*
Woke with a decidedly sour stomach, after a third consecutive disturbed night’s sleep. Had intended, this morning, to pay a visit on my old gardener, Mr Snow, who, I hear, has been very ill, but when I peered out at the day from my window the wind was stripping the leaves right off the trees and the barometer tower on the West wing promised more unsettled stuff to come. Resolved to stay indoors, at least until the rain had cleared. Dug out a clean nainsook handkerchief and dipped it in lavender oil. Blew down the pipe for some news on my Balbriggan socks but got no response from any quarter so, like some slippered nomad, trekked down the stairs to see what was going on.
Finally located Mrs Pledger in a steaming laundry-room, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she set about a mound of wet washing. She nodded in my direction but continued to pummel away. Today, it transpired, is the day allocated for the washing of bedsheets and it was a moment or two before I was able to fully take in the industrious scene before me. Stone sinks overflowed with hot water, soapsuds slid and drifted everywhere. The piercing aroma of cleaning agent made a powerful impression on the eyes and nose. Damp sheets hung down from wooden slats which were suspended from the ceiling on a web of pulleys and ropes, and this huge expanse of wet linen and the frantic activity beneath encouraged in me the notion that I had stumbled aboard some many-masted cutter as it weathered some terrible storm.
Four girls helped Mrs Pledger with her laundry and as I am in the habit of constantly forgetting the names of those in her employ (they are always coming and going, it seems, or turning into women overnight) I had her introduce me to them. Thus, I learned that the house staff currently includes at least ‘two Annies, an Anne and a Sarah’ and while they persevered with their scrubbing and rinsing I leaned against one of the vast sinks and repeated their names under my breath, finding the phrase to have a strangely calming quality to it.
With everyone so thoroughly immersed in their business I was left very much to myself, so to pass the time I stared into some temporarily abandoned sink, where I observed on the water’s cooling surface the quiet collapse of soapy-suds. Very interesting indeed. What began life as a gently frying pancake of lather gradually changed its appearance as its tiny bubbles gave out, one by one. By exercising my mind on it I found that, with a little effort, the suds took on a shape not unlike the British Isles (a very frothy fellow he was, as if recently covered by a fall of snow). He wore an angular hat for Scotland, stretched his toes out at Penzance, had Wales for a belly and the Home Counties for a sit-upon. This little discovery rather pleased me, although, in all honesty, I could not say for certain how much was in the beholder’s eye and how much was in the suds.
Well, those abandoned bubbles continued popping and my suddy Briton duly stretched and shrank, until I saw that he was, in fact, metamorphosing into – yes! – Italy’s high-heeled boot. Britain turning into Italy – what confusion that would cause! What kind of weather would we have, I wonder? And what language? We should all have to speak in Latin. (Amo, amas, amat …) Excellent!
I was still happily ruminating in this manner when Italy’s centre suddenly came apart and what had just now appeared to be solid land split into four or five smaller isles. Well, this came as quite a shock, and I had to fairly pump my imagination to come up with another port of call (my geography has always been very poor). Japan, perhaps, or the Philippines. I had to hurry … the islands were shrinking like ice-floes in the sun. I just about managed to bring into focus one final archipelago of froth but it was the briefest vision and in a second it had shimmered and gone, leaving nothing behind but a flat pool of dirty water, as if some aquatic apocalypse had run its course.
The whole process, I found, had quite tired me out. All the same, I offered to roll up my sleeves and lend a hand, thinking I would quite like to stir up some suds of my own. Mrs Pledger, however, was adamant that she and the girls were best left to do the work themselves so I loitered quietly in the corner and did my best to keep myself occupied.
Seeing all the sheets having the dirt drubbed out of them reminded me of a theory I have recently been entertaining. One which, on reflection, I was perhaps rather foolish in presenting to Mrs Pledger. Namely, might it not be possible for a bad night’s sleep to somehow leave a trace of itself on one’s sheets? A remnant of melancholy, perhaps, which the linen could in some way absorb. Is it not in any way plausible, I continued, that my recent disturbed sleep might be the result of some ill feeling, previously sweated out, which, when rewarmed by my body, is made potent once again?
I could tell straight away that my seeds had been cast on the stoniest of grounds. It is, I admit, an unusual theory and still somewhat underdone. But Mrs Pledger has never had much time for progressive thinking. Her long thin lips became even longer and thinner – became, in fact, little more than a crinkly line. She filled her great chest, emptied it in a single great sigh then went back to wrestling with her heap of washing.
All the same, as I left, I asked her to be sure and have one of the girls strip the linen from my bed and give it an especially ruthless scrub.