Opinion

Anita Robinson: A quare day for dryin’ blankets

Mangles were a standard feature of homes in the days before the spin cycles of washing machines
Mangles were a standard feature of homes in the days before the spin cycles of washing machines Mangles were a standard feature of homes in the days before the spin cycles of washing machines

OUR recent spell of brilliant weather brought back a childhood memory of a phrase that threw our household into chaos. “That’s a quare day for dryin’ blankets!”

And so the marathon would begin. Beds stripped, a pale mound of Witney wool blankets rose, blocking access to the front door.

In a scullery the size of a witness box and dim with condensation, the sink brimmed with foot-deep soapsuds generated by copious amounts of ‘miraculous Tide’.

Jostling for position were my mother and Auntie Mollie in crossover pinnies, perspiring freely, their hair awry – and me on mangle duty, but mostly just getting in the way. Whatahandlin’.

Thus began the grimly repetitive pummelling, rinsing, wringing – the floor awash. Then four-folding each blanket lengthwise and feeding it evenly through the tight wooden lips of the mangle – to the detriment of my shoulder muscles as I cranked the handle.

Thence, bearing each blanket aloft to the sunny backyard for the big shake-out, heave and fling over the clothes-line. “Don’t let it trail on the ground!”

Back inside to the smell of hot wet wool and do it all again, until the lines are full and creaking at their moorings and I have developed incipient biceps.

Pandemonium broke out should the weather ‘turn’, but we had a 10-foot-long, four-barred pulley line in the kitchen for insurance. Though ducking under banners of damp blankets was a temporary inconvenience, all was not entirely lost.

These days, as I wrestle feebly with the logistics of a king size duvet, its cover and accessories, I wonder how women sustained the relentless and gruelling effort necessary to keep abreast of the endless obligations of good housekeeping without the appliances, facilities and products so abundant today.

The under-the-stairs ‘glory hole’ of my childhood contained Parazone, Vim, the aforementioned Tide detergent, Sunlight and Lifebuoy soaps, Brasso, Silvo, Mansion polish, a dry mop, a ‘wet’ mop, scrubbing brushes, a stiff-bristled broom, a softer one and a carpet sweeper.

I have two entire cupboards full of cleaning products – plus a cleaning lady who brings her own.

When I was about four we got a Goblin vacuum cleaner with a roar like a jet engine. I was terrified of it (a healthy mindset I’ve successfully applied to every similar appliance since, particularly the too-heavy toad-like multifunctional one bought by the Loving Spouse let out unsupervised).

Mother’s washing machine came later, but merely made blanket laundering a more frequent exercise.

That original pulley line, already enjoying heirloom status, moved with my parents from their first and second home to the house where I was born.

I took it with me from my first to second married home where it was duly installed in a double garage that never had room for a car in it because I married a pathological hoarder of things that might be useful one day.

Perpetually festooned in wet washing, it’s given sterling service to three generations and I’ve spent a lifetime having my arms wrenched from their sockets as I haul a load of king size bedding aloft.

Auntie Mollie long outlived my mother and made it abundantly clear when she came to stay that she couldn’t be doing with “them doovey things”.

Luckily (on the ‘might be useful one day’ principle) we’d kept the wool blankets, candlewick bedspreads, the slippery satin eiderdown – and the pulley line.

Today, all we do is sort lights from darks from delicates and push a button to wash, rinse and spin.

Tumble dryers are temperamental beasts. I had two in quick succession and though it was comforting to have pre-warmed underwear on a winter’s morning and box-fresh garments ready to wear, they were environmentally unfriendly and dear to run.

By the way, did I mention the conservatory in which, rather than pot plants, I’ve cultivated a fine crop of clothes racks? Even on a dull day, a couple of hours will dry anything creaselessly.

“Does she never iron?” I hear you wonder. Iron? I haven’t ironed since I lost the Loving Spouse, who I sent out daily, impeccably pressed. These days my only iron is in my soul…