clothes horse - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Even the clothes horse that stands before the hearth is a work of art. There isn't a single sharp angle on it. At the top are two perfect arcs or fine wood, dark like american walnut, and between them run the finer bars for the clothes to drape over. It is so like Gabrielle. I wonder how long it took her to find, how much it cost her to buy. It fits right into the room, right into the person she has become. Other girls her age have a tumble dryer hidden in a closet, but for her only the most beautiful clothes horse will do.
The air in Granny's tiny living room is damp with an undercurrent of mildew. She sits on the old armchair Gramps loved so much, her think and wrinkled hands resting on the balding fabric. Before her, absorbing all the heat from her one bar fire is a clothes horse just as elderly as she is. It zig zags before her, the yellowing varnish over the oak barely visible under the weight of laundry. Her eyes rest on it as if they plan to stay there until the clothes are dry and ready to be ironed. I switch on the radio and tune it to some jazz, Gramps loved jazz. Her eyes come alive and for the first time she notices my presence.
She sits, thin mouthed, before the clothes horse. The clothes that lie over wooden struts are lined with perfect precision. Even the angles of the trifold zig-zag are identical. There is not a thing out of place anywhere in this perfectly miserable room. "Every job must be done right!" How could I ever forget? Already I feel a constriction around my heart and the stale air is suffocating.
In the middle of the room sat a clothes horse, almost buckling under the weight of wet laundry. A pool of water was spreading over the wooden floor and the signs of warping were already present in the boards. Alice ran her hand through her hair, teeth tugging at her cracking lower lip. Mother always shopped high end, everything had to be just so. How many times had she scolded her for spilling liquids on her precious floor? Ikea just wasn't her style.
The garment horse is finest mahogany, bespoke and carved by a master. There is nothing accidental about Aunt Delia's home. From the hue of flowers to the pattern of the oriental rugs, everything makes a statement. Though she will be out for some hours, I sit stiffly in the winged chair and sip politely instead of gulping as I do at home. My eyes keep going back to the garments that are almost certainly dry. The fabrics are finer than I can afford, even lying over the wooden frame they are beautiful.
From the garage comes hammering and a few choice swears. Adam is on another DIY kick. Sal opens the door to find him standing amidst an array of different lengths of pine. The project isn't progressed enough to tell what it is yet, Sal hesitates before speaking. "Hey, Dad, what is it?" Adam looks up, eyes wilder than she'd expected.
"A clothes rack, an airer, something to dry clothes on." His mouth stretches into something that could never pass as a smile and he lets out a huffy sigh. Sal nods, eyes still taking in the chaos.
The clothes maiden has sat in this room as long as Gran did, only there is no longer the clacking of knitting needles and a tincture of whiskey in the air. Like everything else here it is chipped and decrepit. It captures my eyes simply because of the scarf that hangs over it, the scarf of a maiden. I can't bare for it to go to the thrift like everything else and so in one swift motion it is removed from where she left it and safely stowed in the pocket of my woollen coat.