If anything the crowd increased. While we all waited for the engineers she came back and I was told to stand off so she could punch the machine hard enough to lift my packet of Dreft three inches into the air. A Pensioner appeared offering to ease the catch with his screwdriver. I don’t know where he got it from but it was a foot long with a light bulb in the end. He said he’d been in submarines and would be able to unscrew the housing. But the enormous woman didn’t want him anywhere near the housing and she kept her ground in front of the machine.
When the engineers arrived there was only one of them, a Greek, who was more interested in who’d stuck money into an O.O.O. than the O.O.O. itself. The Weight introduced us and I was again asked if I could read.
As soon as the machine was opened I stepped forward to unload, but the vast woman said I’d caused enough trouble and she snatched my bag and got into the hatch herself. Knowledge of what she was in for loosed off a blush. I was reasonably sure nothing so dirty had ever gone into a washing machine, but absolutely certain nothing so filthy had ever come out. As she retracted the first horrible clutch I felt the blood lobbing in my face. Surely, I thought, even she can’t be immune? Momentarily she looked at what she had pulled out. Then she said, ‘Christ, what’s he got in here? I’m not unloading it.’ Suddenly the rules were waived. The machine was anybody’s. Her idea was that, since I’d put them in, I had to get them out, and I replaced her in a kneeling position in front of the opening. By now every eyeball in the place was involved with what I had, and the air was rich in criticism as my articles came out. Women, who had plunged unspeakable rags into their machines, now took it upon themselves to discuss the comparatively similar items that I transferred into my bag. When I’d finished unloading, I seriously considered crawling to the door. The thought of getting up opposite the Weight filled me with dread: so embarrassed my head throbbed as though she’d hit it. Finally I was forced to stand. Her interest in me was so concentrated I thought I’d have to answer further questions before she’d let me through the door.
‘There’s one over here?’ said the Pensioner, holding a port-hole open.
Now I realised why she wouldn’t let him get at the machine with his screwdriver. The man was obviously of low intelligence. He seriously thought I’d gone through all that, and then could calmly transfer my stuff to the opposite side of the room and go through it all again . . .
‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’
I managed to get outside. It was the first and last time I’d been into a launderette. It had taken me two minutes to fill the machine and an hour and a half waiting in front of it for a man to come from headquarters to rifle the thing open. I was probably the only person in the world to have his washing in a washing machine for one and a half hours without even getting it wet. It was the worst one and a half hours of my life . . .
I was now outside the Speed Queen, Automated Washing Centre, Everything Automatic. It looked like being my lucky day. On my exploratory walk past I noticed there were only four in there: two Peroxides (one under hair rollers), one large African, and one Warden. No visible infants. I came back and stood outside. Despite a clear coast and an abundance of free machines I was reluctant to walk straight in without going through a rehearsal of my plan.
The building was on a corner. Down its short side there was a narrow window at shoulder-height which I thought would be the best position from which to select my machine. Looking as inconspicuous as possible, I peered in the window and ran my eyes up the row. At the far end sticking out on its own was just what I was after. There was even an instruction board above it showing a spiky-haired Goblin with a wand pointing out what you had to go through.
I silently mouthed myself through the Goblin’s sequence. One: Open the door. Two: Get the clothes in. Three: Shut the door (and have three twenty-pence pieces ready). Four: Put the money in the slot. As I got to five: Push your slot in, a head appeared suddenly at the other side of the window. It came directly between me and my chosen machine, and I said, ‘Shove Your Slot In,’ straight into her face. It was the big Afro-Caribbean who was taken aback. I think she thought I was a pervert having a look round for underwear. I smiled at her and she disappeared. A moment later the Warden was out on the pavement with her hands on her hips.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘I’m coming in in a minute.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I’ve come to do my washing,’ I said, and I showed her my brown-paper bag.
She nodded and went back inside. I could hardly believe it. I had created a bad impression and I was still in the street. I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with me. But any hesitation at this point would have sent me home and I walked round to the front of the building and went in before I could analyse my actions. I had clearly been discussed. The one under the rollers covered some brassières with a towel and the West Indian was behind dark glasses.
I did my best to ignore them and made for my machine. As soon as I opened the door and put my stuff in the drum the atmosphere eased a little. I think they were surprised that I was actually in possession of something to wash. My heart was thrashing with concentration to get the sequence right. I was already up to Number Three: Shut the door (and have three twenty-pence pieces ready). Four: Put the money in the slot. Five: Shove your slot in . . .
To my relief there was a rush of water and the thing started spinning. I became almost euphoric. It was all over. All I had to do now was stand in front of it till the things came out clean. I stood back looking casual. With everything under control in the washing section I walked the length of the tiles to have a look at the drying machines. The one under the rollers was in front of hers with half a bagful. I noticed that the technique was to open the door and grab the dry things as they flew past. Obviously this was so more heat could be concentrated into the bulkier items, such as woollens, while at the same time anything fragile, such as bras, would be spared unnecessary exposure. I’d have to remember that for my shirt . . .
Things were going well. My limp was inconspicuous and the spat under control. I walked back past the machines throwing random glances at other people’s portholes. A few paces later I found myself back in front of my washing which was still spinning without problem. But it was different to the others. A whole row of machines was washing like mine, but all of them were producing suds which for some reason mine was not. I went over to the Warder and pointed this out.
‘Mine hasn’t gone white yet,’ I said.
‘What hasn’t?’ ‘My washing water,’ I said, leading her across. She lifted the aluminium flap at the top of the machine.
‘You haven’t put your soap in,’ she said.
‘I thought the machines did it by themselves?’ She looked at me suspiciously.
‘The machine can’t put its own soap in. You have to put the soap in.’
Her eyes scanned both me and my machine.
‘Where is your soap?’ she said.
‘I haven’t got any,’ I said. ‘It says Everything Automatic?’
‘Not soap. Look here. Number Six: Add detergent.’
I looked up at the instruction board. She was right. The Goblin was up there in a crouch over a figure 6 pouring detergent into the hole a figure 6 conveniently forms. I had missed this one behind the African’s head.
‘What am I going to do?’ I said. ‘They won’t get washed, will they?’
‘Not without soap.’
I had done it again. How was it possible for me to keep putting things into washing machines without getting them clean?
The Warder walked away and put on a blue overcoat.
‘Look here,’ I said, following her into her corner, ‘have you got any soap?’
‘Soap’s in the slot-machine,’ she said. ‘Ten pence.’
I extracted a small tube of detergent out of the slot-machine and opened my aluminium flap.
‘Not
now,’ said the Warder rushing forward. ‘You can’t put your soap in now, you’ve missed your cycle.’
‘Have I?’
‘You’ll have to wait.’
‘Will you tell me when to put it in then?’
‘No. I’m in a hurry to get home.’
‘So am I,’ I said.
‘You haven’t been in here since eight o’clock this morning,’ she said.
She put a kind of holeless leather colander on her head and I started to feel insecure.
‘What have you got in there?’ she said.
‘Just socks, and a shirt?’
‘Is that all?’
‘No.’ I paused. ‘There’s a pair in there as well.’
‘A pair?’
‘Yes.’
‘A pair of pants?’ she repeated, with a hint of indignation. ‘Is that all you’ve put in there?’
‘I’m allowed to, aren’t I?’
‘You can put in a handkerchief for all I care, but I think it’s a criminal waste of money.’
‘Ha. Ha.’ I laughed. ‘How right you are. In a weird way, crime’s the only reason I’m in here.’
The woman with hair in a blonde smog interrupted her unloading to look up.
‘Ha!’ I said.
‘I’m going home,’ said the Warder. ‘It’s half-past five.’
I looked at my watch. It was in fact tenpast five. But if I’d been in here since eight o’clock this morning, I’d have started lying about a lot more than the time to get out . . .
My anxiety increased. I had missed my cycle. I had neither time nor money for another one. Everybody was at the far end on the drying machines. For some reason I was the only one left at the washing end with a machine that refused to stop spinning. To economise on time I walked to the back of the building to get my polythene basket ready for when the moment came. As I passed the pair of Blondes, one of them said, ‘Look out, here he comes.’ And they both instantly ignored each other and concentrated on their machines. I got hold of a basket and ignored them. They were beginning to annoy me, especially the one in the rollers who looked like Caligula. She was obviously the ring-leader and determined not to let the matter drop. Every time I looked up I would contact some suspicious eye or another, and it was usually one of hers . . .
Arriving back at my machine, I could sense she was all set to start stirring it again. But why? I didn’t understand why my appearance at the window should cause such interest. I imagined they lived pretty mundane lives in these launderettes, but even then I couldn’t see why a face looking in at a row of washing machines was anything to get animated about. One minute later my pilot-light went out and the machine stopped. While opening the hatch, the door to the launderette also opened, and a terrible thing happened. A Beautiful Girl walked in. This was the last thing I wanted. It was bad enough shifting underwear with these louts, but the prospect of doing it with her watching was intolerable. In seconds my spat was out. She didn’t notice. The others did. The burnt wool tube around my ankle seemed to justify everything that Caligula had warned them about. This girl was definitely beautiful − a Pakistani with black hair and lots of rings and I didn’t see any more. I couldn’t look. The combination made me feel fatally ill at ease and try to disguise myself as a regular washer. But my basket looked ridiculous. The others had gone to the back humping loads. I was on my way with two uncleansed dollops. Floor cloths. I was relieved to sling them into a dryer and get in next to Caligula where I hoped her bulk would intercede and the girl wouldn’t notice me. Apparently she hadn’t. My be-wilderment at what she was doing in this hovel was explained when she started feeding coins into the dry-cleaning machine. She had six silk scarves. I felt so unhappy.
The big Afro came rolling over and stood next to me trying to block my view of her drying machine. She obviously didn’t like having her stuff on display with the man who’d looked through the window about, and thought she’d stand a better chance of getting home if he was denied any stimulation . . .
Suddenly her door was open. She snatched a brassière in mid-flight and had it down in her sack before I’d even focused on it. The sheer size of the thing dragged my eyes back into her machine to see if there was anything else as big going round. We spotted one at the same time, and out came a harness that may well have had Dunlop written on it.
I got eyes off it but she still deemed it necessary to present me with her massive back. I felt like saying, ‘Listen, I don’t want to look at your fucking underwear. It may have started fights on the rum farm, but as far as I’m concerned it’s about as sexy as a couple of buckets, which is what it looks like.’
I turned my back on her in disgust and found myself face to face with an unrecognisable man in a full-length mirror. He was without eyebrows, eyelashes, and the heat from the oven had given him a kind of crew-cut from mid-forehead across the scalp to the back of the right ear. Short, yellow, ruptured hairs still stuck out, like a Swede’s scrotum . . .
‘Oh, my God.’ And I tried to get my head down. No wonder the Black had a shock when I looked in the window. The sensation I got was what they’d been talking about for the last half an hour. And they were justified in everything. I looked horrifying. Humphries and his six o’clock appointment were no longer on the agenda. I had to get out of here. And quick.
I was being watched. Caligula had come over and joined the African. I turned side-ways and, keeping my back to them, opened the dryer to make a grab for my clothes. The shirt and a sock slapped into my hand, but the pants came over so fast I missed them, and they climbed into the air at speed. I saw them reach their zenith over the hair-rollers and turned away not daring to watch them land. They were lost for ever. I didn’t care what happened to them.
A sock was still whizzing insanely behind the glass and I opened the door and went for it. My attempt was unsuccessful and I slammed the hatch. All I wanted to do was get out.
There was a tap on my shoulder.
‘Are these yours?’
To my horror the Beautiful Girl was standing there proffering some crisp, but offensive pants . . .
‘No,’ I growled, giving her the benefit of some shoulder. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Are they yours?’ she asked the African.
‘They’re his,’ said Caligula. ‘I saw them come out.’
‘Excuse me,’ said the girl. ‘What’s your name?’
She smiled very sweetly and I told her.
‘Then they are yours,’ she said. ‘It’s embroidered inside on a little tab.’
‘Oh yes, those, I never wear them. I lent them to somebody years ago and never seen them since. I don’t know how they got in my machine.’
‘Don’t you want them?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘I don’t want them,’ she said.
‘Throw them in the bin, love,’ said Caligula.
‘All right then, I’ll take them,’ I said, in a somewhat aggressive whisper. ‘Thank you, you’ve been very kind.’
As I snatched the pair my carving knife shot across the floor.
‘Look out!’ said one of them. ‘He’s got a blade!’
‘Call de cops. Call de cops.’
The one under the rollers was already about it. In a haze of panic I grabbed the knife looking for a friendly face and there wasn’t one . . .
‘It’s not what you think it is. I don’t want to hurt anyone.’
They were all backing off.
‘I know I look weird, but I’m a writer. I don’t normally look like this, and I certainly don’t want to use the knife!’
‘He’s a lunatic.’
‘I’m a professional writer for TV.’
Almost simultaneously a fucking siren was going off. She must have got lucky with the patrol car. It must have been virtually outside. I backed off as two Coppers with no laundry crashed through the door. They had hats on and looked enormous. Like giants.
‘I’m not in here to hurt anyone,’ I said. ‘I’m a professional writer
.’
‘Give me the knife, and you can tell us all about it.’
‘Watch him, he’s a madman.’
‘Give me the knife, and don’t give me no mumbo.’
‘Mumbo?’
‘Mumbo jumbo.’
‘I’m innocent,’ I said. ‘You’ll find out. It’s not me, it’s this bastard in North London.’
‘You just come along quietly.’
‘They’ll get you some help,’ said the Beautiful Girl.
‘You don’t understand. I set fire to myself before I came out. I don’t normally look like this.’
‘Nice and quiet, now.’
The larger of the constables took the weapon and both took hold of me at an elbow. They had the knife, I had the pants, and with everything still filthy, I was escorted out of the launderette’s door . . .
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Bruce Robinson was nominated for an Academy Award for the screenplay of The Killing Fields. He has written and directed many other films, most famously Withnail and I. His first novel The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman, is also available from Bloomsbury.
Paranoia in the Launderette Page 2
