The Ogre of Oglefort by Eva Ibbotson Page B

pajamas,” said the Hag. “Leave those outside the door and I’ll take them to be washed.”
    Since the ogre could not fit into an ordinary bathtub except in bits, they decided to sluice him down in the laundry room near the dungeon, where there were two huge copper vats which were used for boiling clothes, and a stone floor covered in wooden slats so there would be no trouble with flooding.
    â€œBut we must make sure that the insects that are living on him are safe,” said Mirella. “They’d die in all that water and steam.”
    So she fetched all the jam jars and containers she could find and started to scoop out the wood lice from behind the ogre’s ears and the spittlebug from his nostril and the leeches between his toes. The ogre lay very quiet while this was going on, because it put off the evil moment when he had to get up and go to his bath.
    â€œWhat about the bedbugs?” he said. “Don’t forget those.”
    But at last every single creature was safely stored and labeled, and the dreaded event could be put off no longer.
    Ulf meanwhile had lit the fire in the range and dragged two enormous copper cauldrons out into the center of the room and scrubbed them clean. He had placed a stool between the tubs and found a rack for the ogre’s towels and laid out a long-handled brush and some soap neatly, as he had seen the nurses do in the hospital. He added a large pot scourer and some cleanser to be on the safe side. Then he climbed back up the stairs and started to get the ogre out of bed, which was a terrible business. The room had to be cleared because he was shy, and as soon as he was standing upright and Ulf tried to help him on with his dressing gown, he sat down again, panting horribly and clutching his heart.
    â€œYou’ll kill me before I’ve got my funeral sorted,” he said. “And I’ve told you, ogres are better when they smell.”
    â€œOgres may be, but we aren’t,” said Ulf, who was longing to get out into the forest. “Come on.”
    Slowly—very slowly—grumbling furiously, collapsing again and again on the stairs, the ogre arrived in the laundry room. Clouds of steam were rising from the hot tub and he gave a bellow of rage.
    â€œYou’re going to boil me alive,” he roared. “It’s a plot.”
    Ulf took no notice. He took the ogre’s dressing gown and hung it on a hook. Then he poured two more buckets of warm water into the first of the gigantic tubs, and the whole room filled with steam.
    â€œGet in,” he said.
    â€œVery well,” said the ogre. “You are hurrying me on to my death but nobody cares. Germania would have cared, but she’s under the mound.”
    Ulf waited.
    Still grumbling, the ogre began to lower his bulk into the tub. Water slopped onto the floor. Ulf picked up his long-handled back scrubber and the cake of soap. The ogre, complaining the whole time, lowered himself farther, and then a little farther still, into the water. . . .
    The children had gone into the orchard to pick the last of the apple crop when Mirella suddenly said, “Oh no! I’m an idiot—the poor little bat—it’ll be boiled alive in the heat.”
    Ivo stared at her.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œThe fruit bat in the laundry room, don’t you remember? The very young one that was hanging above the range. I bet Ulf won’t have had time to collect it and let it out.”
    She ran like the wind toward the castle and threw open the door of the laundry room. Clouds of steam billowed toward her; the fire roared. She could make out nothing at first, then saw what she had expected.
    The little bat had fallen to the ground and was fluttering, stunned and frightened, in a corner, half drowned, getting caught on the wooden slats. Ignoring everything except the animal she had come to save, Mirella knelt down on the floor, groping and