The Exiles

gravy drips down the front of your jumper does not mean that they are no longer visible!’
    ‘I thought my hair covered them up.’
    ‘Just what Lady Godiva said.’
    ‘I can’t seem to find anything clean,’ Ruth explained, ‘except a nightie of Phoebe’s.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Well, it won’t fit. Anyway, it would look stupid.’
    ‘I didn’t mean that. Where are your other clothes?’
    Ruth looked around the bedroom. It seemed a bit of a silly question.
    ‘There, mostly,’ she said. ‘In that heap.’
    ‘If you carried it downstairs,’ suggested Big Grandma, ‘and loaded it into the washing machine and switched it on …’
    Ruth, suddenly inspired, began excitedly grovelling under her bed, pulling out garments which she had long given up as hopeless causes.
    ‘On second thoughts,’ said Big Grandma, when she saw what was emerging, ‘just take them downstairs. I’ve got some other things to sort out. I’ll put them all in together.’

    Rachel wandered aimlessly between the house and the garden, waiting for something to happen to her. She had been trying to make a financial asset of her diary by renting it out to her sisters to read, but they had all very meanly refused to part with their money. Sighing dismally Rachel peered through the kitchen window to see what selfish pleasures Big Grandma was enjoying.
    ‘Sorting out the washing!’ thought Rachel. ‘About time!’
    Big Grandma looked up, saw Rachel watching, waved a friendly sock, and then carelessly tossed it into the rubbish bin.
    ‘Phoebe look!’ exclaimed Rachel in surprise. ‘She’s throwing our clothes away!’
    It was true. Big Grandma had the kitchen rubbish bin propped open on one side of her, and the washing machine door open on the other. From the laundry basket in the middle of the two she pulled items of clothing and either tossed them neatly with her left hand into the washing machine, or else flipped them into the bin on her right.
    ‘Won’t you get into trouble?’ shouted Rachel through the glass, but Big Grandma did not seem to hear her question so she went inside to repeat it.
    ‘Who from?’ asked Big Grandma, discarding a torn purple nylon T-shirt of Naomi’s.
    ‘Mum?’ suggested Rachel.
    Big Grandma shook the last few socks from the laundry basket into the bin, washed her hands and switched on the machine.
    ‘You needn’t worry, Rachel; I’m only throwing rubbish away.’
    ‘But we wear them,’ Rachel pointed out.
    ‘Well, you’ll have to wear something else now,’ said Big Grandma reasonably.
    Rachel did not answer. Looking somewhat preoccupied she stared from the washing machine to the cupboard under the sink.
    ‘I hope you won’t think I’m intruding,’ continued Big Grandma politely, ‘but your mouth and your chin and parts of your nose have gone blue. As have your hands and your wrists.’
    Rachel peered into the kitchen mirror and stuck out a blue tongue.
    ‘I’ve been writing,’ she explained.
    Big Grandma smiled her approval. It was nice to see Rachel usefully employed for once. That was one of the results of not allowing them any books to read.
    ‘Naomi gardening?’ she asked, wishing to hear further reinforcement of her theory.
    ‘Um,’ agreed Rachel. ‘Measuring her lettuces and earthing up radishes, she said.’
    ‘Did she?’ Well, Big Grandma supposed, measuring lettuces and earthing up radishes, while not intrinsically useful in themselves, showed at least that Naomi had the Right Idea.
    ‘And Ruth?’
    ‘Ruth’s behind the compost heap,’ said Rachel cautiously. ‘She’s lit a little fire and she’s got a little can full of water—’
    ‘Good, good!’ said Big Grandma. ‘That’s the spirit!’
    Ruth’s Interesting Bone Collection had lately caused some friction. Diligent searching of beach and fell had resulted in an awful abundance of specimens. The latest addition (Donated by: G. Brocklebank) was the head of a not very recently deceased herring gull, and Ruth, at Rachel’s suggestion, had endeavoured to remove the not inconsiderable amount of herring gull still attached to the skull by boiling it in the kitchen. Less than fragrant odours had rapidly penetrated every room of the house, and Big Grandma in her wrath had cursed Natural History in general and Ruth in particular. Nevertheless she was glad to hear that Ruth had withstood her diatribe. Natural History was after all a study to be encouraged.
    ‘And Phoebe is fishing in a bucket,’ remarked