Free The Ballroom by Anna Hope Page B

dance?
    The slither of her skirt. And him rising to her, as though he had no other choice but this.
    And then, a lilting tune. A slow turn. Her throat. The swell of her breasts. The brush of her cheek on his. The taste of her mouth.
    Her mouth.
    A woman he had thought to be refuge but discovered to be the storm itself.
    And then a child, with skin like a song.
    And then illness, and a tiny box.
    Burying the child himself in the dark, sucking ground.
    And Annie’s mouth, a red wound now, framing the words.
You. Everything you touch dies.
    You’re nothing.
    You’re no man at all.

Ella
    S HE WAS MOVED to work in the laundry – a huge grey-lit room beneath whose high ceilings women moved to and fro. Large puddles of water stood on the ground, and the stench of dirty clothes was sharpened by a harsh, chemical smell. Ella’s eyes scanned the room, but, despite its size, there was only one door in and one door out. The only windows were set in the ceiling. There would be no way of reaching them.
    ‘Go and work with her.’ The nurse who had marched her there pushed her in the direction of someone who was bent over a large metal drum. ‘She knows what she’s doing. She’ll show you what’s what.’
    It was Clem, sleeves rolled and face glossy with sweat. She surveyed Ella coolly through the damp air. ‘Careful with your feet,’ she said, as Ella picked her way over the wet ground towards her. ‘You don’t want to get them wet. You get all sorts of blisters and it’s hell for weeks.’
    The air was damp and heavy. The huge steel drum Clem was standing beside was shaking and whining. Elsewhere, women’s voices were drowned by the rattle and hum of other machinery.
    ‘So,’ said Clem, raising her voice to be heard. ‘There’s different types of laundry in here. Clothes …’ She turned and gestured to where linen lay in great drifts at the side of the room. ‘It’s our job to sort them into types: shirts, skirts, blouses, underwear. You put a mask on for that. Then there’s flatwork: sheets and pillowcases. That’s the stuff that really breaks your back. Here.’ As the steel drum before her came to a shuddering stop, she bent and yanked open the lid. ‘We put the laundry in these machines and then a bucket of soap in there too. These sheets are done, so we need to take them out and put them through the mangle. Go on then.’
    Ella reached into the drum, trying to lift a sheet, but they were all cluthered together and heavy with water.
    ‘You won’t get far like that. Here.’ Clem elbowed her out of the way and, reaching into the water with quick, deft hands, unravelled a sheet from the knot within. ‘When you’ve managed to get one free, you give it a first twist.’ She worked as she talked, squeezing the sheet so that grey water poured back from it into the tub. ‘And then when you’ve done that, you carry it over here.’ And she looped the still-dripping sheet over her shoulder and carried it to the other side of the room where a huge mangle stood.
    The machine was about the same size as the double share Ella minded in the mill. There were even belts running around the ceiling to operate the machines. It was a factory. Not so loud as the mill, but a factory for all that. She took a corner of the sheet as Clem walked a few paces so the wet material grew taut between them.
    ‘You feed it in between the rollers so it catches. Slowly. That’s it. The next bit is dangerous. You have to make sure you’ve stepped back and your hair’s tucked in before you make it start.’
    Make sure your hair’s tucked in.
    Clem pulled down on a lever, the mangle started up with a shuddering movement, and Ella was eight again, watching the belts tightening, feeling her life contract. She shook her head to clear it. ‘How do you stand it?’ she said.
    ‘Stand what?’ Clem’s eyes were fixed on the mangle as the sheet fed itself through the rollers.
    ‘All … this.’ Ella threw out her arm. ‘Does it not make