There's an Egg in My Soup by Tom Galvin Page A

sweeping brush. I’d leave them there until Saturday morning, rinse them with cold water, then take the lot out and hang them over the bath to dry. When strange rashes began to appear on my skin I realised that the rinsing process wasn’t really working. So Iasked the guys on the corridor how they washed their clothes.
    They led me into the washroom, where a contraption like a metal bin stood near a drain. The top of this machine was open and, near the bottom, a short hose with a hook on the end of it jutted out like a small elephant’s trunk. One of the guys grabbed the hose and, with the aid of the hook, fixed it to the top of the machine. Then he picked up a bucket and filled it with water, pouring the contents in at the open top. This was done several times, until the machine was almost full. Then he plugged it in. Considering the plug had been languishing on the soaking wet floor the whole time, I was quite happy to let him plug it in instead of me.
    Suddenly the machine jumped to life, gyrating on the floor until a little whirlpool appeared in the water at the top. You simply threw in your powder and clothes, and that was that. It was a fairly primitive gadget, but more primitive still was the method of emptying the machine once the clothes were washed. There was no timer. You stuck your head in the door every now and again and checked the water. When it was dirty, you unplugged the machine, unhooked the hose and stood well back, unleashing a deluge of water out onto the floor. To rinse the clothes you repeated the above without adding detergent. After a few weeks of this frightening caper, I went back to the bath. You needed waders for the duration of the operation and anyway, I was sure thatplug had my name on it.
    There was, however, a sense of adventure attached to everyday chores that I began to enjoy. Everything had to be worked for. Convenience was a rarity. If you wanted to, you could fill your day with enough tasks that even thinking about it all would be a job in itself. At the same time, I knew that it would eventually become pure tedium and that then the thrill of being somewhere new might easily wear off. That thinking up new plans to teach the kids, who I loved, would become just another job. That dodging the kitchens and searching the shops for food would become a nightmare. That the view from the window would eventually become dull, and that I’d even get sick and tired of myself.

To Market, To Market
    The older of the English teachers has a bad habit of staring at me when I come into the staff room in the mornings. She makes me say, ‘Dzien dobry,’ (good morning) several times over, much to the amusement of the staff. Also, like the woman in the kitchens, she pokes at my face regularly, indicating that I’m getting thin. She is clearly possessed of that mothering instinct that is particularly frustrating when you’re trying to be independent. She tells me repeatedly about her son, who has since left town and who looks just like me. She is also obsessed with English grammar. Between lessons she nabs me in the staff room with several passages scribbled on bits of paper.
    â€˜Tom, I have some questions for you,’ she says, tugging on my sleeves. ‘Which is better and why? “Have you ever read
Wuthering Heights?
” Or, “Did you read
Wuthering Heights?
” How about, “I was in France three times,” or, “I have been to France three times?”’
    This is the nightmare I had envisioned, the questions that would freeze the bowels. As her stare becomes more intense, I nod with an air of professionalism, telling her I am late for a lesson and I will explain indetail later. Giving the kids a fifteen-minute assignment in class, I sift through the grammar handbook to find her answers. I finally avoided the staff room as much as possible, particularly when I knew this English teacher would be there. She was beginning to stray away from