So there I sat head in hands on the mossy stone (just up there on the right), the massive Yew aft and the Hungarian laundry-maid fore.
She was wearing an odd gingham skirt. Red and white checkered, like it had been torn from a picnic table. A fuzzy wool sweater of Prussian blue. Long black locks on both sides of her face, and an immaculate white apron that obscured .
I was filthy. My cheek was burning. I just discovered a quickly swelling bump on my head.
She sat down beside me on the stone, her hair spilled down and and then was swept up from the wind. She spoke in that wonderful husky low tone Central European women have which originates from the diaphragm:
"What has happened?"
I really didn't want to talk about it. I figured her English wasn't so good anyway, and at the time I knew nothing of her native tongue.
"Well there was this thing at this place and then another thing over there, my bike, oh I don't know."
"You need to be clean."
"Well, I'm a gardener. I can be dirty sometimes."
"Your clothes are dirty." (She pronounced "clothes" with two syllables - "clothes-ez")
"I fell into a ditch."
"Your clothes needs to be clean. We clean them."
More on this later. The linen room, the laundry chamber, and the environs of the Manor.
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