The Last Thing in the Basket

On the fourth night there was almost nothing to do.

The leaves were green. The wind was clean and went by without a word. The moon was up on its hook, shining, with only two new fingerprints on it, which Bramble said could wait.

So they came out anyway, because they always came out.

Bramble carried the tub. Mim carried the pegs.

They walked down to the stream and filled the tub, and put in one scoop of soap flakes, and the smell of clean sheets came up, and Mim stirred it round.

Then Bramble looked in the washing basket.

"One," he said.

"One what?"

He reached in and lifted it out.

It was small, and soft, and folded, and it had had a day.

Mim came closer to look. There was grass on it, at the knees, a lot of grass. There was jam. There was a long dark splash up one side from a puddle that somebody had gone into on purpose. And down near the bottom, small and stubborn, there was a bit of shouting, from the part of the day when somebody would not put their shoes on.

"Busy," said Bramble.

"Very busy," said Mim.

So they put it in the water.

The grass came off. The jam came off. The puddle came off in a great brown cloud and Mim had to fetch more soap.

The shouting took the longest. Bramble worked at it with his thumb, patiently, the way you do, and it went pale, and then paler, and then it was gone, and there was nothing left of it at all.

They wrung it out. They carried it to the line together, one corner each.

Mim held it up. Bramble pegged it.

"Wring it, hang it, let the night dry it."

And then they sat down on the upturned tub and watched it, hanging out there in the dark between the two hills, turning slowly, going quiet.

It hung there all night.

It dried in the cold dark air with the moon on it and the clean wind going through it, and by morning there was not one single thing left of the whole long day in it. Not the grass. Not the jam. Not the puddle. Not the shouting.

Just warm.

That is the part Mim likes. It comes down off the line warm. It always does, and nobody has ever been able to explain it.

She folded it herself, that last night, and Bramble let her, and she was slow about it and got one corner wrong, and he did not say anything about that either.

Then they carried it down together, the two of them, and they put it where it goes.

Which is at the end of your bed.

Which is where it is now.

So there is nothing left to do tonight. It's all done. The leaves are green, the wind is quiet, the moon is clean, and the day has come off you and gone.

Close your eyes.

Wring it. Hang it.

Let the night dry it.

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