Now and then you get to get washed. Now and then you start needing bath.
Not often. Every second year maybe.
Comes over you. Sudden. You begin think, hello now. Sun hot. You see big toe lookin out of slit boot, yellowish grey. Like ivory. On elephant.
People start moving away.
I’m tramp, see. Hobo. Drop-out. Gentleman of road. Swag-man. Tramp. May have seen me on road anyday fifteen years. Push pramalong. Full gear. Got long black coat. Rags other clothes under. These not see for many years at time. Not observed. Between these and skin lining newspapers. The news is old. Keep all about me, day night. Pushing pram.
Stop. Have good burrow. Rubbish bins. Sleep park, steps cinema, back church, back seat parked car. Places people gleaming faces nothing do hand soup bread. Grand what pick up too.
Name Horsa. Daft silly woman mother. Dead all I know. Hengist dead too. Julius Caesar dead. Napoleon, Churchill, Harry Pollitt, Hitler.
Dead. Horsa sixty. Maybe seventy. Give take year. Never count up.
Until start thinking wash. Comes on like said—slow, slow.
Hot day. Wash.
Water. Wash.
Wash. Bath.
Soak. Steam.
Grand.
When boy, town called Nevermind (Mugstown, Mutstown) one good thing. Bath. Oh boy! Someone scrubbing away ears, back, toe-nails pure pink-white, shiny. Not elephant slab-grey.
SO.
Go this day down road town maybe Mugstown, Mutstown all I know. Get there over hill, through wood, up village, out village and it was raining. My rain! Deepest Paper under-linings wet as sump and soggy.
Rain turn snow. Horsa shacks up barn. Farmer looks. ‘Get out there, you or I’ll getmegun.’
So pushoff. Pram sticks every tenyards icy mud. Sits down splat. ‘Great goodfornowt,’ yells farmer. ‘Firing hay bloody fags.’ ‘No fags,’ says Horsa. ‘Don’t smoke, farmer,’ but comes out bad: ‘burble-wurble-yah-blah-splot.’
Tramp, see. Loner. No practice mouth, tongue, vocal cordage of sarcophagus.
‘Bad words, filth!’ yells farmer. Horsa steps on. Staggers on.
That night hedge back, bath idea begins rise. Begins simmer. Dog comes up sniffs. Howls. Runs off.
Bit high, Horsa. On high-Horsa. Time go.
What do is this. Look for house good class, empty. Look see water pipes growing up walls. Pass nowagain maybe week and watch what goes.
He goes out.
Kids out.
She goes out.
Twelve clock she back.
Maybe Fridays or somedays she always later. Maybe teatime. Maybe keepfit, yoga, coffee Mugstown friends.
So after two Friday, on Friday three in nips Horsa, first hiding pram outhouse, garden shed, find way bathroom, start in. Oh boy!
So finds this house, oh verynice. Verygoodclassperson. Green grass of Mugstown well-cut, metal-edges. Keep grass not feeling too fullofself. Keep place. Gravel paths of mustard yellow. Windows white nets, swags like innertent. Front door smart boxsweets. Good chain for pullbell.
He goes out.
Kids go out.
She goes out. Big bag so out all Mugstown day.
Up steps goes smelly Horsa pulls chainbell.
Now if one comes, one Gran, one serving-maid, one lodger one mad aunt kept close within, says Horsa, ‘Besogood. Give poor tramp glasswater,’ which sings out ‘Wurble-burble-splash-woosh-splot-PAH,’ and Horsa screamed upon, yelled upon, scourged upon, sentonway.
But if no answer then it’s the great, grand, soap-water kick. Oh boy!
SO.
Up steps—pram hidden safe below. Nobodybout. Road dead nine-thirty clock o’ the morning. Nice quiet houses, nice quiet burglar-alarm red boxes just stand. Inside each, all tables, chairs, clocks, pictures sit looking each other warm-clean out of wind, rain, weather, poor sods.
Up steps smelly Horsa.
Rings bell no answer.
Ringsgain no answer.
Ringsgain turns look updown. Not living soul. Not motor car. Not bike. Only cat gatepost watch through yellow slits. Cat stands, stretches on four fat sixpences, turns round, curls upgain, goes sleep. ‘Carry on Horsa. Have bath.’ Like cats. Clean, interesting.
Round back house kitchen window open. Thought silly woman. Right. Water taps inside window knobbly, window small. Horsa big. Yuge. Elephant Horsa. Horsa the elephant tramp. Horsa theyear. (Hobo. Drop-out, Gentleman road. Swagman. Scrappy. Tramp. Oh boy!)
Maybe left something else open like perhaps back door? Don’t bedaft Horsa. Not your luck and you are lucky. Kick three milk bottles and one little disc. Disc says three more please. SHATTER SHATTER SHATTER. Sounds Horsa killed street greenhouses. Stand still. All well—no alarm. Change disc twenty-seven more please. Very funny joke. Try back door and back door open!
HALLELUIA HORSA! In go. Up stairs. Right in bathroom. Big lump pink soap size breadloaf. Rosepink. Falseteethpink. One, two, three, four towels big, thick, hanging on fat hot coppery pipes. Oh boy!
Horsa works taps, drops in plug. Bath (pale rosepink baby-pink, Mugstownpink) fills up up. Three jars salts green, yellow, lilac. Lilac favourite colour. Lielack.
Pour whole jar lielack in very hot bath and steamrise smells gardens heaven.
Offcome Horsa-boots. Hard work but off come. In time.
Off come black coat, trousers, jacket, waist-coats and let linings now unroll, telling tales of timegoneby. Plop. Dropping noises. Things falling off Horsa into deep hairy carpet. Some move fast. At a run. On various numbers of legs. They dash—not pausing to pass timeday.
All extras gone farewell. Horsa peels last newsprint and good scratch. Hasgo peeling newsprint footbottoms, but these old intelligences must soak. How is it boot in water-closet? It floats. Horsa’s great big black left boot floats tasteful toilet like lobster (uncooked).
Beholdnow mirror. Amber-tinted-rose! And there (how he glares) is Horsa.
AND NOW—
Horsa mustersgether—
soap
flannels
back brushes
front brushes
sponges
nail brushes
sit there you lot
now then—
HERE COMES HORSA
In we go. Oh boy!
Maybe half-hour, maybe hour, maybe four hours. Best bath ever. Friends, let me say, let me proclaim—
PROCLAMATION
oh friends
THIS IS A REAL GOOD
BATH
When water goes off lovely boil have to twiddle butterflies. Golden butterflies, fat kind golden taps twiddle great big slab-elephant toes. OUCH! Get lost! Oh dear! No sense being burnt throwing back—brush. Mirror cracked now. Maybe yes, maybe no?
Maybe yes.
Hot water unending here—picked my house friends—hot water neverends like drizzle and mizzle and deluge and flood of wet night field-end somewhere down old green track. But HOT water, SOAPY water, on-on-ever, constant water. Just the ask. Just the twiddle.
Horsa how you spread!
How you swell in bathtub, how you rise in mound as tide washes steep pink shores.
Lotwater seems over bathroom carpet, soppingpink carpet. Pink carpet not very pink at present. Pink carpet black now where lielack water sops. Oh boy!
Horsa peers out over bathside. Horsa rests big nose-end on smoothpink bath-edge. Pink carpet not pink and now not carpet. More water-meadow. Flooded bog. Little movements in it occur and take place. Hereanthere. Some of Horsa’s creepies drowning. Sad world.
Then down in again Horsa—slap, splursh. Deep, deep down in it.
So out gets last and hangs all towels allover Horsa—one round fatbelly, one round old shoulders, old soldiers, one round fine black headofhair, one last over all as second cover like tent. Tent with pink legs moves off down passage.
His room.
Kids room.
Her room.
Upagain—did Horsa turn off golden twiddleflies?—and what’s this? Dad’s room. Old Dad by look room full old stuff, boxes, rubbish, mess, hats. Dusgusting. Two big wardrobes.
Big fellow grandad. Wheregone not-here?
Maybe dead.
Maybe can’t quite bring selves get rid old clothes.
Think nothing of it Missus. Can help there.
Big fellow grandad, same size Horsa. Good black suit, shirt, tie. Good boots too Horsa, getemonfeet. Ow! Grandad’s toes not spread like Horsa’s. Not gentlemanroad. Better get slit cut grandad’s boots. Waitabit—here’s good coat now—maybe hat. Horsa hears rushing waters.
Horsa fancies hat.
Something for dark wet ditches.
Something for howling storm.
Bowler hat oh very nifty Horsa!
Pork-pie hat no not quite.
Whatsthisnow? Tall box!
TOP HAT!
Look-in-glass, lookinglass, Horsa. Good morning sir, and how do you do? Glory!
Oh boy!
Down again long landing and noise waters. Ah—new boots seem not let in landing waters. Landing stages landing waters and down kitchen get knife cut slit ease toe boot. (What’s new noise?)
Here’s knife. Now then—whataboutit! Food. A foodstore and we have
ham,
cheese,
bread,
tomato sauce,
Suzie’s sauce,
Uncle’s sauce,
and
sweetie bics,
pork pie (not hat)
pork pie juice sticky crust.
Bite pie, blow flakes, out of beard PUFF!
And here is cold dark stew on cold dark shelf.
Now then find bag. (What noise again? Bell?) Nowthen Horsa takecare. Goslow. Put stew in paperbags. Don’t get stew down nice new coat. What’s fallen then eggs? All slippery. Crunch-crunch (Yes door bell—getopram). Dear me, long shelf full jars whole silly little cupboard comes way from wall. Red jam, orange jam, lumpy black-purple jam. Very pretty. Mind glass. Down go porridge plates unwashed off draining board, very sticky. But such tidy little Mugstown lady shoulda washed up. Now then—
Stew in pocket, sauce bottle otherpocket. Sausages where—top hat TOP HAT! O.K. Horsa, bestgonow. Somebody out there front steps. Oh! Best crawlalong under housewall. Quiet now under steps. Grab pram.
Little cough, little twitter steps above. Lady ringing doorbell up above. Coming down steps.
‘Excuse me? Hello? Good morning? Is anybody there? I believe there are some old clothes for charity to be collected from this address. Excuse me sir, I wonder if you have anything for The Homeless?’
‘Nothing about me, Ma’am, nothing about me.’
(Wurbly-burbly-gloshy-woshy-WAH)
‘Eeeeeeeeeek!’ screams good woman, ‘Helphelp. Mad man!’
Nobody notices. Goodbye friend.
Cat openseye. Smiles shuts it. ‘Take your ease, Horsa.’ What’s Homeless?
Like cats.
And Horsa passes downstreet. Top hat (TOP HAT) full of sausages and pockets full of stew. Smell, smell the lielack as Horsa passes by. Shuffle, shuffle behind pram, shuffle under freezing trees. Grandad’s leftboot bitight. Disremembered knife. Never mind find something soon. Maybe sell boots for real good used ones.
Now Horsa, get moveon. Openroad now boy. Loosen necktie, maybe chuckaway. In bin. Here’s bin. Might find old sandwich. Good newspaper bin anyway—keep for later, Horsa. Back normal later. Horsa smells of lilac notforever. Paper padding needed soon as nights draw down. Monthortwo, yearortwo—Horsa no good telling time—but round beginningain. Thinking bath.
Hot day. Bath.
Water. Bath.
Bath. Etcetera.
Whileyetacourse—monthtwo, yeartwo, (‘Evening officer, splendid day. Wurbly, burbly, gurgly—’)
Yeartwoyet.
Smellsalielack.
Top hat full sausages. TOP HAT!
Great world.
Oh boy!