Wash Mary

Mary came to wash for Mother every Monday.

The wash-house was across the yard from the kitchen door–a long narrow room. The south side of it was of open lattice–when the steam poured through it looked as if the wash-house was on fire. There was a stove in the wash-house. A big oval copper boiler stood on the top of the stove. There was a sink and a pump, and a long bench on which the wooden tubs sat.

Mary stood on a block of wood while she washed because she was so little. Her arms went up and down, up and down over the wash-board and the suds bobbed in the tub. The smell of washing came out through the lattice with the steam, and the sound of rubbing and swishing came out too.

The strong colours of Mary’s print dress, brown face, and black hair were paled by the steam that rolled round her from the tubs. She had splendid braids of hair–the part went clear from her forehead to her spine. At each side of the part the hair sprang strong and thick. The plaits began behind each ear. Down at the ends they were thinner and were tied together with string. They made a loop across her back that looked like a splendid strong handle to lift little Mary up by. Her big plaid shawl hung on a nail while she washed. Mary’s face was dark and wrinkled and kind.

Mother said to me, “Go across the yard and say to Mary, ‘Chahko muckamuck, Mary’.”

“What does it mean?”

“Come to dinner.”

“Mother, is Mary an Indian?”

“Yes child; run along, Mary will be hungry.”

“Chahko muckamuck–Chahko muckamuck–” I said over and over as I ran across the yard.

When I said to Mary, “Chahko muckamuck”, the little woman looked up and laughed at me just as one little girl laughs at another little girl.

I used to hang round at noon on Mondays so that I could go and say, “Chahko muckamuck, Mary”. I liked to see her stroke the suds from her arms back into the tub and dry her arms on her wide skirt as she crossed to the kitchen. Then too I used to watch her lug out the big basket and tip-toe on her bare feet to hang the wash on the line, her mouth full of clothes pins–the old straight kind that had no spring, but round wooden knobs on the top that made them look like a row of little dolls dancing over the empty flapping clothes.

As long as I could remember Mary had always come on Mondays and then suddenly she did not come any more.

I asked, “Where is Wash Mary?”

Mother said, “You may come with me to see her.”

We took things in a basket and went to a funny little house in Fairfield Road where Mary lived. She did not stay on the Reserve where the Songhees Indians lived. Perhaps she belonged to a different tribe–I do not know–but she wanted to live as white people did. She was a Catholic.

Mary’s house was poor but very clean. She was in bed; she was very, very thin and coughed all the time. The brown was all bleached out of her skin. Her fingers were like pale yellow claws now, not a bit like the brown hands that had hung the clothes on our line. Just her black hair was the same and her kind, tired eyes.

She was very glad to see Mother and me.

Mother said, “Poor Mary”, and stroked her hair.

A tall man in a long black dress came into Mary’s house. He wore a string of beads with a cross round his waist. He came to the bed and spoke to Mary and Mother and I came away.

After we were outside again, Mother said quietly “Poor Mary!”