Recycled

by Sandy McKay

  Mum just said, “Oh no not all that stuff again,” and she looked at Dad with the same look as when Allie had started crying – which wasn’t at all fair. Dad looked at me and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I think Colin does have a point,” he said. “And I think we should join in this protest they’re having. We could all front up as a family.”

  “I can’t believe it,” said Mum, looking like she was a volcano about to explode. “I can’t believe you, Bob. If that Paddy wins his appeal I’ll lose all my commission. And you expect me to come and join in the protest. You’re all mad. Stark raving bonkers, the lot of you.”

  Then Mum’s cellphone started ringing and the family conference came to an abrupt end.

  I guess it wasn’t the best time for Mum to discover my worm farm.

  14

  “More than one billion trees are used to make disposable nappies every year.”

  THE WORM FARM was in a box in my bedroom.

  My vermicomposting experiment! Raising worms for the compost bin. Did you know that 20 kilos of worms can change 20 kilos of waste into soil in just one month? Fascinating, aye!

  What happens is – the earth worms tunnel through the ground, making places for water and air to enter and aerating the soil by turning it over. They drag leaves and other bits of food down into the soil, which decay, making the soil more fertile.

  I was keeping it as a surprise. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t have had it in the bedroom. But how was I to know Lucky was going to get up there and knock it over?

  Of course, by the time Mum got in with her vacuum cleaner the worms were making their way out my bedroom door – along with the soil and the worm food (grass cuttings, potato and carrot peelings, left-over porridge and some of Allie’s old lunch – a stale peanut butter sandwich!). Mum hit the roof, and let out such a blood-curdling scream that poor Lucky leapt three feet in the air, grabbed hold of the curtain and clung on for grim death… My bottle collection hit the deck with a thundering crash, Lucky panicked again and fell back onto the ground. It was lucky he was a cat and knew how to land without breaking any legs.

  Mum said this was the last straw and if I didn’t stop harping on about all this Greenpeace stuff, she’d, she’d… well, she didn’t know what she’d do, but when she did it, it would be something pretty drastic.

  Then she sat down on the bed and tried to gather up the broken glass. When one of her fingers started bleeding she said, “stuff this, you can jolly well do it yourself.”

  Then she leapt up and said she was off for a hang-glide, and if I didn’t have all this mess cleaned up when she got home, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions.

  I tried not to be too upset and used my vacuuming time to think. I thought about what Mr Read said about people changing their ways and how nagging wasn’t the answer. Then I thought how Mum really was under a lot of stress with this new job and how I secretly admired her for being a business woman and for having the guts to go hang-gliding. I was quite proud of that. No-one else in our class had a mother who could fly.

  Besides, it was better than having a Dad like Byron Banks had, who raced motor cars in his spare time and used up so much of the earths precious resources in petrol that it would take heaps of unbleached toilet paper usage to make up for it.

  After I’d cleaned up the mess and salvaged what was left of my bottle collection, I went downstairs to see Dad who was cooking lunch. I wanted to say thanks for sticking up for me about the protest.

  He was cooking baked beans and poached eggs, and even though I noticed he threw the can into the rubbish bag instead of into the recycling bucket, I decided not to comment.

  I was learning the art of good timing. Still, I couldn’t resist just one little dig.

  “Do you know how many cans one person throws away in a year, Dad?”

  “No.”

  “One hundred and sixty.”

  “You don’t say, Col.”

  Dad and I ate the baked beans in silence. Allie said no thanks, she wasn’t hungry, and went off to her room with her twenty-third can of Diet Coke for the week.

  After lunch I rang Paddy. He sounded quite cheerful. Said he’d lodged his appeal and was looking forward to the protest and also, he’d found a new market for his compost mixture.

  “It’s a landscape gardening place. They love the stuff. Said they’ll take as much as I can make,” he said. “And more.”

  He also said he had some good gear put aside for Dad – a pair of hedge clippers that just needed sharpening and three old garden rakes he might be able to do something with. Oh, and he also had the name of someone who was interested in having her lawns mowed on a permanent basis, and would Dad be interested? Said she’d pay him $15 per lawn. I said I’d ask. Then he said he’d decided to take his mind off things by having violin lessons.

  “Good on you,” I said even though it was hard to imagine Paddy playing the violin. When I hung up the phone rang again. It was Byron. He had some interesting news. Said he’d heard a rumour that one of the girls in our class couldn’t come on the protest march because Orange Lips was her aunty and her mother wouldn’t let her. Byron didn’t know who it was and we both reckoned it could be Louise because she was quite snobby and her Dad drove a BMW. I wouldn’t put it past her to have an aunty like Diana Vial.

  Whoever it was would get a hard time at school, we’d both make sure of that.

  Apparently, said Byron, the principal’s not very keen either. One of the guys he plays golf with is on the Council. A guy called Starling or something.

  I decided not to tell him about Mum. If he knew about Mum, who knows what he’d think about me. Byron’s family had responded a lot more positively to the recycling thing. They were making a real effort and it made me feel even more annoyed at my lot. Never mind, what is it they say? ‘You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.’

  I decided not to dwell on the matter. I had more important things to think about.

  15

  “During a year an average family will probably throw away 1.5 tonnes of rubbish (the equivalent of half a good-sized elephant).”

  GOING TO THE COUNCIL seemed like a good idea at the time.

  It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. Ranking closely alongside hang-gliding with Mum and going to a fancy dress party as Queen Victoria.

  I figured all they needed was for someone to explain the situation calmly and clearly. To give them the facts about recycling and eco-systems that would help them see the light.

  It was my mission to convince whoever was in charge that burying rubbish in a landfill was a pathetic idea and Paddy’s rubbish rescue centre was much more environmentally friendly.

  First, I needed an excuse to take an afternoon off school. Copying a note Mum had written last term explaining I needed time off to have my braces checked seemed to do the trick. They needed to be checked every six weeks so I got away with it okay. Mr Read didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “Just shoot off after the lunch break, Colin,” he said. “That should get you there in time.” I was tempted to tell him what I was up to but decided against it. You never know with teachers. Sometimes they’re on your side and sometimes they’re not. Best not risk it.

  When the bell rang at the end of lunch break I set off down the hill into town – about a 20 minute walk. I would have taken the bus but thought it might look odd getting on with a black rubbish bag slung over my shoulder. It was a brainwave I had on my way out of the school gates. The caretaker, Mr Ross, was mowing the front lawns and there were some rubbish bags propped up against a tree. I decided to help myself and use Mr Read’s ‘spill-the-contents-of-a-rubbish-bag-all-over-the-floor’ shock tactics to convince the man from the Council about the importance of recycling. It was worth a shot anyway.

  The man I needed to see was a Mr G. Sparrow – Refuse Dept – Southsville City Council. I copied his name from one of Paddy’s letters.

  His office was on the first floor and sittin
g outside it was a secretary: a long thin woman with tight pulled back hair. She sat guarding G. Sparrow’s office like it was Buckingham Palace and she wouldn’t let me past.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not looking up from her keyboard where her fingers flew over the keys at 100 kilometres an hour. “Mr Sparrow is busy right now and he won’t see anyone without an appointment.”

  “But I’ve come a long way and it’s very important,” I pleaded.

  Silence. More keyboarding. I think she hoped I’d go away.

  “Besides,” I lied, “I do have have an appointment with Mr Sparrow, actually. It’s, it’s… at 1:30.”

  The secretary sighed. “Well, I’ll have to check my appointment book.” She stood up from her work and said, “It’s in the other office. Stay here while I check. But really, I think you’ve got the wrong day.”

  I knew I didn’t have much time, so I opened the door that said “G. Sparrow” and let myself in.

  G. Sparrow sat in the corner of the room behind a large expensive looking desk. From where I stood he looked small and puny with a long pointy nose and a little pointy chin. He wore a tight brown suit and thick Marmite jar glasses made his eyes look goggly.

  He was reading something in a file on his desk and didn’t look up.

  “Yes?”

  When I’m nervous my voice doesn’t work properly. It kind of squeaks like something that needs to be oiled. So I stood there squeaking for a moment like a wheel in need of CRC.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  I squeaked again.

  G. Sparrow was still preoccupied with whatever he was reading and while I waited for him to look up I took a quick look around the office. It was all very boring, very officey. A couple of parched potplants, a filing cabinet with a photograph on top and some framed things on the wall. Certificates, qualifications, that sort of thing. Over on the far wall was a very large framed photograph of a man dressed in a brown suit shaking hands with the mayor. I could tell he was the mayor right away, because he had chains around his neck and a funny red robe. By the look of this photograph G. Sparrow was obviously a very important man.

  I had come to make a point and I had to do it now. This wasn’t school, this was real life. Here was a man who made decisions that affected people’s lives, a man who shook hands with the mayor. I had to make him change his mind about Paddy.

  G. Sparrow was the face of authority and eco-warriors do not run from the face of authority, I told myself. I took a deep breath and launched into my campaign.

  “Hello,” I squeaked. “My name is Colin Kennedy and I’m here to talk about the situation with Paddy McTavish and his rubbish rescue centre.” I paused for breath.

  “Who?” he said. Which wasn’t quite the reply I was hoping for.

  “Paddy McTavish.”

  “Paddy who?”

  “McTavish.” Maybe I’d come to the wrong place.

  “Oh, yes,” he said vaguely, still reading whatever he was reading. “Nice man. Nice man. Drives a BMW doesn’t he?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so.” I was starting to feel flustered. I didn’t know what sort of car Paddy drove, or what that had to do with anything anyway. “He runs the Rubbish Rescue Centre at Roseview.”

  More silence, then, “Oh… THAT Paddy McTavish.” Then he put his file down, pushed the Marmite jars further up his nose and rearranged all his facial features. Now we were getting somewhere.

  “What about him?”

  “Well, I just want to say that I don’t think it’s fair you’re closing him down.”

  “Oh, don’t you just?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Well, tons of reasons actually. Like he works hard and he’s always busy and he’s the only recycling place in town.”

  “Mmmmmm…” said G. Sparrow. “So, what’s it got to do with you? And what’s that ghastly smell? And shouldn’t you be at school? Hey, what IS that ghastly smell?!”

  “Oh, that.” Now was my big chance. I seized it with both hands and tipped the black rubbish bag upside down. Something brown and slimey toppled out. Great! Now I had his complete and undivided attention!

  My squeak disappeared and my voice returned to normal as I continued my campaign. I knew this speech off by heart.

  “Your average rubbish bag,” I began, “contains 40 percent kitchen waste, 40 percent packaging and 20 percent paper. Burying this rubbish is not the answer. Do you know how much rubbish is buried in Auckland city every year?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Five hundred thousand tonnes, that’s how much. Five hundred thousand tonnes. That’s the same weight as 166,666 elephants.”

  “Elephants? Really?”

  “Yes, and that’s not all. Some rubbish takes more than 50 years to rot away. Even newspapers buried in the ground have been dug up and read twenty years later.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. And… Rotting rubbish generates methane gas which is smelly and poisonous and could explode. Landfills are bad for the land, dangerous and a waste of rubbish.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, Sir, it is.”

  “Well, you seem to know your facts, lad, I’ll give you that. But there is one thing I’d like to know.”

  “Anything.”

  “Just how do you propose cleaning up this little toxic mess?” He was referring to the contents of the rubbish bag.

  “Uh… oh…” The ‘rubbish’ on the floor had turned out to be a very pongy pile of slimey grass clippings mixed with dog droppings which were at this moment leaching their way across the carpet.

  G. Sparrow banged a red buzzer on his desk and the secretary appeared at the door poised with pen and paper in hand.

  “Barbara,” he said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but do you think you could see this young fellow out of the building? I’ve a meeting with the mayor in ten minutes and I’d like to clean up the office before he arrives.”

  “Right away, Mr Sparrow.”

  The secretary put her hand on my shoulder and ushered me through the door.

  It was hard to tell if my campaign had worked. Maybe the rubbish bag hadn’t been such a great idea after all. I was still very new at this eco-warrior business and there was obviously a lot to learn.

  The secretary walked with me to the lift. “Next time,” she said “make a proper appointment.”

  I caught the bus back to school.

  “Typical,” said Paddy when I called in to give him a progress report. “Bloody typical.”

  The Roseview Rubbish Rescue Centre was bustling. There were a couple of families picking through the second-hand clothing. One little red-head guy was dancing around with a ‘Chicago Bulls’ T-shirt he’d found.

  I was having a drink of milk in the caravan with Paddy.

  “It’s not fair,” I said.

  “No, lad, it’s not. But who said life was fair?”

  The place looked so busy. The sun was shining and there were people everywhere. I couldn’t believe it would all be closed down.

  “They can’t do it. We won’t let them.”

  “Well, we’re sure gonna give it our best shot, lad,” said Paddy.

  “Look at what we’re up against. A sparrow in a brown suit, a short-sighted zoning committee with fishy connections and a pack of poncy women obsessed with property values.”

  “What chance have they got against a heap of great kids, a business we believe in and a ton of determination?”

  “We’ll show ‘em.”

  “Yeah, we’ll show ‘em.”

  Paddy had a new pocket knife for my collection. It was a bit rusty but it had a classy mother-of-pearl handle. He placed it on the table and poured himself some tea.

  “How’s your Dad?”

  “Okay. No, actually he’s not okay. He’s a bit down in the dumps, to be honest. He hasn’t had any more interviews. Well, just one – and there were 50 others going for it. He’s had a wee bit of g
ardening work but not much. Mum’s on at him all the time about the junk he brings home.”

  “Must be hard,” said Paddy.

  “The thing is, whenever Mum sells a house, he should be happy. But he’s not. Not really. He says he is, he pretends he is, but I can tell he’s not. The better she does at work, the less he likes it. The more houses she sells the more down in the dumps he gets. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like he’s jealous but he’s got nothing to be jealous of.”

  Paddy nodded like he knew what I meant. “A man likes to provide for his family and when he can’t, well, he just doesn’t feel right. It’s a hard thing to accept, losing your job. It’s all he knows. It’s all any of us knows.”

  I could see Paddy had a point, but if I thought about it for too long I was going to get down in the dumps myself. Besides, I had banners to make and I had to get home.

  There were only two days to go.

  16

  “Half of the world’s rainforests have already disappeared.”

  WHEN I GOT HOME I parked my bike in the garage and unpegged two pale green bed sheets that were hanging on the line just waiting to be transformed into banners.

  Allie was lying on the couch reading some dumb girl magazine and blowing on her green nail polish to make it dry.

  Lucky was curled up beside her licking his belly and I gave him a cuff around the ears. I’d subconsciously gone off the wee bloke ever since Lizzie said in class one day that she was allergic to cats. I can’t remember how the subject came up but I remember feeling oddly upset by it.