Circa 1961

The last but one in a row of terraced houses, red bricks need pointing, sashed casements stiff, painted tight with dark brown paint flaked and peeling.
The key turns easily in the Yale lock though the hinges squeak in protest.

The smell of bees wax polish is warm and welcoming overlaying a hint of the Monday wash. From the back scullery comes the soft bubble of the copper boiling.

In the yard the happy squeal of a little girl playing with next doors cat.
A young woman turns the iron wheel of an older than Methuselah mangle; already a line full of pure white sheets flap in the early morning breeze.
This is the sight that greets him after his night shift.

A make do meal of cold yesterday roast and pickles because it’s washday
is set out on an immaculate table cloth.
He is home - yet he feels trapped, his eyes meet hers and for just a beat he sees truth there - her bondage…