It’s Tuesday afternoon so I leave The Bag at home and carry my dirty clothes, and some of Mum’s, to the laundromat a few blocks away. We do own a washing machine and clothes dryer, although they aren’t exactly operational right now. Dad used to keep everything working in the house, so now he is gone, if things break down they stay broken down.
A bit like Mum really.
We could get someone in to fix stuff, but we can’t afford it. Still, at least we own the house. Dad bought it years ago with his first big carpentry job, long before the suburb became fancy.
The Lost Sock is not the closest laundromat to our house, although it is the nicest. It also has the best name and a mural of lonely single socks that is always being added to by the lady who runs it. She’s the other reason I go there. She’s my dad’s younger sister, by five years, and she helps to start the machines without me having to put any coins in.
Like me, her real name is Margaret, and like me, she doesn’t call herself that. I’m Meg and she’s Peggy. I don’t call her Aunty Peggy because she says it makes her feel old. Every few weeks she has different coloured hair. I like guessing what colour it will be, but I’m usually wrong. This week I’m betting it’s a straw-brittle yellow.
It’s only a twenty-five-minute walk to The Lost Sock, although I have to pass about nine restaurants and cafes and the only things I’ve eaten today are three crackers and a brown banana. Sarah offered me some cake too but it was coffee flavoured (yuck) so even though my stomach was growling, I refused.
I was wrong about Peggy’s hair. Today it’s bright electric blue, not straw yellow. Even through the window I can see how vibrant the colour is. She’s at the back counter, folding white towels. Her t-shirt is black and long like a dress, and I wonder if it’s something someone left behind. She’s often dressed in found objects, and sometimes, if they’re too small for her, I end up with them. That’s how I scored my favourite faded Gumby t-shirt that I wear almost every day to school.
She looks up as the little bell rings announcing my arrival. Peggy has the same blue eyes that my dad had and they are almost as bright as her new hair colour; if she’s staring at you, her eyes are like laser beams, boring deep inside your mind. I drop my backpack of washing onto the floor.
‘You’re late, Meg,’ she says warmly.
‘And you’re blue.’
She grins and rubs her fingers through her short hair, making it stick up even more. ‘Do you like it?’
I nod. ‘Yeah, I do.’
‘I’m thinking I might keep it for a bit.’
I laugh. ‘You always say that. I give it a week or two, no more.’
She smooths her hands across the top of the folded towels, then bags up the pile, ready for collection.
‘Number seven’s free,’ she says, nodding at the row of washing machines.
Even though I’m the only one in here, most of the other machines are chugging away, cleaning clothes and heating up the room. The Lost Sock is always warm and slightly damp, even in the middle of winter. When I first started coming here after our machine stopped working, Peggy told me how happy she was that I stayed while my clothes turned and cleaned because most people shove in their coins and wander off for a coffee.
I up-end my backpack into number seven and wait for Peggy to come and sprinkle the good detergent over the top. She always saves me some and won’t let me use the cheap stuff from the vending machine. She says it’s been there since the last owner.
‘Here, put this on so we can wash Gumby,’ she says, handing me a black top with a silver unicorn on it.
I dash out the back through the little shuttered door and swap tops. Peggy knows Gumby’s my favourite t-shirt, although I make sure she doesn’t know it’s pretty much my only t-shirt.
I toss Gumby at the lid of the machine like I’m shooting a goal. It falls short. Peggy scoops it up and adds it in with the detergent, slamming the lid down after it. Within seconds the sound of water whooshing into the barrel starts and I place both hands on the lid, feeling the vibration.
‘That top suits you,’ she says, tugging on my sleeve. ‘You should keep it. It’s been here for ages. You can’t always wear Gumby!’
I suspect that it’s Peggy’s way of politely giving me new things that fit and things that weren’t bought years ago. Even though I’m short and seem to be taking my time in the growth department, most of my old clothes are pretty ratty looking and it’s not like Mum takes me shopping on a regular basis.
‘Thanks.’
Behind us the tumble dryers flip clothes back and forth; it’s a strangely comforting sound.
‘You hungry, Meg?’
I raise an eyebrow. We both know the answer to that.
I follow her to the back room where the walls change decoration as fast as her hair colour. This week she’s stuck up posters for some band I’ve never heard of. She pours me a glass of raspberry cordial from the jug she makes up.
I sip it and smile. ‘I love bright red drinks, don’t you? They taste twice as good as any other colour.’
Peggy laughs, recognising the quote. She gave me Anne of Green Gables for my tenth birthday and I’ve read it seventy-three times.
‘Sweet or savoury, Miss Anne?’
I pretend to think. ‘Sweet.’
‘Don’t know why I ask. It’s always the same answer,’ she says.
‘Okay, savoury then.’
She ignores me and places an old wooden board on the rickety table in the corner. She opens a paper bag and slides out a puffed-up Boston bun, covered in the brightest, whitest icing and coconut I’ve ever seen. My stomach rumbles at the sight and I almost have to hold my hand back to stop it snatching the bun from the board.
‘Did I ever tell you about when I worked in a bakery? I was just a bit older than you. At the end of the day if we hadn’t sold all the buns, I’d get to lick all the icing off,’ she says, hacking into the end of the bun with a blunt knife. ‘Your dad always made me bring home a bun for him too. He loved this stuff.’
She gives up on the cutting and pulls a chunk off with her hands, placing it on an orange-and-purple patterned plate. ‘There’s butter in the dish if you want it.’
I don’t. I just want to lick the icing and then eat the bread as quickly as I can so she’ll offer me more.
‘Any movement on the kindred spirits front?’
With a mouthful of icing I shake my head, wondering which of the girls in my class would even know what a kindred spirit was. Besides, I’ve given up searching.
‘Sometimes it takes a while to find our people,’ says Peggy quietly. ‘That’s why books are so helpful,’ she adds, smiling.
I watch as Peggy twirls her electric blue fringe around her finger and then lets go. My hair is about as unremarkable as the rest of me. It’s just brown. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have hair as red as Anne with an ‘e’.
‘You’re wearing slippers?’
Nothing escapes Peggy.
‘They’re comfortable.’ I avoid looking at her, although I can tell she’s watching me.
‘Unfortunately nobody leaves shoes in a laundromat … but I could take you shopping?’
I shake my head, desperate to say yes. ‘No. It’s okay. But thanks.’
Peggy has offered to take me shopping a couple of times lately. Although it’s better for my mum if she doesn’t. I don’t mind her giving me t-shirts that have been left behind but Mum is funny about Peggy offering us money or trying to help out. Anything Peggy does has to be well disguised.
‘How’s your mum?’
I swallow before I answer. ‘She vacuumed yesterday. And tidied the house. That’s positive, isn’t it?’
I watch as Peggy stares at me for a second and I know that she doesn’t quite believe me. Then she changes knives and cuts a couple of slices from the bun, adding them to my plate.
‘Has she phoned that lady I told you about?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Peggy gave me a name for Mum last time I was here. It’s a doctor she thought might be helpful.
‘I could try to talk to her again, if you like?’
I know that Peggy is only trying to help, but Mum isn’t up to visitors. The last time she tried, it didn’t go so well. Afterwards Mum stayed in bed for a week.
I shake my head. ‘No. It’s okay.’
Peggy reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. ‘She loves you. You know that, don’t you? Grief does strange things to people. She’ll get there.’
Peggy’s the only adult around who knows about Mum’s sadness. She remembers who Mum was before. How funny and silly she could be. How she was always cooking and gardening when Dad was still alive. I try to remember her like that, but each month it’s getting harder because those memories feel so long ago.
The bun is so sweet that my mouth puckers as I dive into the next slice.
‘When you finish that, there’s leftover curry in the fridge,’ Peggy says, licking stray icing from the ends of her fingers. ‘I made heaps. Maybe you could take some home for your mum?’
Peggy is constantly making us meals. And constantly pretending she’s made too much of something, like spaghetti sauce or lasagne, and then she parcels it up in plastic tubs so I can take it home and reheat it.
Peggy puts down two cups of cold milk on the table. My cup is unchipped and hers is missing a handle. On Tuesdays when I visit, we always drink cordial first and then milk.
‘Did you hand in your English essay?’ She licks her milk moustache and stares at me over the rim.
‘Yep. Ninety-five per cent,’ I tell her.
‘You should have got one hundred per cent! That essay was amazing.’
‘I think you might be biased,’ I say, grinning to myself.
She shrugs. ‘I know a good essay when I read one. Do you need to use the laptop tonight?’
I shake my head. ‘I just have to work on a speech for graduation and I can do that with a pen,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
Peggy laughs. ‘We didn’t graduate from primary school. We just finished!’
I drain the last of the cold milk, feeling the chill of it on my teeth. ‘I know. It’s a strange new tradition.’
‘Does anyone fail to graduate?’
‘I can think of plenty of kids who should,’ I tell her, frowning.
‘Is there a dinner or a dance?’
‘Both. It’s meant to be some grand function where all the girls wear frilly dresses and the boys wear suits and talk about how primary school was the best days of their lives. I don’t think so!’
The bell dings out the front and Peggy stands up slowly. I wait for her to say something else, but she just pats my hand and leaves me to it.
I hear her say hello to a customer as I focus on wiping my finger across another slice of Boston Bun until all the icing piles up in a sticky lump. I jam the whole thing into my mouth and let it ooze around.
‘Meg, your washing’s finished,’ calls Peggy.
I tidy up before I leave. The back room is so compact and neat that it doesn’t feel right to leave anything out of place.
‘Look at this,’ Peggy says as I walk into the front part of the laundromat. She holds up a wad of socks that have electrocuted themselves together as they’ve tumbled around inside a huge metal barrel. She separates one sock and places it above her head. A whisper of blue hair floats up to it.
‘Static,’ she laughs.
I open washing machine number seven and pull out the lump of clothes. They smell like oranges.
‘You right?’
‘Yes,’ I say, struggling to carry the pile to the dryer in one go. The dryer’s still warm from the last load, and I lean into the barrel, wondering what it would feel like to tumble around with the clothes. I might even discover what happens to all the missing socks.