The Bathing Machine
I’ve got a nasty skin complaint. It’s really embarrassing. It’s red and itchy. I’ve tried everything: camphor oil; infusion of rosemary, elder leaves; lavender. Some of them soothe, but nothing works for long – the nasty rash keeps coming back. Fortunately, it’s not really visible, because the long sleeves and high neck of my dress cover the worst patches, but sometimes the burning prickle is so bad I want to pull my own eyes out. Mother says I’ve got to try sea bathing. It’s all the fashion, so we’re booked to go to Wells-next-the Sea next Monday, as it’s a Bank Holiday. It’ll be a lovely day out at the seaside, Mother says, and I’ll come back with no itchiness. I can’t wait.
The train journey from Fakenham is long and bumpy. It’s full of perspiring, excited people with baskets full of picnics. It’s so noisy I don’t even try to speak. Once we arrive at Wells, we have to queue up and take a carriage alongside the harbour to the beach. I can smell the saltiness of the sea. It’s a wonderful bluey green, and keeps changing colour as the big and small waves play on top of it, white foam coating them, jostling and bustling in and out towards and away from the shore. I feel a bit scared. I’ve never been in the sea. Mother reassures me it will be fine. She pats my knee and tells me what’s in her basket for our lunch after the dip: some cold lamb, leftover from lunch yesterday, a veal and ham pie, pound cake and apples, with some homemade lemonade. Just thinking about it makes my mouth water and my tummy rumble.
‘Something to look forward to after your swim,’ says Mother.
But I can’t swim.
We queue again at the top of the beach for a token for one of the bathing machines. They look like little wooden huts with wheels on them. There’s a whole row of them, about fifty at the top of the beach, ready for use, and another twenty are already down in the water, the horses having pulled them in. You can’t see behind the huts, but Mother tells me every lady is allocated a Bathing Machine. When she’s dressed and ready to swim, an assistant, called a Dipper, helps you into the water and you can stay as long as you like. I’m getting quite hot standing in the queue but it’s only a few minutes before we get to the front and pay our three pence.
‘Number Two, up the end there. You’ll find your bathing costume inside,’ says the cashier. It’s hard walking in the muddy sand. It’s quite windy and the waves are still coming and going at quite a rate.
‘It’s alright, my dear. Just think how lovely you’ll feel after your dip,’ says Mother. She waves goodbye and leaves me at the entrance to Number Two.
‘Aren’t you coming, Mother?’
Mother shakes her head vigorously. ‘We can’t afford for us both to go, my dear.’
The Bathing Machine is constructed from dark wooden panels. There’s a door to go in at one end, and a door to get into the water at the other end. There are no windows, just a little spy hole at eye height, where you can look out and check there’s nobody about. It’s sparsely furnished with a couple of stools, a long length mirror and a dresser, where there’s a pile of flannel navy garments. The Dipper doesn’t say much, but indicates I should sit on a stool. Then she helps me take off all my layers of clothing. I feel nice and cool for a moment sitting just in my chemise, before I put on my bathing costume. I can’t believe how much I have to wear. There are voluminous bloomers, a corset, a long, baggy gown with buttons down the front, long sleeves and a high neck, almost as much as I’ve just taken off.
‘You’ve got to be modest, young lady,’ says the Dipper. ‘Your Bathing Machine will be a least one hundred yards from the men, just in case they see you.’
I gulp. I’m already feeling over-heated and flustered.
‘No worries. You’ll soon cool down once you get in. I’m going to open the door for you to go down a few wooden steps into the water. I’ll make sure you don’t fall over if a wave comes along. Are you ready?’
I nod. I wish I hadn’t come. This is no treat. No wonder Mother didn’t come with me. I take a deep breath as the door swings open and I can see the water below. It looks calm enough. I step tentatively down the first stair. I’m up to my ankles in the sea. The water’s freezing. I scream.
‘Here you go,’ shouts the Dipper as she pushes me down the remaining steps. My head goes under and I’m drawn down into the icy turbulent water. In shock, I suck my breath in so quickly that my nose and mouth immediately fill with the strong, saline liquid. I flail about with my arms and desperately try to find the sea bed with my feet, but just keep going under. My clothes are so heavy they pull me back every time I come up and take a breath. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m all alone and nobody cares. Mother must have wanted to kill me. My eyes are full of stinging, salty water so I can’t even see where I am. I can only feel the angry water tossing me about. It’s all over. I’m drowning.
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ The Dipper roughly pulls me up to standing by my arms and the water reaches up to my armpits. I can see the horizon. The sky is still there. I’m alive. My clothing is still tugging me down, but the woman is strong and she shoves my whole body back towards the Bathing Machine. I burst into tears. She steers me up the steps, back into the Bathing Machine. I can’t stop crying, as she strips off my bathing costume and towels me roughly dry.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ she shouts. ‘You’d better not let your mother see you crying.’
I’m shaking as I leave the Bathing Machine. What a horrible experience. Never again. I don’t even want my picnic. But my skin has stopped itching.
(1,070 words)
About the author
Sally Storr recently retired from her work as a coach at The Open University. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself.
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