Sadie the Cleaning Lady

by Karen Goldrick

At 3pm every Thursday Sadie turns the corner into Fairview Street and walks past the milkbar. She wears a fuschia dress, cinched in at her tiny waist by a wide band. It doesn’t matter if it is hot or cold, wet or windy, her dress is the same. Her soft genuine ash blonde hair always hangs still around her porcelain face. Past the milkbar she stops, and places the basket filled with this week’s rations and the General’s list on the dusty footpath.

At 3:05 Mrs Connell walks past, without a word or nod of head. She pulls her floral scarf closer to her head, buttons her coat, and keeps walking until she gets to the rusted steel fence.

“Oi, Mrs, show us yer legs.”

“C’mon love, just a quick peek. We won’t hurt ya.”

“Just a smile would do, you sour old cat.”

Mrs Connell keeps walking. Her healed shoes march along the path until they reach the end of the steel fence, and she is safely hidden behind the wall of the bank.

At 3.15 the bus pulls up, and Cynthia and Sophie alight. They toss their bags to the ground, remove their velour hats and gabardine blazers, and stuff them mercilessly in. They roll down their socks, hitch up their skirts, and tuck them into the elastic of their pants. They walk past Sadie, stifling giggles, and drag their shoes along the path to the old steel fence.

“C’mon girls, we won’t bite.”

“Just a quick kiss, you know, way way down below.”

“Lovely day for a quick a rooty toot toot.”

“Show us yours,” says Sophie, and Cynthia just giggles. And they both walk on, trying to see them, without being seen to see, until they get to the bank.

At twenty five past three Sadie runs her hands down her hair, like a burnt gold head scarf, and hitches up her skirt. Then she picks up her basket, and walks along the path. She looks straight ahead. She hears the clip clip clippping of her shoes on the concrete. But nothing else. At three thirty she reaches the bank. She stops for a minute, just to make sure. But there is nothing, so she goes on.

One day Sadie changed. Her dress was the same. As was her genuine hair. Her smooth skin. Her basket still full of the General’s bounty. But this time Sadie walked past the milkbar, and kept on walking.

She walked alongside the still mesh fence. She walked until she was about half way. Then she stopped, and turned, without moving her head so she faced away, and stood upon her toes, tilting her pelvis back. Then with a minute flourish of underwear, she turned back and walked on clip clip clip along the fence.

“Whoa was that for real.”

“Show us again, chickybabe.”

“Hey,” this last almost a muffled whisper,”Didn’t ya see. She’s a domestic.”

“Mate. She’s nothing like mine. Mine’s a heap of metal.”

“I’m telling you. She’s the new SAD Mark 3.”

“But they can ...”

“Yep. They can.”

Clip Clip clip as she reached the bank.

“Oi. Sadie. Come back. We just wanna talk.”