MONDAY’S CHILDREN

Evening Star, Issue 22448, 19 September 1936, Page 2

MONDAY’S CHILDREN

\ Written by Panachk for tbe ' Evening Star.’]

When hospital training and registrations were made compulsory, midwivos and other picturesque, inefficient wise women disappeared. When 1 read ol meetings being called and Ministers being approached about tho establishment of schools for training domestic workers 1 .have ' fears that washerwomen, a race more scrupulous and nobler than tbe old nurses, may also c.oase. to be.

In novels heroes who are tired of teaching science or arranging specimens in museums sometimes' resign their- jobs and take to digging coal or mending shoes, finding solace and satisfaction in manual labour. Novels are full of dissatisfied heroines, and- it is a suggestion to authors that those bored ladies should turn and live with washerwomen, a race of the most philosophical, as if they have drawn from their constant, proximity to tubs some of the wisdom that was Diogenes’ when ho lived in one.

Washerwomen always know their own worth', since they are sought after most eagerly on a Monday, and there is but one Monday-in a week. Hence they have favours to give or to withhold. Occasionally the heads of all but the most steadily feudal are turned by constant solicitings for Mondaj’s, so that they shuffle old accommodating clients on to Tuesdays, or even Wednesdays, to “ oblige,” for a consideration, the new. With such a demand for washerwomen, it is strange that more women do not adopt this calling,. for Mondays at least, since, though it is exacting in its demands, it is rich in satisfaction.

A washerwoman’s work is satisfying because it is a complete job, not one of thoso ’pieces of work that is never done, like preparing meals or tidying up a house. The washerwoman sees results. Aureoled with the virtue of the early riser, she comes in the morning when the dew is undisturbed on tbe grass and the clothes lines are empty save for a single blackbird, tho bird that has belonged to back gardens since the nursery rhyme days when maids first hung 'out clothes and birds were baked in pics. She looks in at the washhouse .with its soiled clothes in. tubs, in basket on the floor. Like Hercules she sees an Augean stable, and like Hercules, undismayed, she sets to cleaning it up with streams of water. She rolls up her sleeves, stuffs into'the insatiable maw of tbe copper; an inordinate amount of kindling, enough to light the diriing room fire for a month, and begins her job. A washhouse is a pleasant place, simple, natural, affecting, unspoilt by decoration. There are sometimes blackberries growing outside the windows, and any overflow of ornaments from the house is eagerly seized on by the washerwoman and removed. On the shelves, strong bars of yellow soap, stacks of washing powder, and cubes of blue form themselvese into still-life -groups; - The washerwoman has a romantic life, her head iu the steam of geysers, her arms plunged elbow deep in waters bluer than the Mediterranean. After a few hours she looks round on her work and sees that it is good, clothes filled with tho breeze, odd “ coloureds ” spread on bushes, tho clothes basket turned triumphantly upside down, the peg bag empty, two inches of clear water in the tubs, and the taps dripping. Then she goes home, a tight bunch of wallflower in her hand, a cabbage under her arm, a chocolate box and a calendar for the children retrieved from the treasure trove of the rubbish basket.

Most washerwomen are artists, and even the inefficient are temperamental. Some arrive on labouring days without a sign of their profession, their best apparel on, and their aprons camouflaged in music cases. Many have children who do not like school, and who have constant colds which they nurse by the copper fire. All have their idiosyncrasies, a scorn of washing soda or an, insatiable craving for it, a burning contempt either for those that soak clothes or. for those that do not soak them. As a sisterhood they have one thing in common, an unbounded contempt for the technique of their predecessors, washers without consciences, and scalding derisions for the colour they have, left the sheets. Washerwomen are comfortable guests at morning tea, because they are not ashamed to make a hearty meal. They never slim, trusting for beauty to the fresh complexion that comes from constant steaming. So when they are asked to have a second cup of tea they don’t mind if, they do. And while they eat they talk on their favourite themes of Sunday excursions and the physiological disturbances of their relatives, who are more fearfully and wonderfully made than most people. Influenza, with a washerwoman’s relatives, is no tedious affair of thermometers and lemon drinks; and there is no washerwoman whose sister has not had : at least two major and lurid operations (and the mistakes those young doctors make!), whoso brother has not had a fracture (so much worse than a break!) of at least one arm and one leg.

However tired these washerwomen are, they are nev.er too busy to entertain children, to stand them on boxes, and let them pour blue water into a white tub, making a confluence of the two Niles. They are not too busy to babble on, making up an entertaining story about each garment as they rub it. But the racy talk and the hearty laughs may not bo hoard much longer. Some Monday morning no heavy step will crunch on the path. The Government will fulfill its promise to raise the standard of living to that of American millionaires, and on the verandah, instead of a sonsy woman with hands on hips, will be a complicated washing machine, with a little card conveying the compliments of the Minister of internal Affairs. .