Accounting for Covid

The shop is shabby, the machines are weathered, clean shirts are hung below a shelf full of tatty plastic bags and there is a display of mobile phone cases and trainers in the window.  V sits behind a makeshift counter on a blue swivel chair.  It’s 4pm and I’m his first customer.  He is friendly and welcoming but I have a bad feeling about this.

Fast forward five minutes and V is banging hard on the top of the washing machine, then on the front next to the coin slot and back again.  My £4 is stuck.

I pull all my washing into the next machine along while he gets more money from the office at the back of the shop and then deftly slots it in.   I watch with relief as the machine fills up with water and wait for it to start turning.  

And wait.  And wait.  And wait.  

V pulls out his phone and calls his boss, pacing back and forward.  The conversation is heated.  Turns out he’s forgotten to turn something on in the back of the shop so starting the wash has burnt out the motor on the machine.

He goes into the back, then reappears and starts moving laundry baskets, woven shopping bags and wooden boards before getting up on top of the washing machine and reaching down the back.  

The water slowly drains out but my laundry is sodden.

This clearly isn’t meant to be.  We strike a deal and he helps me get everything into a very specific tumble dryer which he proceeds to  feed pound coins to.  I casually engage him in conversation about his laundry life, out of curiosity but also to take the edge off the situation. 

He’s 26 but seems older.  His family are back in India, he came over during February 2020 to start an MA in accounting but then covid happened.  The accountants he had concurrently been working for have recently sacked all of their employees and he has now found himself at the launderette, coming in seven days a week for a three or four hours each afternoon, working alone. 

He has only worked there for four weeks.

After a while he trails off into silence.  I check my phone out of politeness.

He cranks the tumble dryer up to high heat and we quietly watch my washing toss and turn, I drift back to a leather dining chair - the only other place in the shop to sit.

The money runs out, we check progress and we decide to call it quits.

He helps me fold my sheets and I stuff everything into my rucksack.  I feel too sorry for him to be anything but polite at this point.  I leave, hoping for everyone’s sake that I remain the only customer that day.