Category: Washhouse Wimmin Stories

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Hingin’ Out the Clothes

Hingin’ Out the Clothes

Down by the River
Where the green grass grows
There sits Mary, washing her clothes.
She sings she sing she sings so sweet,
she calls her friends all up and down the street.*

I expect Mary curses or bawls,
When it rains or snows?
Wouldn’t you?

Hark
Hear her,
muscle and strength in rhythmic industry
hands, arms, shoulders elbows
in service to others.

30 mins in water you have these!
washer woman’s hands
are not nice!

Wash house women undertaking laundry in the company of other washing women.

I guess your mother grandmother great grandmother or someone in your family is likely to have been too a washhouse woman at home, if not you.
Did they get you to join in?
Like my mother got me and my sisters to join her?
The boys, my brothers didn’t have to be washhouses.
This was girls work training for women-hood,
Muscle and strength in rhythmic industry.
Rub and scrub with household soap,
Sunlight oh! That smell of lemons! or green block soap,
soak and rinse, squeeze.

Imagine my nine-year-old little hands in a basin balanced on a wooden plank across the bath washing my own clothes.

‘Not like that Rosie!’
She would scold me. Boy my mother could wring water out of clothes.

Inside out, upside down
they would be hinged on the line to dry.

She would frown my mother.
She grew not much higher than my 9- year- old self.
But her presence keenly felt,
rectifying my errors in the hingin’ out clothes
I can see her now: peg ready in her vexed mouth,
she’d temporarily remove to scold me.

Pegs were rhythmically removed from the large pocket in
an apron she’d made,
a speedy conveyor belt in her one-woman laundry operative,
placing, replacing pegs, from pocket, to hand, to mouth and line.

She’d select a clothes item, lift it out from the laundry basket, inside out, buttoned up, and hung upside down.
The sheets had a special pegging arrangement,
and hung so well to let the air circulate,
in her hingin’ out of the clothes ritual.

So here I am wearing this apron to remember her by
without the peg pockets. Neither did I make it.
‘Sorry Ma!’

Ros
*lines from a trad English folk song

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Doncaster Belles Lime

Doncaster Belles Lime:
Remembering St James Turkish Baths

Up with the toilet bags on the shower room shelf,
Into the sauna, Josie leads us,
to hang out in our bathing costumes.

Mary’s grey haired, her body translucent,
Noni’s brown and Lucie’s red.
Our towels laid out on wooden deck chairs,
Spread out are our legs.
We open tubes and pots of emollient.
Belly rolls of fallen flesh, unfold.

Elongated, wasted,
and sunken are our breasts.
Josie’s not hiding her mastectomy.
Lucie’s moles and freckles she shows,
Noni her varicose veins,
her bald head too when her wig comes off.
Josie’s thinning grey hair are in rollers.

Lucie’s shaved her pubes again,
dimpled and flabby is her behind.
nobody minds our cellulite thighs.

This is our space, our territory,
our time, to hang lose.

We exfoliate the dirt from labours and
services, mostly unpaid care for others
In eucalyptus steam filled rooms,

Lucy going for a swim now,
Mary a dip. Woah! The water’s too cold,
a shower then, sauna.

Back and forth, forth and back
in and out of rooms and pools

We quench our thirst with open wide mouths
held over that of the bronze dolphin fountain.
We take turns to massage each other readily.
Share troubles, there’s advice, aplenty from Noni.
Everyone speaks over each other.
Exchange gossip, Josie’s always the one in the know,
the place to go for prize bargain buys.

Noni’s promises to bring in a cake as it’s her birthday next
to celebrate.
A smuggled in drink would be welcomed too.

Now hunt for the purse, it’s Turkish bath lottery syndicate time
We’ve fanciful dreams to nurse.

Everyone lies on their back until about three,
When, in comes bath attendant Debbie with free toast and the teas.

Having arrived around ten most of us have to go.

Cheerio!’

Our Mary’s got Grand uns to pick up from school,
Josie’s got her dementia mum back from daycare to attend to,

Joanie’s got moaning Frank’s dinner to cook.
So, for all of us, it’s back to the grind,
Until we meet again next week
For our Doncaster Belles lime.

Ros
Lime is a Caribbean expression for relaxing.
This poem was written on visiting St James Turkish Bath Doncaster with my mum and her friends before it closed down.

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The Sound of the Wash

The Sound of the Wash

I was 15 years old and my Mother had to travel to St Kitts in the Caribbean to attend the funeral of her Father.
My Father worked long shifts so I was left to help look after three of my younger siblings, (Sophia 5, Paul 6 and Garth 7.)
More than cooking, cleaning the house and caring for three children.

I found ‘Wash Day’ the hardest.

We did not have a washing machine, but we had a bath to hand wash the clothes. Bending over the bath on my knees, I filled the bath with hot water, sprinkled Daz soap powder and swirled and ruffled the water to increase the foam. I soaked the clothes of the family weekly wash in the soapy water and then rubbed the clothes up and down, firmly, over the glass ridges of the wash board.

In contrast woollens were always washed gently using Lux soap flakes.

I continued squeezing and rubbing the soaked fabrics between my hands, trying to make the squelching sound that my Mother was always able to make. It was like a ‘Rites of Passage’ when I too was able to finally master the sound of the wash.

Mary

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Walworth Road Baths Remembered

Walworth Road Baths Remembered

Four Souf London girls
Only 10 years old
Three white and one black,
Me.

Four Souf London girls
Off on an Adventure
Up the Walworth Road,
Linda, Carol, Maggie and me.

Going to a washhouse
where Carol’s nan used to bathe
And Linda’s too
Sometimes,
But not mine.

My granny’s public wash place
Was the sea in Jamaica,
Commonly known as the Caribbean Sea.
Somewhere I have heard about it,
But never seen.
Except for a spot on a map
Someone I have heard about, but not seen.
Not even a photograph.

Walking from Kennington to the Elephant
To catch a bus to Walworth Road
What an adventure!

Four Souf London girls
Clutching our bags
As we laugh and skip our way
Through 1960’s London
To a public washhouse
Just for fun.

To us it felt like going to the swimming baths
But here they gave you soap.
I loved that tiny tablet of soap.
I took it home to show my mum!

Four Souf London girls
Each in our own separate cubicle.
Door locked but shouting at each other.
Acting in unison
Through each of our commentaries
Echoing
Echoing
Echoing.

‘I’m getting undressed now.’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’

‘I am running a deep bath!’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’

I am taking my soap home.
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’

I’m going to get out now.
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’
‘So am I!’

So we washed ourselves
With the soap we bought from home
And used our towels to dry ourselves.
And enjoyed the fun of it all.

Each emerging, glowing
From the steam of the small compartment
And ready for the next stage of our adventure.

A walk to the pie and mash shop
Linda and Carol debating the merits of liquor or not.

Maggie and me listening.
Anticipating our second new experience of the day
But that is another story.

Doreen

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Jacob’s Wells Baths

Jacob’s Wells Baths

‘Well, where I was in Hotwells (Bristol) it was a working-class area and I never knew anybody certainly not our house, that had a bathroom.

There was a great big galvanised bath brought out on a Friday, Saucepans of water would be poured in and first in, was my younger sister, two years younger. She would have a bath first and after, in the same water, would go my second sister, the one, two years older, and she had a bath, and made it soapier, and I was the third in, with the same water and that was about from age 7 to 13 or14. And I never enjoyed any of that.

Then I found out that Jacobs Wells Road swimming baths also had a bath house, where you could take a towel and soap and hire a bath in a cubicle.

Each cubicle had a number, so you never had any taps inside the cubicle, it was all controlled by a person with a white coat; so he would show you to the cubicle you were going to have your bath in. He’d shut the door and away, he went.
Then after so long, you’d hear people shouting out: ’drop more hot number 5 please!’ And there would be a gush, more water would come. Now and again if you stayed too long, the chap in a white coat would say: ‘are you nearly done?’
I would say:’ almost done.’ So, you came out and dried off and walked home. I could tolerate that. That was a form of luxury after being third in a galvanise.

I used to go every Friday.

But everyone was the same you see. I never knew anybody that had a bathroom. I used to meet one of my mates up the bathhouse now and again, so he was in the same problem as I was. You don’t enjoy sitting in a tin tub.
You do not enjoy being third in a bath apart from the temperature of the water. There was a lot of soapy stuff around. I started moaning more and more when I was 13 and as soon as I was 14 that was it.

Were Jacobs Wells baths segregated? Were there different times men and women went?

I would imagine they would have separate sections for women because women would live in houses with no baths like we did.
There were only men in the section I went into.

Just cubicles and each separated by a wooden partition and a door. There were no taps on the baths, and you just have to shout out for more water. The bath would fill from outside. There would be a nozzle stuck in the end of the bath, when you were going in you’d put your stopper in the bath he would run the bath. He would close the door and disappear. The water would come in and then after a bit you asked for more water, and it would gush in again.

Well, it was very modern and advanced for me.

Was it echoey?

Oh yeah it was echoey! Different voices coming around.

As I would say from a metal galvanised bath, the public bath was luxury and you never had to clean the bath you just got up dried off said ‘cheerio’ and you were off. It was luxury.

It was looked upon as the good old days, but poverty is rough. Poverty is rough. It stays with you, the thought of it. It was all primitive in the house and generally freezing but, you either survived or you went under. That was bath nights.

Terry

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Jacob’s Wells Baths

Jacob’s Wells Baths

When I was about 8 or 9 years old, Elmlea primary school would take us to Jacob’s Wells Baths for swimming lessons. This would have been around 1975.
It always felt very exciting to be on the coach, taking the long journey into the unknown, well along the Portway really… The kids would get hyper and run from seat to seat until our teacher had shouted at us to sit down several times.

My parents rarely bought sweets, so I used to really look forward to spending my 25p on a Crunchy Bar from the vending machine at the baths. We always felt cold and miserable after an hour of being shouted at in the pool, so the thought of a chocolate bar at the end really kept me going.

Swimming lessons seemed to comprise of barked orders and sharp blasts of whistle from the swimming instructor; a large, angry, balding man who strode up and down the pool in his nylon tracksuit. We would swim from one end to the other in a splashing gaggle, as the instructor shouted at us to swim faster, stop holding on to the pool side, to stop splashing and to stop complaining.

Eventually, we would be set free from the pool, to stand shivering under lukewarm water at the showers. We had worked out that if you wedged the shower button on with your back, the water would eventually almost become warm, but lingering in the shower would result in more shouting, so we would be herded along in a shivering mass of skinny limbs to the changing rooms and dry clothes.

I love swimming now, but my memories of swimming lessons were less than pleasant; an hour of shouting, followed by lukewarm showers and a chilly changing room, where inevitably, your socks would fall into a puddle.

I was the first to get dressed and I left the chilly changing rooms in search of the vending machine, but a glimpse of an unknown archway caught my curiosity, so I ventured into a maze of tiled corridors, where attendants in long grey nylon housecoats and white wellies bustled around carrying towels and mops.
A strange, muffled sound, like a hibernating bear snoring in a cave drew me further into this unexplored labyrinth.

I pushed through a curtain of thick, heavy see-through plastic strips into a large steamy room. Following the strange grunting sound. An attendant was turning a faucet by a large metal box, fed with pipes. He briskly marched off, to reveal a large, red-faced man’s head; sealed to the neck in the box!
Guttural grunts echoed around the tiles. The disembodied head gasped and sighed in the most disturbing manner, his eyes clamped shut in concentration, as rivulets of sweat ran down his jowls.

I felt a bit scared at this perspiring apparition and reversed out of the steamy room at top speed, retracing my steps quickly as an attendant called out “Hey! What are you doing here?”

Reaching the reception area, I found the class was already outside, climbing aboard the coach, so I fumbled through my pockets to find my 25p for the vending machine.
Our teacher dashed in: “Why aren’t you on the coach? Leave the machine and hurry up!”

So, I did what any self-respecting child would do, when faced with the loss of a much-anticipated chocolate bar, I pretended to be deaf and put my money in the vending machine and punched the code, waiting as the machine slowly ejected the Crunchie Bar into the tray with a clang. As I opened the hatch that seemed sprung to trap tiny hands, my teacher ranted behind me… but I got the Crunchie.

As we bounced up the road, my bare legs prickled by the velour seats, I went into reveries as I munched the chocolate… it tasted so good! But I felt a bit haunted and disturbed by that sweaty grunting face, locked in a box.

Mike

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Laundering Memories

Laundering Memories

I remember lying in my bed next to the window.
I loved the view, a porthole into the wide world of possibilities,
childhood wonder.

I had a view of the cold night sky,
shifting cloud shapes and sometimes
the shimmering full moon, eclipsing the gasometer.
Raised to its full height and casting shadows on the factories.
Brook’s chimney hidden behind, close to the Frome.
Resting, industry silently waiting for the first sounds of city morning.
Sharp winter images in the frame, natures lurex, winter sparkle.

I didn’t see what wasn’t there, just marvelled at what was.
Tucked in by my dad, secured by blankets and sheets
that blew on the line yesterday, brought inside ice cold,
and aired on the clothes horse next to the coal fire.
The last breath of steam leaving them dry as a bone.

The good night ritual runs its course…
“Night, night, mind the bed bugs don’t bite!”
“Night, night.’’
Hearing his voice disappearing down the “Wooden Hill.”

Hugging my hot water bottle under the bedding layers,
coats on top to keep jack frost from getting in.
Only my face exposed to the ice-cold chill of the room.
Visible breath lingering for a moment. Air freezing to the pane.
Sash windows tucked up with cardboard to stop a draft but still
allowing the ice inside.

Many times, I ventured out an arm, to scratch on the textured glass canvas with a fingernail. Shapes and symbols, smiley faces and words added to nature’s stunning artwork.
I was here.

I didn’t feel what wasn’t there. I embraced what was.

Morning arouses the city sounds.
Early trains roll by on the embankment behind the house, rocking the back windows as they amble towards the thirteen arches and into Stapleton Road.

The milkman tinkles up the road in percussion with the melodic bird song hanging on the breeze, like a soft warming orchestra pit before the sirens blow and the whole cacophony of production launches to life.

I didn’t hear what wasn’t there, just soaked in the vibrations.

We had one tap in the kitchen, water boiled on the gas stove for washing clothes or us. Toilet in the yard, Tin bath hanging on the wall in the yard waiting for Fridays. An old mangle standing next to it waiting for Mondays.

Oh, the glee of water! Shapeshifting around us and through us.
An ebb and flow of the domestic every day.
Splashing and playing watching water squeezed from fabrics into a bowl underneath.
Running and hiding in the billowing sheets, sharing pegs.

We didn’t touch what wasn’t there, just felt the flow of life.

Simple joys cleansed the harsh edges away.
Laundering the memories for later.
In a moment it will be gone.

Pauline

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My Granny and the Mangle

My Granny and the Mangle

I always looked forward to Mondays when I could help my granny with washing the laundry. She was a very busy woman, as she ran a small guest house for up to 20 people, from Easter to October every year.

Wash day was very special as I got to spend time with her, on my own.

The Washhouse was out in the back yard. She’d get out the mangle which was used in the open air. She washed cotton sheets, pillowcases, serviettes, hand towels and tea towels.

She would put these items in the mangle and ask me to turn the handle to get as much water out of them as I could.

We would mangle particularly thick items together, her hands on mine. I loved this, as all the time we would be chatting about all sorts of things.

Conversation with granny at the mangle was what I enjoyed most.

Silu

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Going for a Spin

Going for a Spin

I went to my Aunty’s 90th birthday this weekend. She still got a single spin dryer, so a memory came up. I don’t remember my childhood very much so it’s kind of bits and pieces.

We gathered in me Nana’s tiny, one up one down, back-to-back terrace in Yorkshire. We went to see her new-fangled machine! She had come into some money. I think it was a war windows pension or something she had been waiting decades to get. Anyway, we went to see how you feed it clothes, squeezing them out in the sink and plonking them into the open mouth, at the top of the spinner. This all had to take place in the middle of her sitting room because, she only had a tiny kitchen with a bath hidden under a shelf, because she had to pay rates for baths in those days, so she had a hidden bath.

It was quite a performance. There was no room for us all because, neighbours came, me mum and sister.

We all gathered around. She gathered her stuff from the sink and squeezed it as best she could. She possered out some water as well, then, she grabbed a garment and sheet. She twisted it and turned it. It all dribbled down her because, me granny was not known to be neat.

She plonked it in the spinner and then, ‘what we going to do next?’ You had to put the lid down, ‘somebody put the lid down!’ and then it started and took off across the room! I can’t remember who it was. I think it was my sister because she was older than me, she was holding onto it:

‘Somebody sit on it!’ So, I sat on it. Like a big vibrator it was, and everyone gathered round holding it down. ‘Ooooooh!’
Until’ ‘Do you think that would be enough now?’ So, I got off it. Had to press one of the buttons and the lid flicked up.

Then had to see:’ Oh it is all shrunk down the bottom! Can’t see it!’ So, we picked it up and pulled it out! All dry, ready to hang on the line. ‘Oooooh!’

Belinda

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Mama’s Washday Blues

Mama’s Washday Blues

Sort the clothes, whites from darks as you sorted the shells on the beach in Anguilla.

Pour on the hot water like you were having a hot sea bath.

Add soap like the froth of the sea’s waves rolling back and forth.

Mama, can you hear the sea as you squelch, squash and squeeze the clothes between those hands. 

Hands that dragged that suitcase across the English cobbled streets to find a home.

Dissolve ‘Blue’ to rinse and brighten the whites to add a touch of the azure sea of back home.

Wring the clothes like you wring out your wages to last the month.

Clothes hung billowing on the washing line in the grey, cold wind, as Mama remembers the sails of the boats floating in the bright hot Caribbean sun.

Remember Mama you were only going to be here for five years.

Mary

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