Washing Man

Jean Longridge

Washing Man by Jean Longridge

Surprised by a visit to Stuttgart, Germany. I found myself feeling slightly guilty, but relaxed, and sitting on a bench, reading.

I was in the Schlossenplatz; surrounded by imposing sandstone architecture, in front of two huge round fountains. I was having a delicious taster of being me, on my own.

If I still was me, after being Mummy for so long.

The autumn sun shone, warming the chill from the air and calming my unease. A smartly dressed man, wearing black trousers with a black and white leather jacket, stood at the edge of a fountain, looking in. He carried a bright red and white leather bag. Like a gym bag. He had a tousled, mullet-style blonde hairdo; old-fashioned for a young man in 2007. He pulled a matching red and white towel from the bag. Then, as if angry with it, he thrust the towel into the pool at the base of the fountain.

Mildly surprised, but curious, I began watching him. I had time to stop and stare.

The water was beautifully bright and clear. Cold and clean. I had already gone over and admired the rippling pools. School trips and walking tours busily criss-crossed the square, between a circle of wooden benches.

Another man walked over to this fountain, purposefully. He had the air of the seasoned homeless; long greasy hair, a full beard, and rough shoes.

The smart man glared at him.

This second man, the real Washing Man, had lots of clothes with him. They bulged tightly from blue and white plastic bags.

As a foreigner, a tourist, a non-native alien, I wondered - was this an ordinary practice?

But, no. The police (I think) arrived. Brown trousers, green jumpers and black caps. They spoke only to the second, unabashed man. He sat on the side of the fountain and argued with them. I was amazed at the way he spoke back.

The first man had rinsed his towel, reluctantly, screwed it damp and threw it over his shoulder. He became an ordinary part of the crowd when the officers approached.

It was such a mellow, sunny, autumn's day. Hazy with a light breeze; Idyllic.

Bemused, and slightly amused, I tried to guess what was happening. Did people have an ancient right to wash their dirty laundry in a fountain? At this time of day, and every third Wednesday of the month? I wish I spoke or read some German. The empathy wheel in my heart was spinning, speeding up the longer I watched.

I felt embarrassed for the second man, the Washing Man. Were those all of his clothes? I had to admit, though, he remained long after the police had moved on.

I enjoyed people watching, and children could not resist the city water features. I had often seen little ones, just like my two, run over, roll up their tightly cushioned jacket sleeves and dip their podgy hands and arms into the waving pools below. It was unusually warm for October, and women with gloves and scarves were unwrapping in the afternoon sun.

Two people were even curled up on different benches, asleep. They did not look homeless; but how could I tell?

My thoughts seemed to float where they would.

It was soothing to sit in the gentle warmth, with the sound of water falling, pulsating. Very clever, I thought, to have a fluid celebration of white noise. Drowning out the busy sounds of industry in the city centre.

My thoughts returned to the two men. As they had come together at the fountain, one seemed humiliated, but the other had done this before.

It was as if I were a witness to something. A changing.

The Washing Man went much further than rinsing his clothes.

I was not the only watcher as he took off his shoes and socks. I assumed that he was simply bathing his feet. But, no.

Trousers off, down to his boxer shorts and he could still have been just having a paddle.

He washed his hair under the spouting water; no soap, jumper still on, and came back out.

Then he seemed to sit and think. He looked around him, furtive for the first time.

I was completely incredulous, as, in a fleeting moment (I couldn't watch) they were off! He had stood up, pulled down his underwear, stepped into the fountain pool and sat down.

I looked away but I could hear whoops of disbelief from around the square.

When the Washing Man got back out, I was definitely not looking. An amateur voyeur, I stayed.

This would never happen in Glasgow, I thought. Not even on the hottest of hot summer days.

The Washing Man sat in the sun to dry, shouting out every now and then. Perhaps he was ill. Angry at his situation. Maybe ashamed at his own necessary ablutions.

Another happy family appeared; two little girls splashing their soft little arms in this fountain pool, giggling. The waters ran clear.

I felt myself lulling off to sleep, gently.

Waking from my reverie, I thought of the Washing Man. To be so far down and not give up. Could I ever wash in a public park?

To simply be alive and let the water feel good. Trust the sun to let the clothes dry fresh.

We take being bodily clean as a given. Was that wash wondrous or simply an ordeal?

I had a halting sense of admiration, but how did he let himself get here?

The Washing Man went for a sleep on a bench before leaving, holding a beer. He chose a lovely spot in the dappled summer shade of a tree.

Others watched with me, while the Washing Man slept.

And then left.