Do You Remember?, page 8
First into the tub were the sheets and pillow cases, and as the material in most of these was linen, twill or good-quality cotton, they were no lightweights. After a good soaking in the warm water they were pulled up over the wash-board, lathered with soap, and then scrubbed up and down against the ridged board. Then they were squeezed and laid aside on the table. Then came the ample Horrock’s workshirts that were far-reaching enough to cover all vital statistics in cold weather. Next in was the underwear, and those were the days before nylon or drip-dry, so these were all made of natural fibres and, though very comfortable for the wearer, they were not kind to the washer. But the real villains of the piece were the clothes worn for the work on the farm especially the overalls made of a very heavy twill. All these working clothes were made from tough, serviceable materials and were a nightmare to get clean – and some were lathered with mud and cow dung, so the washing brought plenty of sweat to the brow of the washer woman. As the washing proceeded, the water in the tub was changed regularly and when all items were washed, the rinsing began.
Then some of the whites were put into the pot over the fire to be boiled. This removed any tough stains left in them and brought them up to a brilliant white. The removal of these steaming whites from the boiling pot was a hazardous undertaking, usually done with the handle of a brush that required the finely honed skills of an expert juggler. All this activity was moist and messy, and slowly the kitchen filled with steam and the floor took on the appearance of a mini lake. While all this was going on, the fire required constant attention to keep up the hot-water supply. Slowly the dry pile of dirty clothes dwindled and the washed and rinsed pile grew higher on the kitchen table, from where they were bucketed to the clothes line at the end of the yard. Here they were pinned in place by wooden clothes pegs bought from travelling gypsies. Some delicate whites were soaked in Reckitt’s Blue to make them whiter than white. Heavy wool jumpers, mostly home-knit, got special treatment to avoid shrinkage.
Of course, getting this mountain of washing dry was totally dependent on the weather, which, with our Irish climate, could be a real hit-and-miss affair. Garments that did not fit on the clothes line were laid over hedges and bushes, which worked well in good weather but not so well when a wet bush and garment developed a clinging relationship. Sometimes sheets and whites were laid out on the clean grass of the fields as my mother believed that this rendered them cleaner, brighter and more sweet-smelling – though the ash tree had to be avoided at all costs as it could drip down a permanent stain. In fine weather all was good. After a warm sunny day, bringing in armfuls of sweet-smelling, dry washing in the evening was a lovely experience. It smelt of wild woodbine, sunshine and the world outside. I recall it today every time I see washing flying high on a clothes line. Later in the week some of these clothes returned to the kitchen where late at night my mother hung them on the backs of chairs around the fire to air them. It was nice then to put your head in between the dry sheets and sniff their fresh outdoor smell.
Come Saturday, the ironing of Sunday dresses and shirts began. The interior of the iron was removed from the outer cover and thrust into the belly of the fire, where it remained until it was red hot, and then was carefully eased in through the back door of the outer cover of the iron again. The kitchen table was covered with a blanket, then a sheet, and it became the ironing board. All this could be a hazardous undertaking, requiring care and caution to avoid scorching the woman in charge of the iron or a burnt patch adorning the breast of a best blouse.
The greatest praise that my mother could ever pay to a day was to say that it was a great day for washing blankets. It was not the actual washing to which she was referring, of course, but the drying, because drying wool blankets required a dry, windy day that would blow the blankets high into the air and dry out their dense wool fibre. So you never undertook the yearly job of washing blankets unless the weather was dry, windy and settled, with a good weather forecast to back it up. Not an easily attainable blend. But if wet sheets were undesirable around the house, wet blankets were a no-no; this is probably where the expression ‘a wet blanket’ got its origins – not great company in any shape or form!
The actual washing of the heavy wool blankets was a weighty procedure whereby the wash tub, filled with a blanket and fluffed up with warm, soapy water, was placed on the floor or out in the yard, and the women and children stepped in and danced on top of the blanket acting as agitators to extract the dirt! Children, of course, loved this and had great fun washing the blankets. Then the dripping blanket had to be lifted out by two able-bodied women and given a slight squeeze while the water was changed for rinsing, and then there was more dancing. After that, the real marathon of squeezing as much water as possible out of the sodden blanket began. This was not a job for the faint-hearted – of body or mind. The two squeezers stood at either end of the blanket and they squeezed in opposite directions while a waterfall cascaded down. This squeezing continued until the waterfall turned into a stream, then a trickle, then a drip, until finally there was nothing left to extract. The blanket then got a firm shake and was taken to a strong clothes line, which at the time was made of wire known as ‘creamery wire’, which was strung between two trees. Or the blanket might be laid across an accommodating bush or hedge. It was brought in at night to avoid absorbing the night dew, but it took a few days before the blanket, fluffy and smelling of fresh air and wild flowers, could be folded away in the blanket press.
The blankets would make a welcome reappearance when chilly winter crept in the bedroom windows. In the years before we insulated out the cold and heated our homes, warm wool blankets were a necessity to survive the damp and cold that penetrated our roofs and whistled in through our single-glazed, loosely fitting windows. The only heating in most houses then was the open fire in the kitchen, or the occasionally lit parlour fire, and on rare occasions a fire in the bedroom – but much of the heat disappeared up the chimney or through the windows or out under the doors. Warm clothes – and especially blankets – were the answer to the problem.
Some tablecloths, special runners for mantelpieces, the collars of men’s shirts and special dresses were starched, which was a tortuous exercise. The starch that came with a cheery Red Robin on the side of the box was anything but a cheery undertaking. It had to be blended with boiling water until at a certain point it ‘turned’, it then became a swirling grey mess into which the article was dipped and then whipped out and, after a slight squeeze, allowed to drip-dry. If you had got the mixture right, the cloth or garment achieved the desired level of rigidity as it dried. But if you got your mixture wrong, the collar could turn into a cut-throat razor and the tablecloth into a rigid sheet capable of skinning the knees of your diners. It required experience to master the art of starching. And if not carried out expertly, ironing a starched item could be a sticky affair, with the iron and garment refusing to part company.
Keeping clothes clean was a big job, but keeping the wearer likewise was also a challenge. This revolved around the wash tub or a tin bath. The water had to be boiled as for washing the clothes, but instead of these going into the bath or tub it was the wearer who went in. Children were rotated on Saturday nights in front of the kitchen fire, but adults had to retire to their chilly bedrooms to do the necessary to the best of their ability with limited facilities and a still more limited supply of hot water. The bedroom set for this was a wide pan and tall jug, often with a matching soap tray and chamber pot. The water was brought up from downstairs in the jug and there was an accompanying bucket for the used water. Decorative earthenware sets were used mostly for special visitors and are now found in antique shops. For everyday use the tone was lowered to enamel.
So when we step merrily into our power-showers, recline in our jacuzzis, or without a second thought toss our laundry into our automatic washing machine, let’s be grateful for the times in which we live and salute our grandmothers, who, despite all odds, still succeeded in keeping a clean face and stepping out in style.
The Table and the Chair
Edward Lear
Said the Table to the Chair,
‘You can hardly be aware,
‘How I suffer from the heat,
‘And from chilblains on my feet!
‘If we took a little walk,
We might have a little talk!
‘Pray let us take the air!’
Said the Table to the Chair.
II
Said the Chair unto the Table,
‘Now you know we are not able!
‘How foolishly you talk,
‘When you know we cannot walk!’
Said the Table, with a sigh,
‘It can do no harm to try,
‘I’ve as many legs as you,
Why can’t we walk on two?’
III
So they both went slowly down,
And walked about the town
With a cheerful bumpy sound,
As they toddled round and round.
And everybody cried,
As they hastened to their side,
‘See! the Table and the Chair
‘Have come out to take the air!’
IV
But in going down an alley,
To a castle in a valley,
They completely lost their way,
And wandered all the day,
Till, to see them safely back,
They paid a Ducky-quack,
And a Beetle, and a Mouse,
Who took them to their house.
V
Then they whispered to each other,
‘O delightful little brother!
‘What a lovely walk we’ve taken!
‘Let us dine on Beans and Bacon!’
So the Ducky, and the leetle
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle
Dined, and danced upon their heads
Till they toddled to their beds.
Chapter 13
Tea in the Parlour
The parlour was the formal room of the house and was the room where the family photographs were displayed on the walls, mantelpiece and sideboard. Our ancestors regarded the ritual of having family photographs taken as serious business. They had a great sense of family history and even though money was not plentiful in many families, they still stretched the budget to cover the expense of formal family portraits. It was in the parlour that these serious-faced family members were on show, often enshrined in gilt-edged frames. In our parlour my stern-faced, bearded grandfather stood to attention, while from another wall my paternal grandmother smiled benignly across at him. For some reason they were not united in photography, but their presence gave us a sense of who we were. Both had died before I was born.
My parents, looking unbelievably young and solemn as they faced into a strange new world in their wedding photograph, graced the wall over the long sideboard. At one end of this sideboard was the gramophone and beside it, in their brown paper sleeves, the 78 records. These records included John McCormack, Delia Murphy, Fr Sydney McEwan and Joseph Locke, as well as a collection of waltzes, jigs and reels. This gramophone had one annual holiday from the parlour when it visited the kitchen for the twelve days of Christmas. Beside the gramophone along the old oak sideboard, was the photograph of aunts and uncles who had once been the children of the house, and underneath it were two deep drawers, one for cutlery and the other for bottles. Maybe our ancestors were into bottles of whiskey and brandy, but my mother favoured sherry and port wine, though sometimes a bottle of holy water could be found among her drinks collection.
Parlour fireplaces were either black iron or marble, and ours was a mottled brown marble with a black iron inset fronted on the floor by dark brown marble tiles with a similar edging. Along the mantelpiece were tiny, quaint china and silver high-heeled shoe ornaments, and photos of American cousins impeccably dressed for First Communions, or handsome army officers one of whose parents, perhaps, had left this house many years previously.
On either side of the fireplace was a pair of upright brown leather armchairs that guaranteed no slouching and a one-armed sofa which invited elegant reclining rather than a relaxed curl-up with a book. The one window, set in the three-foot thick stone wall, had shutters that were seldom closed and this was the only window in the house adorned by curtains. These were of white lace and draped over a long wooden pole, and were more ornamental than practical as they were totally see-through. But they set the tone of the room, which was gracious. This was a room used for special occasions only, and these included the hosting of family wakes.
All our ancestors were waked in the parlour. Before it became fashionable for the coffin to be brought to the house for the wake, an iron bed with brass railings was dismantled and brought down from upstairs. It could well be that the person to be waked might have been born in that bed. It was re-assembled in the centre of the parlour and it was not unusual for people to have put aside special bed linen for this occasion. A local woman, well accustomed to the practice, laid out the dead person for the wake. People were usually laid out in a sombre brown habit or in their own clothes, with their rosary beads draped around their hands, but my mother, who had been a Child of Mary, was laid out in her lovely blue cloak. Candles were placed in brass candlesticks and arranged around the bed, and often these candlesticks made their way around the townland for all the wakes and were sometimes brought along by the woman who did the laying out. Then the neighbours gathered to say the rosary and they stayed in relays as long as the wake lasted, remaining there overnight to pray and keep the family company until it was time for the funeral. The rosary would be led at different times by a member of the family or a supportive neighbour. No priest visited the house, and the family and neighbours took care of everything; the first time a priest was involved was when the funeral arrived at the church. People sat around the parlour and chatted, and often the younger members of the family heard stories about their deceased loved one from old neighbours who had known them long before their own time.
Most of the parlour furniture was rather upright and staid, but the rocking chair compensated for the rigidity of its seating companions as it was covered in rich tapestry and was warm, inviting and comfortable. In it, you could surround yourself with soft cushions and rock gently back and forth in front of the fire. To this day I love rocking chairs and think that no other seating is as soothing to the mind and body. In the originally designed well-sprung rocking chair you can read, knit or rock a baby or yourself to sleep. They are extremely comfortable but still very supportive of bad backs, which is why President JF Kennedy had one in the Oval Office, I imagine.
The parlour came into action for big occasions such as Christmas, the stations or on the arrival of special visitors, usually returning Americans whose ancestors had left the house decades before. Then there was a flurry of activity disturbing sleeping spiders and putting a snas or shine on everything in sight. First, the lace curtains were whipped off and carefully washed. If it was a big overhaul, it might include distempering the walls. Our parlour walls were a dark rose colour, while my grandmother favoured a royal blue. Distemper came in powder form in a cardboard box and was diluted with water; it was applied with a special distemper brush, which was smaller than a white-washing brush and had a wider bristle than a paintbrush. As it was water-based, it had to be applied carefully to avoid spattering all around it. The timber sash window was painted with a hard gloss Uno paint, diluted with turpentine. Later, when wallpaper became available, it was widely favoured as it covered uneven wall surfaces. Varnish was applied liberally to all chair legs, table legs and the sideboard. The parlour ware was washed and the cutlery cleaned and the rug in front of the fire taken out and given a good shake. Then the floor was washed and waxed, and finally the fire was lit. With the fire lit and the parlour quiet, I loved to slip in there in the gathering dusk, sit into the rocking chair and gently rock myself back and forth, watching the fire cast shadows across the low ceiling.
On the morning of the stations the parish priest positioned himself beside this fire and cocked a listening ear to the transgressions of the townland while his curate said Mass in the kitchen. The stations were allocated by townland and how often you had them depended on how many houses were in your station area. You could have a spring or autumn station, and if the timing did not suit you, you could swap with a neighbour, though that seldom happened. After the Mass, the priest collected the station dues and when their name was called each householder stepped forward with their contribution; then he enquired who was taking the next station and everyone would know who was next in line.
For the station breakfast in our house the table was adorned with my mother’s best linen tablecloth, which was washed, blued and starched to rigidity. Her fine china with matching egg cups, which had been a wedding gift from her mother, graced the table. ‘Loaf sugar’, which we ungraciously called ‘lump sugar’, was standard station fare and for this my mother had a fancy sugar tongs. The butter had been curled into decorative rolls the previous day – this was done with two wooden butter spades, dipped in warm water and a pinch of salt; there was a special art in tossing and patting the butter, or you could end up with dish full of mushy butter. Toast and boiled eggs was the standard breakfast of the day.
