What a Load of Rubbish

by Martin Etheridge

  Malcolm wore a donkey jacket like the others but his always looked smart, clean and well looked after. And the “Suburbiaville Council Street Cleaning Services” logo on the “Hi-Way Vest” he wore was written in the same Day-Glo fiery-orange paint that coloured his barrow – smartness, visibility and safety was one of his mottoes. Every Friday after work he would call in at the dry cleaners just outside the town centre to have the jacket cleaned, pressed and any scuffs or tears invisibly mended. He got on very well with Mister Patel, a cockney from Bangladesh, who owned “Pat’s Perfect Drycleaners” and because Malcolm would, sometimes, clean outside his shop front on his way home from work even though this wasn’t part of his pitch, Mister Patel, sometimes, would not charge him any money for the cleaning or repair. And, sometimes, Malcolm would pay for cleaning and repairs – they had an easy going relationship.

  Malcolm would turn up for work each day clean-shaven with just a hint of delicately fragranced aftershave, hair slicked back and teased into a smart coiff, sharply creased turned-up trousers, a tie and smart fashionably-cut shirt. Or in the summer, he would leave the tie on a rack with the others – a different one with a clean shirt for every day of the week – and opt for the open-necked look with turned up sleeves. As for the donkey jacket, it would be draped over the handle of his barrow giving an almost “couldn’t-care-less” impression. But rest assured this was all a ruse; about his image Malcolm cared a great deal. And he would spend a good hour in the morning preparing himself for work.

  Whether it was winter or summer Malcolm’s shoes outshone the best boots of the smartest guardsman on the Queen’s birthday parade and his belt buckle positively shone like spun gold whatever the weather.

  Malcolm pushed a barrow like no other with racing tyres on the wheels, two galvanised steel dustbins, one in front of the other, and a compartment on one side for his brooms, and quick-release clips on the other for his trusty pooper-scooper. For Malcolm could never tell when his skill and dexterity may face the ultimate test. It might be that a pooch had “pooed” on the pavement or some yobbo had “gobbed” a thick, sticky wad of chewing-gum on the path. Malcolm knew from experience that, like with most everyday things, a pooper-scooper had more than just one use. It was fitted with an air-tight snap-and-seal lid, operated by a trigger-lever installed in the hand-grip. The long-handled device would seal off any odour or germs that may try to escape, thus preventing risk of infection or atmospheric contamination.

  His barrow was equipped with wing-mirrors, giving him a good field of vision to the rear because as cars were being designed to run more and more quietly these days, he needed to be sure that he could pull into the side of the road at a moment’s notice when sweeping roadside gutters and avoid motorists on those dark mornings. Headlamps that ensured a good view ahead were powered by a rechargeable battery which was kept “topped-up” by a nifty little dynamo attachment he had designed, made and fitted himself in a shed in his backyard.

  That shed was a shrine to his equipment. Hanging from the corrugated ceiling were replacement cords for his “helping hand”, the tool he used to pick up paper – lest one snapped. And, of course, for the snap-and-seal device on his pooperscooper. On the walls were spare wheels because one could quite easily be buckled during a frenzy of urban enhancement, and tyres as Malcolm was always picking up punctures. For example, when cleaning cross-country, pine needles embedded themselves in a tyre and mending punctures was one of those annoying little tasks that had to be done regularly if one wanted to be as efficient as Malcolm.

  In the corner of his shed was a block-and-tackle, which Malcolm would rig up each year as summer drew to a close, in order to hoist his barrow to the ceiling and re-spray it a fiery orange colour in Day-Glo paint. Being seen, Malcolm maintained, is as much a part of safety as being able to see – this was another of Malcolm’s mottos, of which he had many. And stacked in an opposite corner were bottles of disinfectant which he would use every day after work, often labouring well into the evening if his equipment was particularly dirty.

  Yes, Malcolm loved his barrow and he was prepared to put in hours of unpaid overtime making sure it was clean, tires pumped-up and ready to go at all times – this labour of love was the reason he, sometimes, worked well into the night. It, or “she” if Malcolm was in earshot, even had a name: “Belinda”, or “Bel” for short but only he could call her that.

  And what’s more, if it is possible, the barrow seemed to love him. There seemed to be an uncanny connection between man and machine. It understood every little change in the pressure of his hands as Malcolm pushed.

  Suburbiaville Central British Rail station sat on top of the hill at the end of Willowy Lane – a very steep, one-in-four gradient; now remember this, it could turn out to be important. Part of Malcolm’s job was to clean up one side of the lane in time to be able to nip in and sweep up after all the commuters had gone to their work in London, Birmingham or farther away. And they were a messy lot – always leaving newspapers, plastic cups and other intercity travellers’ debris lying all over the place.

  As Malcolm would push up the gradient towards Suburbiaville Central, the wheels would free themselves, taking full advantage of the expensive lubricant that he bought himself and lavished on the axles. Then, on the way back down the hill “Belinda” would apply a friction of her own, so that rather than rolling away out of Malcolm’s control he would have to push it ever so gently down the hill, thus allowing him to flow smoothly onto the other side of the lane. Now if that isn’t an example of a man’s perfect relationship with his machine, what is?

  Of course, there is always that chance of a break-down in this relationship, as many racing-car drivers or cyclists are aware, a glob of oil too many or insufficient tyre pressure. So far that had not happened. But just in case it did, Malcolm had another “nifty” little device incorporating an anchor and a “deadman’s handle”, which he’d won playing cards with an underground train driver.

  This, fingers crossed, had never happened either but, just in case it did, Malcolm kept it clean, well lubricated and tested it every evening. You could never be sure, could you?

  You might think that all these attachments and safety additions would make this barrow quite cumbersome and pretty hard to push. And you would be quite correct. But Malcolm was an artist who used his skill and knowledge of oils and lubricants to keep his barrow rolling smoothly at all times. And the extra weight kept his shoulders and arms muscular, his wrists supple. Oh yes, quite a hunk was Malcolm.

  You see, being a street cleaner was the only thing that Malcolm had ever wanted to be, even when he was small. His father and his father’s father. His father and his father’s father too; the Tilsleys had a long family history of street cleaning, who do you imagine had cleaned up the beaches after the allied evacuation at Dunkirk?

  And before that during the English Civil War do you think anyone, other than a Tilsley, would have risked life and limb tidying up after those cavaliers and roundheads had churned-up Turnham Green with their horses’ hooves? And somebody had to sweep up all those musket balls – that had been a Tilsley.

  Remember the Norman Invasion, when King Harold got an arrow in the eye? No, maybe you had not been born yet – but you can bet your pocket money that a Tilsley had been there too. Clearing away all those bows and arrows so that the ambulance men could come, stretcher King Harold off the field and patch up his eye in safety.

  Going back even farther in time, long before town councils were ever invented, even before there was a Suburbiaville, probably, there was many a caveman who was grateful to a Tilsley, for sweeping piles of dinosaur droppings from the front of his cave.

  Rumour had it – “Well, it’s more than a rumour really,” mentioned his father once, “That it was a Tilsley who piled up those stones so neatly at Stonehenge.”

  Malcolm listened to stories such as these at his father’s knee, so you can imagine the dismay of the careers master when he asked: “And what would you like to b
e when you leave school, young man?”

  And Malcolm answered, “I want to be a professional street cleaner…”

  It was as though Malcolm had got up and punched him on the nose. “What did you say, young Tilsley, a street cleaner?” Perhaps the man hadn’t heard correctly – oh, but he heard alright, much to his dismay, when Malcolm repeated, “I want to be a professional street cleaner.”

  “But your exam marks are splendid – people would commit murder to obtain marks like yours,” the careers master exclaimed. “Of all things, why do you want to be a street cleaner?”

  You see, Malcolm wasn’t thick; he was just down to earth and wasn’t afraid of manual labour – the thought of carrying on his family’s tradition swelled his chest with pride. But if he was going to carry the family torch, then it would shine brighter than it ever had in previous years.

  The careers master was becoming quite emotional – and he was beginning to stammer. “Y-You could b-be anything you wanted to be – a lawyer. How about oceanic acquisition – think of all that oil? Think of all that money? Why do you want to be a street cleaner of all things?”

  “Sir,” answered Malcolm very seriously, “you don’t understand, I want to be a professional street cleaner – the best street cleaner there ever was, the best there ever will be.”

  The careers master tried to put him off this crazy idea; he could not understand this lack of ambition. “B-but street cleaners are ten-a-penny – nobody wants to be a street cleaner. Uurrgh! Think of all that dog mess. Please be sensible, don’t waste your talents, young man.”

  “Waste my talents?” replied Malcolm. “Waste my talents? It’s in my blood – my father was a street cleaner.” He went on, “And so was ’is father and ’is father and ’is father’s father – oh yeah, and his father and his father before him… Oh yeah and –” Malcolm related his family history, describing in detail the vital part played by the Tilsley family in the Wars of the Roses and the Dunkirk evacuation.

  The careers master was quite shaken. “Have you ever considered a career in medi…” But he never quite got to the end of the sentence. Malcolm cut him off dead.

  “And why do you think those stones are piled up so neatly at Stone’enge?” reasoned Malcolm to the careers master.

  This was too much. The poor careers master started to tear his hair.

  “That’s quite enough, young Tilsley, I wash my hands of you and when I’ve washed them, I’ll make a phone call.” He rubbed his hands together theatrically and made the call and the following Monday, Malcolm was interviewed by a rather thin, quite nervous Mister Bartholemew, who sent him upstairs to Mister Eckerslike who glowered at him and muttered grudgingly.

  “Alreet – y’young beggar, but I ’ope you like you like ’ard graft. I said I ’ope you like ’ard work or I’ll fire you before t’week is out!” Then he sent Malcolm back downstairs to Mister Bartholemew who issued him with slightly oversized overalls, a donkey jacket and orders to, “Report here at 8-30 sharp, next Monday morning!”

  At 8-15 the following Monday morning Malcolm stood outside Suburbiaville Council works depot yard, fresh-faced and clean-shaven. His donkey jacket had been tailored, courtesy of a Mister Patel, proprietor of a newly opened “Pat’s Perfect Dry Cleaners”. It fit like a glove and he was wearing a clean shirt and a tie.

  Mister Bartholemew was most impressed by this new lad’s punctuality and turn-out. “Good morning, young man!” he smiled, doffing his hat and wondering how long this enthusiasm would last.

  Five minutes later Mister Eckerslike turned up in his BMW and grunted, “Oh it’s thee – go an’ see Bartholemew an’e will issue thee wi’ a barrow. Well, go on, I said. Go an’ see my underling an’ he will gi’yer your new barrow.”

  On that very morning Malcolm was issued with a barrow. Okay, so it was pretty battered and a bit rickety, having seen better days but over the years Malcolm kept adding little improvements until it came to look as it does today – large, bulky, bright orange, shiny and unwieldy with mirrors and headlights. You see, Malcolm took his occupation very seriously indeed. He did not simply clean streets. He purged public thoroughfares.

  Over the years, news of Malcolm’s sterling work reached the ears of HRH the Queen herself, and he was summoned to a royal garden party to receive an award for public service “above and beyond the call of duty”. Unfortunately, he was unable to attend, so he wrote a letter, “respectfully declining” her “most kind and generous invitation” saying that as the garden party took place on a Monday he had to be on duty, to clean up Willowy Lane and the surrounding area. Therefore, would “Her Majesty mind terribly if he did not attend and received the honour by post instead”. He signed it, “Your most loyal public servant, Malcolm Tilsley”. As Her Majesty had no idea where to put Malcolm’s unwieldy barrow during the ceremony in the royal stables, not without upsetting the horses and the corgis, she was only too pleased with his idea and quickly wrote back agreeing.

  After that interview, Malcolm’s careers master was never the same. Never in his long career had he met a pupil with ambitions of becoming a street cleaner – the poor man just could not get his head round it. What child wants to sweep roads for a living? Some weeks later, he booked himself into a home for “tired and retired intellectuals”, where he is still a resident to this day twenty-seven years later. He sits alone in his room, still tearing at what little hair he has left; still trying to fathom the reason – WHY?

  Chapter 3

  Malcolm and the Power of the Pooperscooper

  Early morning on the very swish, slightly snooty Willowy Lane, birds sang in the acacia trees, a milk-float drove along stopping every few houses so that the milkman could take away the empties and put fresh pints on the doorsteps, whistling cheerfully as he did so. Children went to school, a gentle breeze blew down the street rustling the leaves in the trees and the faint “dah-daah” sounded from an express-train as it hurtled through Suburbiaville Central station.

  Malcolm had been on parade since eight-thirty that morning making sure people could travel to work in safety, without slipping on any oily or greasy patches, banana skins or, God forbid, some pooch had “pooed” on the pavement. So far, ever since Malcolm had started working the Willowy Lane patch, this hadn’t happened but just in case it did, he was there, no more than an arm’s stretch away from his trusty broom and pooperscooper.

  So it happened that on one day in particular, this is exactly what did. Malcolm was sizing up his day’s work, calculating the wind direction. Flexing his muscles, shifting his weight from foot to foot and mentally preparing himself to embark on a frenzy of urban enhancement. When on the far side of the street, he spotted the potential hazard. At a distance of about eighty metres away his eagle eye picked out an enormous dollop of doggy-doo. On his patch this was unthinkable – his whole reputation was at risk. The canine offender, probably a stray from a less desirable area, had only just fled the scene of the crime and had Malcolm looked, he would have just spotted its furry tail disappearing around a corner. An evil smelling vapour was escaping from the nauseous mound, a sort of testament to its freshness.

  Then disaster loomed. Malcolm heard a door open, loud smacking noises when kisses were blown, with a cheery, “Goodbye darling!” Followed by a CRASH! as the door slammed shut. A smartly dressed city gent stepped out of his front garden on the same side of the street. He wore a pin-striped suit, collar and tie, and cufflinks. The whole ensemble was completed by the shiniest and most expensive looking pair of shoes that Malcolm had ever seen, with a silver bar across each instep. The man was reading a paper – the stocks and shares page. So engrossed was he in the facts and figures before his eyes that he failed to spot the dollop of disease lying directly in his path. Neither did he see the noxious vapours escaping, threatening to contaminate everything within a five metre radius.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop; the city gent and this remarkably shiny, remarkably expensive pair of shoes were en route for disaster. And judging by that
slight squeaking noise they were probably brand new.

  Malcolm realised he had only seconds in which to act. The Theme from Jaws played over and over in his imagination. But he did not panic. In an amazing feat of mental agility he worked out the approximate distance from himself to the city gent. Then, in a split-second, he gauged the distance between man and mess and carefully divided this by the estimated cost of the shoes, and added the time it would take him to whip out his broom and pooperscooper from his barrow, plus or minus three seconds for wind resistance. If this isn’t more than adequate use of my scientific and mathematical skills, thought Malcolm, I don’t know what is.

  He snatched his equipment from the barrow and set out at a flat run – covering the distance across the street with only a flea’s breath to spare.

  He reached the man just as he was about to plunge his foot into the odorous ooze, then, performing a dainty half-pirouette that would have left many a professional ballet dancer speechless. An action which prevented the gent from transferring his weight onto his forward foot – an act which would have carried the man GLITCH into the putrid poo. Then our Malcolm slid the pooperscooper into position and with a slide and a gentle flick of his broom, scooped the poop into the scoop and depressed the trigger-lever on the snap-and-seal device. And the malicious matter was encased in an air-tight compartment, which prevented any escape of fumes into the atmosphere. The movement was completed when Malcolm spun on his heel, and bent low at the waist to spray a little water over the affected area, straightening a millisecond later to provide a human cushion for the gent to bump into. The whole incident was over in less than a heartbeat.

  The gent, until the moment he walked into Malcolm’s braced shoulders, crumpling his newspaper and knocking his spectacles forward on his nose, was completely unaware of all this activity going on about him – he didn’t even realise Malcolm was there…