Community Service Ch. 02

Some of the shelves contained coloured cotton socks. Whether of a single colour, or multi-coloured. Some of these socks were patterned. While other socks sported designs, pictures, and motifs. So there was plenty of choice, for the girls and ladies of Canford.

A good number of shelves contained black cotton socks. And navy blue cotton socks. Both long socks, and ankle socks.

I later came to understand that some of the younger females had a preference for black socks, as leisure wear. Apparently, they went well with their ballet flats. This footwear being highly popular, these days, and extremely comfortable too.

But the vast majority of these black socks were uniform socks, worn by the schoolgirls of St Kate's, one of Canford's two girls' schools.

The students from Canford's other girls' school, St Esmeralda's, wore navy blue socks.

On the other side of the two-barred safety railings, down in the basement level, I saw the large, industrial standard laundering apparatus, that it was now my duty to operate.

*

At the floor-to-ceiling shelves, the females of Canford were helping themselves to the brand-new pairs of socks.

Despite there being a large litter bin in plain sight, after tearing off the sticky plastic bindings and cardboard packaging from the multi-packs of socks, many of the girls and women simply discarded the wrappings, carelessly littering the Sock Room floor.

As they did so, the girls and women discarded their dirty socks, too.

Some of them, I saw, peeled their socks from their feet, and then carelessly (or deliberately) dropped them onto the light grey linoleum floor ... for me to pick up. After all, that's what I was there for, wasn't it?

Some of them; either balling them up into a pair, or singly, deposited their dirty socks into an appropriate (colour-coded) wheelie bin.

But some of the girls and women, actually went to the trouble of throwing their dirty (white) socks directly into the large, open-topped hopper that was situated at the end of the left-hand side of the basement, that was clearly signed: 'White Socks Only!'.

Those ... those taunting, maliciously motivated, cruel-minded females stood at the two-barred safety railing, to gleefully throw in their dirty white socks – personally. As if to make it personal. Very personal. Intimately personal. As if they were sadistically saying to me: Ha! Get THOSE clean – sock washer!

And Gina Stainham, the attractive, shoulder-length dark-haired, buxom woman in her mid-twenties, who'd caustically quipped that I'd "Soon be shaken – and stirred!" now said; and in a loud voice too, so that all of the other sock-changing girls and women would hear her latest comical gem: "Ha! Double-oh-seven? We all know what he's licenced to do – don't we, girls? ... He's licenced to wash our dirty socks!"

I cringed with mortification, at being once again subjected to the cruel barbs of Gina's acerbic wit, and having to listen to the sock-changing females' raucous, derisive laughter.

"Come on, double-oh-seven," said C.S.O. Linda. "You can come back up here later, to pick up all of this litter. And to pick up all of these dirty socks from the floor, and put them in the appropriate receptacles. But first, me and Miss Karen want to give you the Grand Tour of the Sock Room ... Show you your new domain. Where you will be working for your dole money, from now on."

Go on! Rub it in, why don't you? I thought, but didn't say.

*

C.S.O. Karen instructed, "Go down those wooden steps – Sock Boy," she called me, in not wanting to be outdone by her colleague, in the mickey-taking stakes. "Then turn left, and go to the end. To the big, open-topped hopper."

I descended the six wooden steps, and I turned left as instructed.

Down here, in the lower, basement level of the Sock Room, the floor was of a smooth, unyielding dark grey stone.

Pointing to the large, industrial-sized hopper, signed 'White Socks Only!', C.S.O. Karen told me, "This is the main hopper, David. For white socks only ..." A blurred movement overhead catching our attention, we looked up to see Gina, standing at the two-barred safety railing having just hurled her own, balled-up pair of dirty white socks into the main, open-topped hopper. As soon as Gina was satisfied that I knew just what she had done, she sauntered away, looking back over her shoulder at me, smirking goadingly.

I glared back at Gina. Barefoot, she walked away slowly, her eyes mocking me. In her right hand she carried her blue and white trainers by their white laces, swinging them to and fro as she languorously headed towards the sock shelves to avail herself of a brand-new pair of socks. With her every step, Gina's bare feet; especially the balls of her feet, her heels, and the pads of her toes, picked up debris; bits of fluff and stuff from the Sock Room floor. And I watched her still-moist soles accumulating more and more dust and dirt, and becoming increasingly grubby.

C.S.O. Linda waved an attention-getting hand in front of my eyes and said, "Hel-lo ...? Double-oh-seven, get with the programme, eh? I think you'll have to run a quick mop over the Sock Room floor, later. But, for now, listen up: This, is your mission ..." She waited for C.S.O. Karen to stop laughing.

C.S.O. Linda then instructed me, "You empty the white-painted wheelie bins, that are full of dirty white socks, into the main hopper ... Yeah? See this flat piece of wood? See these wooden steps? You put this flat piece of wood over the wooden steps, to make a ramp ... see? So that you can wheel the wheelie bins full of dirty socks down here, and then return the wheelie bins back upstairs when you've emptied them, so that they can be filled up again with more girls' and women's dirty socks."

So as to ensure that I was quite clear on this, C.S.O. Linda placed the flat piece of wood over the six wooden steps, thereby demonstrating how the construction of the makeshift ramp was achieved.

C.S.O. Linda went on with my instruction. "This is the main hopper. And it's for white socks only. See these two metal plates on the floor? And this lever? You place the two wheels of the wheelie bins onto the two metal plates, and then you pull this lever. See? Any fool can work it. It's all automatic: the wheelie bin is hoisted up to the top of the open-topped hopper; turned upside down, and the dirty white socks are all tipped out – just like household wheelie bins, being emptied into a refuse truck. Ha ha ha!" laughed C.S.O. Linda, pleased with her analogy. Of course, C.S.O. Karen thought it was funny, too.

C.S.O. Linda continued, "See this small door, double-oh-seven, near the bottom of the hopper, with the bolt across it? And these two big white plastic laundry baskets? You open this small door ..." (she slid the bolt, to show me how it was done) "... to get at the dirty white socks. See? It's not rocket science. Just pull the dirty socks out with your hands, and fill up one of the baskets," she instructed.

C.S.O. Linda went on, "Now, some of the dirty socks might be balled up into pairs. When they are, you separate them ... got that? And you turn the socks inside out, and transfer the separated, turned-inside-out socks to the other, empty big white plastic laundry basket ... Yeah?

"Now, that's very important – turning all of the dirty socks inside out," continued C.S.O. Linda. "You make sure that all of the dirty socks are turned inside out, to make sure you wash out all of the foot sweat and dead skin. And, David, I'm warning you now: if either myself or Miss Karen see any dirty socks that you haven't turned inside out, just like I'm telling you, you are going to be sorry," C.S.O. Linda told me, flexing her cane meaningfully, for emphasis.

She went on, "So, to re-cap: You fill up one of the two big white plastic laundry baskets, with the dirty white socks, and then ... you empty the big basket of dirty white socks ... into the laundry boiler tank, here," she said, as she moved on to said apparatus.

The laundry boiler tank was made of a dull-grey metal, and it was raised, situated on a platform about five feet above the floor. It was square-shaped; the sides, about four feet wide, and it was about three feet deep.

It was C.S.O. Karen, who then conducted the next stage of my Sock Room induction.

"See this tank, David? And this lever? And this valve? Put your hand against the side of the tank ... see how hot it is?" she said, when I quickly withdrew my hand from the blistering hot metal.

C.S.O. Karen went on, "You pull down on this lever, and the lid of the tank lifts up ... see?" The lid opened on its hinges, from right to left, and clouds of steam billowed out of the laundry boiler tank as she demonstrated the lid-lifting mechanism to me. "You empty – up to a maximum – of six baskets' of dirty white socks, into the laundry boiler tank, and close the lid again. And then you let the socks soak, for at least two hours," she instructed.

"And this valve, here," she said, pointing at the red plastic adjusting knob, "regulates the water temperature. See ...?" she said, pointing at the dial, the needle of which, was hovering just below the red danger-zone. "Keep the needle there – you'll need to keep the water piping-hot, if you're going to get all of the dirt and grime and foot sweat and dead skin out of the socks."

"Yeah," agreed C.S.O. Linda. "It stands to reason."

Next, and situated just to the left of the six wooden steps, were two large and almost identical stainless-steel sinks. They were of the same dimensions: almost square-shaped, and about three feet deep.

The first of these two stainless-steel sinks differed from the second, in that it had a similar water temperature regulating valve and dial, to the larger, and lidded, dull-grey metal laundry boiler tank.

Under this first stainless-steel sink, I saw, was a foot-pedal operated detergent dispenser. And under the second stainless-steel sink, were stacked four large dark blue plastic laundry tubs, that were slotted inside each other for space saving.

Unfolded, and standing between the laundry boiler tank and the first of the two stainless-steel sinks, was a set of aluminium step-ladders. And lying across the top step was a pair of long wooden tongs.

It was C.S.O. Linda, who then resumed my Sock Room training.

"Okay, double-oh-seven ... See these two stainless-steel sinks? And these step-ladders? And these long wooden tongs? The first sink is for hot water. See ... here's the valve, for regulating the water temperature. And see, here's the dial ... showing just under the red: just right. You'll need to keep the water good and hot, just like Miss Karen said, or you won't be able to get the dirty socks clean – pristine, clean – and then you'll be in trouble," she told me. "Because then we'll have to cane you, for not performing your duties satisfactorily. And when we do, trust me: by the time me and Miss Karen have finished with you, you'll be in a world of pain."

C.S.O. Linda continued, "And this is the detergent dispenser, here, under the sink. See ...?" she said, as she demonstrated the pump-action mechanism – pump, pump, pump – pressing down on the foot-pedal with her right, black, thick rubber-soled, backless (clog-like) C.S.O. issue shoe, and causing several thick, sickly-green gobbets of industrial-strength detergent to spurt into the empty stainless-steel sink.

"You'll need to keep the hot water good and soapy, because the dirty, sweaty socks will kill the soap suds." And, as though to emphasise her point, C.S.O. Linda again pressed down on the foot-pedal and splatted an extra blob of the disgustingly-coloured detergent into the sink, for good measure.

C.S.O. Linda then said, "And you use the long wooden tongs to transfer the pre-soaked white socks over, see? Out of the laundry boiler tank, and straight into the stainless-steel sink, right next to it – the hot-and-soapy-water sink. You just stand on the platform, and transfer the pre-soaked white socks over, using the long wooden tongs ... Yeah?"

C.S.O. Linda went on, "So, David, what you do is: When the dirty white socks have been soaking in the very hot water for over two hours, you open the lid of the laundry boiler tank. You go up the step-ladders, onto the platform, and you use the long wooden tongs to transfer some of the socks – but, not too many; you don't want to overload – from out of the laundry boiler tank, into the stainless-steel hot-and-soapy-water sink, right next to it ... see?

"Then," C.S.O. Linda continued, "you put on your washing-up gloves – the water will be too hot for your hands, without them, and they are stored in your janitor's cupboard, along with lots of other laundry things that you'll be needing. And you hand-wash the pre-soaked dirty socks – one by one – until you've gotten each and every single one of them all nice and clean.

"Then," she resumed, "as you get each sock all nice and clean, you transfer the all-nice-and-clean socks, into the other stainless-steel sink, right next to it – the rinsing sink. You then fill up the rinsing sink with cold water, and you start rinsing the soap out of the socks, by flushing them through and through in the sink full of cold water. You then pull out the sink plug, and you keep on flushing and flushing and flushing, with cold water from the tap, until there's no more soapy suds coming out of the socks ... yeah? Still with me, double-oh-seven? Okay, let's move on to the next piece of kit."

Once again, C.S.O. Karen took over my instruction.

"See these two big green plastic laundry baskets, David, that are all full of holes? Well, you take one of the big green baskets, and you transfer the rinsed socks from the rinsing sink, into the basket. And then you drag the basket full of rinsed socks over here ... to this machine: it's called a mangle."

My God! The contraption was like something out of a museum. Obsolete, for centuries.

"See how the floor underneath the mangle is sloped," C.S.O. Karen went on, "angled towards this grid? Well, what you do, David, is you put – one at a time – the all-nice-and-clean, thoroughly rinsed socks, between these two rubber rollers ... see? And then you turn this handle, to squeeze water out of the socks ... see? (C.S.O. Karen turned the handle, to show me how it was done). And you put the mangled socks into the other, empty big green basket," she said. "The squeezed out water drips onto the floor, and drains into the grid ... See why you need your flip flops, David?"

C.S.O. Linda then opened a door and, after waving me through, she and C.S.O. Karen followed me.

The door led outside, to a flagstoned courtyard at the back of the building.

The courtyard was enclosed by seven-feet-high brick walls, and so I couldn't see what was on the other side of them. Wicked-looking, jagged pieces of razor-sharp glass, were liberally embedded into the concrete-topped walls. And the sturdy, steel-reinforced wooden gate, that was set into the far wall, was secured with bolts top and bottom, and had heavy-duty padlocks locking them in place. On top of all that, there were motion-detection floodlights, too.

They certainly seemed to be keen on security here, I thought ... But, why the hell why? I mean, it wasn't as if there was anything worth nicking, in this dreadful place!

"See all of these nylon lines, David?" C.S.O. Linda said, pointing to the brightly-coloured lines; red, green, yellow and blue – twelve, in all – that were hanging about five feet above the ground, and stretching between the two side walls of the courtyard, along side of which lay some wooden props. "Clotheslines," she informed me. "When the weather is dry, you bring the mangled socks out here, and hang them up to dry on these clotheslines. You'll find all the clothes pegs you'll need, in your janitor's closet ... Okay, back inside."

Back inside the Sock Room, C.S.O. Karen pointed to the white-painted door at the end of a short corridor. "The office, David. Where Miss Linda and I do all of the real work around here: managing the administration of the Sock Room."

It was C.S.O. Linda, who then pointed over towards a small niche, on the other side of the corridor wall. "Your ironing station, David. See? Your ironing board, and your iron."

Though it was a small, relatively out-of-the-way corner, it was still in plain view from the upper level of the Sock Room ... And so the sock-changing girls and women upstairs could watch me, hard at work – slaving away, ironing their socks. My God! How humiliating was that!

"When it's wet weather, you peg up the mangled socks in here to dry," C.S.O. Linda told me, pointing to more nylon clotheslines.

I noticed that, just like the clotheslines in the courtyard, these indoors clotheslines also, were red, yellow, green and blue ... the colours of the A.F.P. And I wondered if this was deliberate: intended as a none-too-subtle, ever-present reminder of my situation.

C.S.O. Linda went on, "When the turned-inside-out socks are dry, David, you pull all of them through the right way again – the girls and ladies of Canford have got better things to do with their time, than having to pull their socks through the right way – so you save them the inconvenience. Then, you iron the socks – and, to a high standard – before returning them to the appropriate shelves, upstairs."

My God! I could hardly believe it. The basement level of the Sock Room, was like ... like something from Victorian times – like a workhouse, straight out of the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.

Hel-lo! This is the 21st century ... Haven't you heard of washing machines? Of spin-dryers? And, for your information, lady, I have got better things to do with my time, too, than pulling socks through the right way! I thought. But didn't say.

C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda were both studying my face, watching my reaction. My senses of astonishment, of disbelief, of resentment – of incredulous outrage – must have been written all over my face.

As C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda studied my face, seemingly reading me like a book, they smirked at me, in that infuriating way of theirs. Chewing their gum, and blowing bubbles with it, till they burst with a loud popping sound. Pop! Pop! Pop!

But then, they began flexing their A.F.P. issue canes, ominously.

C.S.O. Karen said, "Right, then, community servant David double-oh-seven. Let's see if you've been paying attention, shall we, to what me and Miss Linda have been saying to you ... hmm? Have you been listening carefully? Have you been paying proper attention – Sock Boy? Hanging on our every word? Do you understand what your duties are, in the Sock Room?"

This was an outrage! I could hardly get it to sink in – what was actually happening to me. And, the damn cheek of the girl, talking to me like that! Both of them! They were only a year older than me – two, at the most!

"Yes, Miss Karen," I said through gritted teeth. "I understand perfectly."

"Ooh! I don't think I like your tone ... double-oh-seven," piped up C.S.O. Linda, flexing her cane threateningly. "I think you are forgetting your place: You are a community servant. I think you are forgetting about the tone of respect, in which you are to address us – your superiors – at all times ... Perhaps a few well-aimed strokes of my cane to your bare bottom will put a civil tongue back in your head ... hmm? Mr Licenced-to-hand-wash-girls'-and-women's-dirty-stinky-sweaty-socks, double-oh-seven."

What, the ...? What an absolute, colossal nerve! And I don't like you, calling me double-oh-seven, you – you sarcastic little ... so-and-so, I thought. But didn't say.

"Okay then," said C.S.O. Karen, just in time to prevent me from saying something I would be sure to regret. "We're listening, Sock Boy. Repeat back to us, exactly what your duties are, in the Sock Room."