Wild Orchids: Chapter Nine
Have you read the previous chapter yet?
After a long and restless night, Archie stirred. His knees were aching in concert with his lower back, setting off a chain reaction of twinges of sympathy from other nooks and crannies of his body. He groaned as a strong whiff from his unwashed body seeped from the depths of his sleeping bag, he grimaced, ‘Can’t procrastinate in here any longer,’ he mumbled, ‘must make a move,’ Crawling, stiffly, from the confines of his sleeping bag, he slowly dragged on the clothes he had worn for last two weeks and began rummaging or soap, towel and the only spare clean clothes he had.
George, moaning and groaning finally emerged, shivering, from his sleeping bag. Perched precariously on his camp stool he sipped on a steaming cup of black tea; all they could spare for their breakfast that morning. Sleepily, he watched Archie check his things and pack them into his shopper. His turn was not until the following week, though he couldn’t help but yearn for a hot soapy shower at that moment.
Rugged up and taking advantage of a break in the weather, they hurriedly left the Bridge and scrambled up to the sodden pathway. Ignoring their grumbling, empty stomachs they walked in silence wondering how and when, they were going to satisfy their hunger.
‘Glad it’s my turn today,’ Archie croaked, ‘I’ll be on my way George. Keep warm and dry; hope you find something to eat before tonight, though we have a tin of soup waiting.’ He walked away, his aching feet now warm and comfortable in the new Ugg boots. His destination, the once a fortnight shower, was modest the all-year heated swimming pool complex.
‘Morning Archie, I see it’s your turn this week, eh? Stan, the caretaker, greeted him at the entrance in his usual jovial manner.
‘Yeah, that’s right Stan.’
Recently, when on a morning bush walk, Stan came upon Archie and George hurriedly washing themselves by the creek. After an embarrassed and polite exchange, Stan, , suggested that they could take it in turns to shower and change clothes on alternate weeks while he was caretaking at the pool. He could allow the use of an end cubicle at a discounted price. It took them only minutes to accept his generous offer.
‘How ya goin’ Arch?’ Stan boomed, ‘Guess this weather’s tough on you guys. Where are ya sheltering?’
‘We’re doing okay Stan, thanks for asking. But I’m sure glad it’s my turn today. We are so grateful allowing us to use these facilities. I can’t wait to have a hot shower and put on some clean clothes,’ Archie said as he handed over his coins.
‘Give us a call if you need anything.’ Stan dropped the coins with a clatter into the draw of the cash register.
‘Sure, I’ll be okay, won’t take too long,’ Archie answered. When he reached the end cubicle he murmured, as if in prayer, the biblical lines from Isiah 1:16, learned in his past life. ‘Wash yourselves, make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your deeds from my eyes, cease to do evil.’ The clothes he had worn for the last two weeks soon became a pathetic pile on the floor.
The hot water streamed from the shower jets and sluiced over his body. Bliss, was the feeling which rippled through him as he soaped, lathered scrubbed and rinsed away the itches and dryness of his unwashed skin. Reluctantly, he stepped from the shower and in the mist of heat and moisture, stood before the cracked mirror and stared at his naked, skinny body. The ink blue tattoos on each arm shone on his wet skin, the shapes of the entwined hearts, spiral of leaves and flowers moved and wrinkled as he reached for the thin towel. He patted dry his warm pink skin with the thread-bare towel and dressed, from underpants to jumper, careful not to drop anything onto the wet floor. Sitting precariously on the edge of the bench, he completed the strategic manoeuvre of becoming fully dressed in dry clean clothes without mishap. The soiled, musty smelling clothes, were shoved into a plastic bag and stowed in the shopper.
‘You look great Archie, must feel good,’ Stan, stroking his red bushy beard, remarked, warming up for a chat and continued, ‘I’ve met a few livin’ rough like you two in me time. But you come across as a bit different from the others. You and George don’t talk like you’ve always been down and out. George also looks like he’s a reader from the books he leaves with me while he showers. Are you a reader Archie? How do you keep up with the news.’
‘Oh, I mostly listen to the radio, for news and music. Having a radio is a real treat for me these days,’ Archie replied with a closed lip smile and not wanting to elaborate he hurriedly added, ‘Best get going Stan before another down pour catches me out.’
‘Right, you are Archie. Have a good day.’
‘Yes Stan, much obliged, see ya.’
Archie’s shopper banged with a clatter on each step to the pavement. The rain had eased but a chill sou’westerly whipped down the street. ‘This lazy knife-edged wind is going straight through me,’ Archie muttered through clenched teeth as he ducked his head low to keep his cap in place on his still wet head.
Reaching the entrance to the only laundromat in town, he walked into its steamy warmth. Rubbing his cold hands together he breathed in the humid air. He was the only one there; a shiver of relief slid down his spine. He liked being on his own and not be confronted by a constant chatterer and becoming a tiresome grump
On these scrub-up days Archie savoured the warmth of the laundromat while he waited for his clothes to go through the washing cycle. There were even times when he was tempted to do a re- wash, just to stay on, warm and secure with an opportunity to read the old, dog-eared magazines and crumpled papers left scattered on the seats.
To his dismay, being alone was short-lived when a young woman struggled in with a heavy basket of clothes, a deep frown on her tired thin face. Two bedraggled children followed, squabbling, their voices shrill and ear piercing.
Damn, Archie thought, scowled and glared his disapproval; this I don’t need, hope they don’t stay long.
The mother shoved her washing into the machine, set it going, sat down and yelled at the bickering children. ‘Stop yer bloody fighting youse two or I’ll bloody well whack yuz one.’ Pushing a lank of thin hair from her face she ignored the weeping girl and cocky boy and buried her head in one of the ragged magazines.
The little girl, not getting any sympathy from her mother, walked over to Archie and stood shyly in front of him. Holding a shabby soft toy in one arm, she tugged with the other at the thin, too short coat, trying to cover her knobbly knees and cold mottled legs. She stared down at Archie’s boots and pointed, ‘What’s them?’
‘Sheep skin Ugg boots,’ he answered, his disapproval and grumpy inclination evaporating rapidly as he gazed at her. Her large dark eyes, chubby little face, framed by dark curly hair sparked a poignant memory.
‘Do you like my Dolly?’
‘Sure do.’
‘Would you like to hold her?’
‘Sure would,’ he replied.
‘Can I tell you a story about Dolly?’ she asked.
‘Sure can,’ he smiled.
She plopped down beside him, handed over her Dolly and in a whispered voice told him her made up, on the spot, story. He sat quietly holding her Dolly in his roughened hands, while she told him about Dolly’s adventures in a wonderful magic garden. Archie’s mind wandered back to long ago, when a little girl with dark curly hair and dark eyes sat on his knee and told him her stories. The memory was like a tether to another time, another place, another bitter-sweet reality.
