The basement hall was dark save for the patch of light coming from the open kitchen door. In the patch stood a low table and a kitchen chair. On the table which was shining wet and smeary with soap, stood a huge basin. Out over the basin flew a long tail of hair and Miriam’s anxious eyes found Millie standing in the further gloom twisting and wringing.
19
No one else was to be seen. Perhaps it was all over. She was too late. Then a second basin held in coarse red hands appeared round the kitchen door and in a moment a woman, large and coarse, with the sleeves of her large-checked blue and white cotton dress rolled back and a great “teapot” of pale nasturtium coloured hair shining above the third of Miriam’s “bony” German faces had emerged and plumped her steaming basin down upon the table.
Soap? and horrid pudding basins of steaming water. Miriam’s hair had never been washed with anything but cantharides and rose-water on a tiny special sponge.
In full horror, “Oh,” she said, in a low vague voice, “it doesn’t matter about me.”
“Gun’ Tak’ Fr’n,” snapped the woman briskly.
Miriam gave herself up.
“Gooten Mawgen, Frau Krause,” said Millie’s polite departing voice.
Miriam’s outraged head hung over the steaming basin—her hair spread round it like a tent frilling out over the table.
For a moment she thought that the nausea which had seized her as she surrendered would, the next instant, make flight imperative. Then her amazed ears caught the sharp bump—crack—of an eggshell against the rim of the basin, followed by a further brisk crackling just above her. She shuddered from head to foot as the egg descended with a cold slither upon her incredulous skull. Tears came to her eyes as she gave beneath the onslaught of two hugely enveloping, vigorously drubbing hands—“sh—ham—poo” gasped her mind.