gave a look round the kitchen, hung her shopping basket over her arm and walked out of the house, through the gate, and down the tree lined-avenue as she had done every Monday for the last twenty years. THE END © Rose Boucheron 1964