Bath Time

The day didn’t start well. I farted in bed as I was getting up and spray painted the inside of my pyjamas. Not a major incident, you understand, but enough to have me scooting off the sheets for fear of failing the morning inspection and being the subject of ridicule from Auntie Blamey. The pyjamas I could wipe with something and soap after the other boys left the bathroom and before folding them carefully, so that the wet patch could not be seen.

The plan worked reasonably well- I went to the toilet to clean my bum and then took my time cleaning my teeth and brushing my hair, dawdling until the bathroom was clear. The second bell sounded and the other boys headed down to the dining room.

There was a trace of poo pressed into the fabric. I didn’t want to run the pyjamas under the tap as it would make them too wet and liable to detection, so I raided the flannel rack, selecting the one marked ‘Michael Toomey’ because I hated him anyway and didn’t want to use mine. A brief, damp scrub and they were clean enough to pass muster.

I folded Michael’s flannel and returned it to the rack, then made the bed in record time and rushed off to the dining room, standing behind the chair with both hands on the chair back just as Auntie Blamey walked in. She stared at each boy in turn. Her eyes seemed to bore into the back of our heads and we were nearly all sure she could see what we were thinking. I say nearly, because Tommy Dale says that one morning, when she looked at him, he was repeatedly thinking the C word as hard as he could and she didn’t know. But I didn’t believe him because he was a dreadful liar at the best of times.

It was a Saturday, which was great in the respect that that there was no school that day, but not so great because I had to be careful I didn’t get too dirty, which is difficult when you are six- Saturday was bath night and Auntie Blamey did a very thorough physical inspection prior to letting a boy get in the bath. I used to beg the all-merciful God not to let me be too dirty, as Auntie Blamey would put down your flannel and go to the corner of the bathroom, where a stiff bristle scrubbing brush soaked in a metal bucket.

After breakfast I played for a while, but by mid morning I was feeling fairly ordinary. I made quite a few trips to the loo and was having trouble controlling the wet farts, so that I resorted to folding a wad of toilet paper and showing it between my bum cheeks. This was of minimal effect as it was the kind of paper which is packed in loose sheets that seem to be about as absorbent as plastic film, but with diligent management, born of fear and desperation, I managed to minimise the impact until lunch time.

Lunch was a thin gruel that may once have been animal mince, served atop sloppy toast. This was followed by a square of garishly pink paste made of powdered milk and cornflour which was euphemistically called Blancmange. The effect was devastating.

Somehow, I made it through the afternoon until the bell went for bath time. By then, I was sweating and felt really ill. I could have told Auntie Blamey that I was not well, but she would have administered a foul concoction that I was sure would make things worse and I would taste for hours - She was not one to take a child to Nurse unless something was obviously broken.

Like so many activities, bath time was a ritual. We boys lined up on bare slat benches with our towel wrapped around us and waited until it was our turn. As I was one of the less assertive boys my position in the bathing order was far from first. I was smart enough to go to the loo before I took my position, but this time, instead of gushing forth, I met a firm resistance. I actually felt some relief, considering that perhaps whatever it was that ailed me was passing. I patiently waited my turn.

At last, the spot next to me was empty and Auntie Blamey beckoned me forward.
I removed my towel and dutifully placed it on the rack next to the bath.
Auntie Blamey inspected me carefully; behind my ears, knees and ankles, then she nodded.

As I was about to step into the prepared bath I felt something pop inside. Instantly I was overcome by a sudden and desperate urge that I knew would not subside.
“Auntie Blamey” I wailed, “I have to go to the toilet!”
“You have had plenty of time for that before now,” she snapped. ‘You will just have to wait. Get in the bath. Immediately!”
I dared a rejoinder. “But Auntie Blamey!-”
She raised her left hand and held it in position for a back-hand slap, wearing a look that could have have felled a buffalo.
I immediately scooted into the bath, but the urgency overcame me. “Aunt Blamey!” I wailed again.
She grabbed me by the elbow with one hand. “Sit!” She commanded. She turned her free hand over and slapped hard on my behind just as I lost what little control remained.

Several things happened almost at once.

Firstly, I shat a torrent all over her hand.
Secondly, the slap, which had a considerable amount of lift to it, was hard enough for me to lose my balance so that I fell backwards into the water.
Thirdly, Auntie Blamey failed to release my elbow as my bowels continued to blast bile, undigested vegetables, shit and whatever other horrors a heavily disturbed infant colon could muster into the now heavily agitated water. She lost her balance, reached for the side of the bath with her fouled hand, slipped and sailed through the air like a falling skittle, landing head first in my lap in the bath water.

I swear she was like one of those boats with the big threshing wheels on each side. Instead of moving steadily forward though, she kept slipping and sliding, but finally managed to get to her knees with her hands gripping the sides of the bath.

I waited to be killed, a notion that was heavily reflected in her expression as she looked down on me, soaked to the skin, with her hair glued to her face and dripping shit back into the water.
My bowels were not yet finished. As she looked down at me, initially speechless, a blast of bubbles erupted between her legs as the discharge continued. Slowly, carefully, she released one side of the bath and raised her hand. I noticed it was closed into a fist. In panic, I felt compelled to speak. “You-You’ve got peas in your hair.” I said.

There was a frozen moment where neither of us moved. Then I panicked still further; With the nimble ability of a child, I scooted over the side of the bath, but as I did so, my foot slipped in the water and kicked her knees out from under her. She fell forward again with an almighty splash, her head disappearing beneath the soupy waves. Which then cleared the bath, spewing my diluted intestinal medley all over the bathroom floor.

I stood in a corner, frozen to the spot, waiting to die.

Once again I saw hands reach up and grab each side of the bath. A mass of wetted hair almost completely obscured the face of the emerging Auntie Blamey as she pushed herself up out of the mess. She turned towards me slowly.

I tried to be encouraging, helpful. “The-the peas are gone,” I said.

Copyright StJohn Hawkes 2022