Читать книгу The Map of Us - Jules Preston - Страница 36

Washing machines usually lasted about six months in our house. The abrasive nature of sand saw to that. My father’s clothes were always full of it. There was a well-established pre-wash ritual of pocket emptying and shaking and leaving things out to dry and more shaking and rinsing, but it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference. After six months, something would always snap or disintegrate or crack, and we would have to buy another washing machine to take the place of the one in the kitchen that was in pieces.

Whenever we needed a new washing machine, everyone always blamed Jack. It was tradition. His pen- and paint- and crayon-covered trousers were bad at times, but it wasn’t his fault. We blamed Jack because it made him happy. He was intensely proud of destroying so many innocent washing machines. It was the highlight of his childhood.

We started giving the washing machines names, but that just made it harder when they inevitably broke and had to get taken to the tip. I cried for a week when Marjorie was carted away. Everyone was glad to see the back of Graham.

The record for the longest lasting washing machine was held by Desmond at eight months and two days. On the third day of the eighth month, Desmond burst into flames in the middle of a cotton cycle. Something to do with the heating element getting covered in fluff. We blamed Jack, as usual.

All our washing machines were supplied and installed by Mr Bill Southerton of ‘Southerton’s Electrical Appliances’ in the village. He was glad of the regular trade. He paid off his mortgage, went on two holidays a year and paid for his own hip replacement. We got a 15% discount.