Mary wished she had not the need to hang her smalls and that towel upon the line for all to see but in the situation she was in - fearing recall of places or reviving buzzings of the past - though no fault of her own she did. After making all things clean, she would have rather tumble dried the washing but Nick refused to install one. Happy the man was he to leave sheets stained the whole winter long. Besides, it was her side of the bed that bore the brunt of that and so she learnt to use that towel which, flapping on the washing line, was like a telltale thread of misery foisted on her.
Nick fussed not that the bedroom curtains stayed shut all day. He went fishing although the season not yet started but where he fished, he never told and never brought home decent catch. That which he did drag in was such cast at her face and not for her pleasure. If it were nothing brought, there were Nick's togs to wash that smelt of summer citrus ruined by spray of caustic skunk. This forced her to go hang the dangle on the line as an announcement to the world she did not know if here the water hard or soft, the temperature too hot for delicates or if that offered, to the pegging, could be deemed Persil-white. Sight her at such times and you would catch her smirking a simper set to dazzle one a blinder. Such a submissive look would cause you doubt and make for worry that here, close to where you live, one amongst us might be a certain fact we blind-eye, for reasons of our own.
Oh, yes Mary would have liked to open windows and air the house but that would only let the shouts out from the walls, land on the neighbour's ears, accost yours, and give excuse for faces to blush the next time her seen. Windows sealed shut meant that on wet days - like all the winter through - washing steamed the house in damp condensation and corners became mildew-black. She took it into her head to buy a winged heated clothes airer and though not easy, probably her fault, one night she found herself flung upon it, buckling all the bars passed serviceability. Bent well beyond hope of guarantee to be honored, Nick spat at her, grinned a grin that ground her soul beyond hope then stepped out to go fishing.
Light lengthens and cold strengthens, the snow hangs longer on the trees, shiny shimmers sparkle through streams and lures snag the flashes on his spun line. Then back from the river full of spirit, rolled in on a cloud at dark returning - him and his catch. This one so fresh and firm-elastic with eyes agog to spacey spaced-out, slipped here and tail-slapped there, this was a new expectancy of Mary. However, Nick went too far and off little-fishy slid, like right off the plot fist chance got, swam away and left them. Too gutting to be part of that catch broiling, Mary was glad. She went from the room, leaving him floundering where he was, and watched telly. Then later, going back through, tempted to do the wrong thing, she did the right thing and asked where was the fish to gut?
It was a call too glibly smart and so, scales stunned as stars her eyes in bed with tears of sorrow and through this mouthy learnt, he the grapple-gaff and she the one for spiking. Knife under the pillow, she sat up high on the bed board gaping through nights of testing sweats urged on to slice waders, split lines or slash off the point of that which fouled her, and her side of the bed. Offered this by his drunken slumber, she shunned the incorrect thought and yet, in the still moments of the quietness of her heart, knew that blaring boxbeat music over washing cycles, sunglasses on a cloudy day, make-up on to hang the washing just could not keep going on for the years stretched up ahead - but it would. And what choice but to keep it all inside and watch broken cobwebs trail from the ceiling?
However, frosted days grew brighter and rather than give it up, she thought to try a little pinch of hopefulness each day. Here a snowdrop, there the melting sun, it all dripped away as drops in a thaw which did not take forty days for one day for her to take a tumble to herself and demanded they buy a drier. As usual, he had a fist of reasons for that not happening. Seeing them coming, she quickly opened a window to vent the room but Nick still shoved the notion out her. The kidding love-lies flew out the window for evermore as torn tissue round the neighbourhood.
Not long after, she did the thing she should have done long time past, went online and bought one. And, to make room for it, hid Nick's keys when down the road went he to go do his fishing. Same day service, the machine arrived with a delivery guy who pointed out this model came with green stickers in right places so no danger of sudden unexpected combustion for her. She made him a cuppa, he showed her the dots around the door, on the back plate and, bumping heads and spilling tea, they shared a laugh about the way her hair got in the way. She wiped him dry with a towel then he told her the packaging would be no problem, he would take it all away, she was to forget all such devilling worries and after that it only seemed right to ask his name.
Whilst working out where the drier was to go with James and his know-how smile, Nick arrived back. One glance through the window and sussing the situation, he gave the packaging outside the house a kicking then tried the door and found it stuck. If all else failed he was still in possession of his fishing gear, so he crashed the door a bit, shouted endearments to Mary, dubiously versed in words of a rough-end nature about her past, but got nowhere. He shrugged it off as more fish running elsewhere and turned from a door for which he had no keys. James smiled like a cat had licked the plate spring-clean and offered help to Mary with her predicament in getting the tumbler sited. When she was young, they once had a cat like that which, turning up at the door and taking a liking to staying or seeing the need that he should, sat on her lap purring away. So, she agreed Tommy could help her out.
Later that night when he called back, fitting and commissioning the drier with Tom turned out to be more fun that she had ever imagined possible. Now with Hook-barb the Fisher gone the way of deep and dreadful waters, she cares not a jot that your passing glancing may notice her carefree washing line. Pass by, it will be a good day, a day of longer light with crisp airs from pink-caught mountain snow at dawning. On such a day, you will see her step the green-grass wonder and hear the bleats of lambs wash from the hills. Then Mary, a heart of class of her own passion, hangs nick-knacks on the line ostensibly to freshen them. Bo-peep her, it is done oh-so au-naturale as sighing, her pleasure gasp at blush-pastels dancing. Next, see her smile as blithe the breezes flick kimono hems to her sheer delight. Go with it, block your own doubt, don't think it nonsences what you hear, the glee that whistles down the wind is her elation. So, laugh with her as frilly cups for balcony eyes billow alongside prancing nude-lace that shapes her joy for the one who came delivering from her sentence of denouncement. It may all seem frivolous to many but it is a beautiful thing to behold and lucky you to see it. So, walk on by and tell everyone you meet what saw you dancing on her washing line.
FRAN DELANZO'S MODEL