“Ooff, oh – ahh – ouch!” An instance of annoyance. “What the Devil..?” The gent glared angrily at Malcolm. Then he looked down at the fading stain on the pavement, looked up and saw Malcolm standing over it – a slight sheen of perspiration on his brow.
The gent’s face broke into a smile as he pieced together what had happened. “Why thank you, very much – I could have stepped straight into that, would’ve ruined my shoes, do you know how much I paid for these?” he gasped, flexing an outstretched foot, looking down at his at his gleaming footwear.
“Why, that’s alright, sir,” Malcolm returned, “You could’ve ’ad a nasty accident there sir – oh aye,” he continued in his Essex drawl, “I’ve seen it afore, a lady, two enormous bags o’ shoppin’ – she didn’t see…” Shaking his head he went on to explain, “A banana – half-eaten on the pavement. She slipped – shoppin’ all over the place. I visit ’er in ’ospital from time to time, sir. A shadder of ’er former self, sir. A mere shadder – ’asn’t been the same since…”
“But do you realise how much money you saved me?” The city gent thrust a hand into his back pocket, brought out a bulging wallet and fished out a five pound note. “You really must allow me to reward you…”
“No – no – no sir. Put yer money away – or else I’ll be offended.”
“Then how?” A frown crinkled on the city gent’s brow.
“Sir!” Malcolm squared his jaw and put on a most determined expression. “Just knowin’ that you’re safe and well is reward enough fer me. I was born to this – it’s my mission in life. It’s in my blood, Tilsley’s the name, Malcolm Tilsley. Did you know there has been a Tilsley cleanin’ up after every significant event in British ’istory?” He held out the palms of his hands, in an “it’s as simple as that” gesture and said, “Those stones at Stonehenge didn’t pile themselves up, you know…”
Then he went on to describe in detail the role of his ancestors in a variety of military campaigns through the ages, starting with the allied evacuation at Dunkirk. Going back further to describe the battle of Agincourt and, don’t forget, The Wars of the Roses.
“Of course, Shakespeare doesn’t mention a Tilsley in any of ’is books, sir – us people who do the dirty work are soon forgotten.” Adding, “But we’re the real ’eroes – who d’ya think cleared them bows an’ arrows off the beaches at the battle of ’Astings so that the paramedics could stretcher King ’Arold off the field. That had been a Tilsley, sir… Sir?”
“SNORE…”
Malcolm’s family history had been a little too long and drawn-out to hold the gent’s attention for very long; his mind began to wander. As Malcolm rattled episode after episode of his family history off by heart, the gent had sat on a garden wall and drifted off to sleep. He was woken by Malcolm shaking him gently by the shoulder, with a start he came to life. “Oh – er – YAWN! Sorry Malcolm, you were saying…”
But Malcolm didn’t mind. “No – no – no, sir – I goes on a bit sometimes.” There was an awkward silence, then:
“Yes – well, thank you again, Malcolm. Now I must catch my train – time is money you know.” And he was off – in the direction of Suburbiaville British Rail station, leaving Malcolm to replace his pooperscooper and broom on his barrow for the next time. This was not the first time something like this had happened – and Malcolm very much doubted it would be the last.
“Look mum, there’s Malcolm!” a small child’s voice called down the street. The sound reached Malcolm’s ears just as he was putting away his brooms and pooperscooper, his eyes scanning from one side of the street to the other, searching for any rubbish he may have missed.
“Can we go and see him, mum? Can we, can we?”
“Oh alright Jack,” the young mum sighed and gave in. “But hold your sis…” But it was too late. The small boy galloped off down the street in the direction of Malcolm then came to a screeching halt when his mother’s voice rang out. “Jack, wait for your sister. Rosie – hold Jack’s hand!” A hint of rising panic in the lady’s voice.
“Now, now, now – don’t you worry, missus!” Malcolm’s practised country drawl would assure the young mum; the woman would never guess at his level of education. To her, Malcolm was just another manual worker, one of the lesser educated types who cleaned the streets – no particular ambition in life. All the same, he was an extremely nice chap, and so good to the children – her pride and joy.
“I’ve got my eye on ’em! And ’ave they been bin good children for their mum?”
“Oh yes, Malcolm, and guess what? Jack has started to eat his vegetables.”
“But only carrots and peas,” Jack cut in quickly. “I ’ate cabbage I do, and sprouts – YEEUCK!”
Malcolm laughed out loud at the little boy’s screwed up face, then winked at mum. “In that case, can I gi’em one o’ me sweets?” Malcolm would never dream of offering children a sweet without the permission of a responsible adult. He had read too many stories in the newspapers about nasty grown-ups who pretended to be nice, giving presents to children who didn’t know they weren’t very nice until it was too late. He waited until the young mother nodded and smiled.
“Okay, Malcolm – but only one,”
Malcolm delved into his donkey jacket and brought out a packet of sherbet-lemons. Not the loose ones that come in a jar, stick together and attract bits of hair and fluff in your pocket, no, these were individually wrapped and came in a sealed packet.
“’Ere y’are children,” he would say. “An’ be sure t’clean yer teeth after or they’ll go all yeller!”
“They will, Malcolm, they will,” mum assured; the kids nodded eagerly and helped themselves.
“Say goodbye – and thank you, children,” said mum.
“Thank you, Malcolm, bye-bye.” And with cheeks bulging, little Jack and Rosie would skip off down the road, just ahead of their mother, leaving Malcolm to gaze down the street after them with hands on his hips, shaking his head in wonderment and blinking away a joyful tear. “I dunno,” he’d muse, “ruddy kids, eh – lovely, innit?”
Skill with the pooperscooper. Kindness with younger children – and these occasions happened nearly every day, not just now and again. The residents of Suburbiaville Newtown were far too professional, far too artistic and far too posh to worry about things like litter and clean streets. But they would soon complain if they were not maintained to the highest standard. They preferred to leave things of this nature to unimportant people like Malcolm. That was his job after all – and he was so good at it. They would have to leave him a good tip at Christmas. But if they forgot to, Malcolm wouldn’t mind – he knew his place in the food-chain – he liked to help.
Oh yes – and then there was the time when Malcolm dashed to the rescue of that elderly lady on the corner of Willowy Lane. The poor woman was standing at the bus stop, searching through her bag for her bus-pass. She must have dropped it somewhere, it couldn’t have been stolen, not on Willowy Lane; it was far too idyllic. Oh no – she began to weep – she would have to telephone her son, he worked in the city, something to do with banks and finance. He would have to get something in for tea; this, also, had happened before and her son was none too happy about it last time. Maybe her son would put her in an old people’s home; the thought made her shiver and shake with fear, the stories she had heard about them. Bbrrr, it was enough to turn your hair white – again.
Then, along came Malcolm pushing his unwieldy barrow. He saw the elderly lady, saw the tears running down her cheeks, heard her muttering, “Oh no, whatever will I do now?”
“G’mornin’ ma’am – what ails thee on such a luvverly mornin’?” he asked. “Can I help yer in any way?” So the old lady told him what the trouble was, told him about that dreadful old people’s home. Malcolm could see the lady was almost having a panic attack.
“Please don’t you fret, my lovely,” Malcolm soothed her, “I’ll run yer to town in this.” And he removed the forward bin on his barrow – hid
ing the bin behind a bush, camouflaging it with leaves and twigs because shiny, galvanised, steel dustbins are worth their weight in gold.
“Please my ol’ darlin’ – sit thee down.” He gestured with a dramatic sweep of his arms. A large, empty space was left in front of the barrow. Malcolm helped the elderly lady settle comfortably into it, lean her back against the rear dustbin. Then he pushed the lady to town in comfort and safety. And because they did not have to stop to pick up other passengers, they arrived ten minutes ahead of the bus – and so could choose the best food available.
That evening her son, who had quite a sharp temper because he worked so hard, feasted on a banquet and never found out about the bus pass. For Malcolm found it later when he took the lady home and stopped for a cup of tea and a chat. He spotted the pass underneath a pile of unopened mail; the corner was just sticking out beneath it.
Apparently her son had dumped it on the coffee table and had not noticed the pass the night before.
“Well,” the old lady said, “they did work him very hard indeed at the bank and he couldn’t remember everything – poor chap.”
Displays of professionalism; acts of kindness towards small children; willingness to help elderly people in their hour of need; and, of course, his clean and smart – some would say suave – appearance endeared the residents of Suburbiaville to Malcolm. Here was a man, they thought, one of the “rank and file” who, despite his lower station and lack of education, was willing to go that extra mile just for them. We deserve it after all – we must remember to give him a tip at Christmas…
Chapter 4
Monday is Only a Weekend Away
Thursday in Suburbiaville was payday. After work all the builders, all the maintenance workers, all the factory hands, the warehouse-men and checkout-girls from the local supermarkets and other public-service workers, would meet up in “The Artisan’s Arms” – a local alehouse on the outskirts of the town – to celebrate payday and the oncoming weekend.
Late on a Thursday afternoon was always a noisy affair and sometimes, the celebrations – much to the delight of the landlord and his wife – would often carry on into the early evening. The till would not stop ringing, the fruit machines would not stop swallowing coins and coughing-up the occasional jackpot – very occasional. Alcohol and meals were served, jokes were told with peals of exaggerated laughter and naughty songs were sung, with bags of enthusiasm but, sadly, not much talent.
After work, Malcolm would pop in for a couple of pints; he liked the feel of the place, the buzz of the workers. Here, he felt, was somewhere that anyone could come to and have a laugh. But on this occasion, he noticed a different atmosphere. The juke-box still played, the fruit machine was still occasionally paying-out and songs were still being sung, things just felt different somehow. It was as though something had happened, or was about to happen. And nobody would tell him about it.
“’Allo Geordie!” He saw his mate Geordie at the bar. A giant of a man from Newcastle, one of the drivers from the council works depot. “Where’ve you been, mate? I ’aven’t seen yer fer a good few weeks.”
But he seemed different too. “Oh ’ullo Malcy, ol’ son – ’ow are ye, mucker? Ah’ve been away, in ’Umberside on a course, like?” his loud, sing-song accent cut through the din in the bar.
“Oh aye,” Malcolm asked conversationally, “What course is that then?”
At this Geordie stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. “What’s that? Ah canna hear ye in all this racket, mon – we’ll talk later. We’ve gotta new wagon, like – cor, is that the time like?” He glanced at the clock above the bar. “Ah – look mucker. Gorra dash like! See ye later, mon.” And he pushed through the crowd in the pub and did not say another word.
That’s funny, thought Malcolm, scratching his head, I didn’t know Geordie was hard of hearing. He was quite disappointed at his mate’s quick get-away. Maybe he’s got problems at home, because I know he’s got a couple of kids – an’ you know what an ’andful they can be.
It was time to go home, to clean and maintain his equipment. Oh aye, an’ I’ll have to pop in to that cycle shop and get some more lubricant – oh yeah, an’ some more o’ them Sherbet Lemons for the kids…
When he turned up at the depot on Friday – his barrow freshly lubricated, the galvanised bins buffed up and shining like a shilling – Gordon Bartholemew, who would usually greet him with a cheery wave and a patronising, “Good morning, Malcolm,” then vanish into his office for the rest of the day, on this particular morning announced that he could not stop, nor would he meet Malcolm’s eyes. Pointing at his watch and muttering something about a meeting he had to attend five minutes ago, he disappeared.
Nobody, it seemed, had any time to stop and chat. Those workers who used the staff canteen, the people who would gather in the yard outside after breakfast – the people who’d stop and chat with Malcolm, before starting work – for some reason or other, had to be somewhere else.
“Sorry Malcolm, can’t stop, I’m in the middle of an oil-change,” a garage mechanic excused himself and hurried away.
“Mornin’ Malc. Got a text from Eckerslike upstairs.” The Fire Safety Officer raised his eyes. “Would you believe it, all the fire-alarms on the first floor are down.” The man was in an awful flap – and he was normally so calm. “Better go and see what’s up!”
“Can I ’elp?” asked Malcolm brightly. “I’m I dab ’and with that sort of thing!”
“No – no, it’s alright Malcy, better check them out myself, regulations you know – see you later.” And he was gone.
Responses like this had Malcolm scratching his head; blimey, I was only offering to ’old his ladder! he thought. Then he went into the main building. Everybody was hard work, typing letters or arranging work schedules, budgets and what have you and so had no time to talk. Some people – and it was quite a small office – pretend they hadn’t seen him.
So he went to check the notice-board but found that somebody had taken time to clear it of rotas, memos and other such notes which may have given him some kind of clue. At the end of the corridor were the steps that led up to the first-floor of the management offices and he half thought about climbing them, hammering on the door, demanding: “What the heck have I done? Why won’t anybody speak to me – I thought I was well-liked round here!” But he thought better of it. A little disappointed, Malcolm just shrugged his shoulders, none the wiser as to what was amiss and went back on his rounds, thinking: I dunno – sometimes nobody tells yer nothin’… But somehow something was different, he could feel it in the breeze, could smell it in the air.
What our Malcolm did not know was that that fateful Monday morning was looming near. In three days it was going to happen. Only the weekend to go and then it would be here – and everyone but he knew about it. And even if he did, there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. That was progress…
Chapter 5
The Future According to Geordie
Eight-thirty on Monday morning: a full hour before most council workers used to turn up. It was a beautiful spring day in April, birds were singing in the trees, a milk-float laden with cow-juice and rich-in-vitamin-C fruit drinks whirred along, the milkman whistling cheerfully as he delivered. “Whistling cheerfully” was a condition written in to the milkman’s “terms of employment” contract, when he delivered to homes in Willowy Lane. It added, Suburbiaville Newtown council felt, to the lane’s blissful nature.
Malcolm had pushed his barrow up the hill to Suburbiaville British Rail station, cleaning in front of every garden gate as he passed. Chatting with any residents he met. Distributing the odd sherbet lemon to any lucky children he met, provided that they had been good – maybe they had eaten all their vegetables the evening before, or had got ten out of ten in a spelling test at school.
Having cleared the waiting-room and platform of paper cups, newspapers, tissues and other travellers’ trash he was about to push his unwieldy barrow down the other side of th
e hill.
It was good to be alive on mornings like these, Malcolm decided, not too cold, not too hot with just the right amount of breeze. He would go out for a stroll with Gisele, that girl from the depot office tonight; they had become friends only recently when they discovered they shared an interest in astronomy. There was a full moon tonight. They would watch it together and, perhaps, have a quick drink. When, hang on, what’s that?
… A high-pitched whine – a sort of cross between a distant aeroplane, a herd of angry elephants and a trumpet being blown by an untrained trumpeter – reached his ears. It was as though a hundred, no, maybe five hundred household vacuum cleaners had been switched on all at once. With eyes closed tight, he tried to work out using only his ears what the cause of the noise could be. When he opened them again a huge vehicle rolled out of a side-turning, coming to a halt on the side of Willowy Lane, opposite to where he had cleaned, a long way down the street from him.
“What on earth is that?” he wondered aloud. “Crikey – it’s gonna take off in a mo…” From where Malcolm stood – about half a mile away – it seemed as though this beast had sprouted wings. But we know different, don’t we? Seeming to appear from beneath these wings, four of what looked like wheelie bins on caterpillar tracks trundled out onto the road, two on either side. It looked like four ugly chicks had just hatched and were nestling beneath the wings of their even uglier mother. Malcolm pushed his barrow nearer to the “All-in-One-Der” to get a better look. As he approached, the “Rubbish Robots” – bursting with nanotechnology – buzzed into life. Breaking formation, escaping from under the wings, these “chicks” became individuals with minds of their own. The droid-bins dived into front gardens, back gardens, driveways, dustbin areas.
What a Load of Rubbish Page 3