What a Load of Rubbish

by Martin Etheridge

  “YEEUUCK – what’s in this!” grimaced Malcolm while Gisele stood over him one evening ensuring that he drank every drop, then handing him a spoon to scoop up the chunky bits with.

  “It ist der secret Thunderhosen family recipe!” confessed Gisele, “it vill make you der schtronger man und it vill kombat those chemicals that are floatink around in your body. Now kommen sie bitte down der hatch. All of it!”

  Malcolm did as he was told and drank and swallowed. As the days wore on he felt his strength returning, and he grew accustomed to the taste – although the mixture did not make his breath smell very nice – until the day dawned when it was time for him to leave the hospital. By now you might realise that Malcolm possessed the kind of personality that endeared people to him. Also, he had that open, honest sort of expression with a slight crinkle above the eyebrows that inspires trust in others. That afternoon when Gisele pushed him through reception in his wheelchair, there was not a dry eye among the doctors, nurses and therapists who had treated him. And rumour has it that even one or two of the doctors, who are renowned for their emotional detachment, are said to have shed the odd tear – including the lady doctor who had treated him for his burns, Mrs Pam Fry-Bacon who was so emotionally detached that most of the hospital staff thought she was a bit stone-faced.

  As Gisele pushed Malcolm towards the open outer doors of reception the fresh air hit him full in the face, invading his nostrils and getting into his bloodstream, making it fizz and tingle. Those gathered were most surprised, Gisele too, when he raised a hand, calling her to a halt. She stopped, applied both brakes, to allow Malcolm to take those first faltering steps, then raised a hand to her mouth in astonishment as Malcolm broke into a run. Disbelievingly she gazed at Malcolm’s form as it became smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing altogether round a corner. Then announced, “Ja! Das ist mein Malky!” And, once again, hitched up her skirt and galloped off in the direction of her man.

  Chapter 9

  The Challenge

  Malcolm did not stop running until he reached the gates of the council depot. Then he remembered, he was still wearing the striped pyjamas and dressing-gown issued to him by the hospital. But it was too late to turn back and get changed. He did not have the energy to do so anyway. So he smoothed out the creases as best he could, tied his dressing-gown cord more tightly, and ran a comb through his hair. Habit ensured that he always carried a comb with him. It was as much a part of his immediate accoutrements as his pooperscooper. Although the council had repossessed that weeks ago and, now, held it under lock and key, secured by anti-theft devices in the town museum.

  Taking a deep breath he pushed out his chest, shoulder-barged his way through the iron gates of the depot with a resounding CLANG! and marched towards the depot offices.

  The usual crowd hung around, in groups of two or three, outside in the yard. People stood around chatting, finishing their “cuppa” outside in the mid-morning sunshine before starting work. This was a typical, everyday feature of the busy works-yard, the drone of idle chatter competing with other outdoor noise. But you could have cut that silence with a knife when Malcolm slowed to a walk; long deliberate strides, like a gunfighter of days gone by. His eyes fixed on Mister Bartholemew’s office window. Even little birds became silent, the pigeons stopped coo-cooing and flying insects ceased buzzing. Then some joker whistled the introduction to that film, that western, The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. There was a quick ripple of laughter. It died almost as quickly as it began. This was serious. An ugly confrontation was about to take place, people realised. One look at Malcolm’s expression told them that. That yearning ripple that creased his forehead had been replaced by a dark scowl, black as a thunder cloud. And the groups dispersed like townsfolk passing by in an old, television western.

  The walls shook as Malcolm CRASHED! through the double-doors, the receptionist dropped the telephone she was talking into and picked up the internal phone to warn Mister Bartholemew that, “Some looney wearing striped pyjamas and a dressing-gown has pushed through reception and is making a bee-line for your office.”

  The internal phone was still ringing when Malcolm reached Mister Bartholemew’s office. He never got around to picking it up. Without knocking, Malcolm pushed open the half-glass door to find his ex-boss knee-deep in a mountain of paper. Timesheets, job-sheets, workload distribution charts littered his desk and the floor. Plus there were one or two angry letters, from council tenants and private home owners complaining about the black-bags that were left in the street to be ripped apart by cats and dogs, as they were not being picked up until eleven o’clock in the morning and workers were having to run the gauntlet of “doggy-doos” and litter to get to work. The point all these letters were making was – this “All-in-One-Der” contraption was not doing its job properly.

  Poor old flustered Mr Bartholemew was trying to calm these residents by typing a circular, a letter of apology to all those affected, using two fingers on a word-processor – he was not having much success and was on the verge of nervous exhaustion.

  “Oh, Gisele, where are you for heaven’s sake? You haven’t been in for weeks – I’ve got all this work to do and then there’s equipment to purchase, jobs to be allocated, wages to be docked, final-demand letters to typed, notices of eviction to be posted. Mister Eckerslike’s shoes to be polished. Slackers fired – all work that I normally delegate to you!” Then he broke into a sweat. “Oh no – I’m running a temperature, I’m getting all warm and clammy, I’m having a hot-flush. Now I’m breaking out into a rash! Oh my gawd, must open a window. Give me an aspirin, someone. Anyone – please.” Then he started to cry piteously, “Ur-hur-hurhur!”

  “Right Bartholemew – the worm has turned!” Malcolm announced his presence. Mr Bartholemew looked up, half angry at being interrupted, half in shock. Malcolm was the last person he expected to see, especially dressed ready for bed.

  “There’s gonna be a showdown,” he went on, still out of breath, wheezing from his run from the hospital; well it is twenty minutes by bus, you know. “I challenge you, that Eckerslike bloke, that ‘All-in-One-Der’ gizmo an’ them ramshackle robots to a contest. Man – that’s me, Malcolm, versus that malevolent machine. And there is gonna be only one winner – me. ’Cos I’m a man and I’ve got a heart, then you’ll have to give me my job back!” Adding almost conversationally, “Oh yes – there’s more to me than a few wires and a handful of nuts ’n’ bolts.”

  Suddenly the door flew open with a resounding CRASH! It hit the wall to which it was hinged. It was Gisele! She was out of breath from her sprint from the hospital in pursuit of Malcolm. She tried to catch up with him, had watched his rapidly disappearing form get smaller and smaller, until finally it vanished altogether when Malcolm turned a corner. “Malky mein chatz vhere haff you gone?” Her plea was answered. Once again, love lit the way. And this time that light led her all the way to Mister Bartholemew’s office door – which, now, was beginning to sag on its hinges.

  PUFF! “Malky lieb shon!” PANT! Gisele stood leaning, silhouetted in the mid-morning light, against what was left of the door frame. “I haff been tryink to be catching you up PANT! Ever since you left der krankenhaus HUFF! But vunce again PUFF! I am zhinkink I am losing you forever HUFF-PUFF – vhen you are turnink around the korner!” Boy oh boy was she out of breath; she gulped a great lung full. “But I should not haff worried because I followed our love-light und I am finding you here!”

  At that moment Willy Eckerslike – alerted by the repeated door slamming and raised voices, some would call it yelling and shouting – in Mister Bartholemew’s office came down from the floor above to investigate. “What’s all this chuffin’ screamin’ an’ shoutin’. By ’eck you’ll ’ave them doors off their ’inges, I said. You’ll brek ’em off t’wall, by ’eck!”

  We have previously mentioned that Mister Bartholemew’s office lacked a bit of space – there was barely enough room for Gisele and he to work. Malcolm’s added presence made breathing
slightly difficult. Now that Willy Eckerslike, who was slightly wider than he was tall, inserted his cannon-ball like body into those confines, the walls started to bulge – and a calendar, and a picture of Gordon Bartholemew’s wife got knocked off the wall.

  “Oh Mister Eckerslike, sir, god and infinitely more important person than myself. This is Malcolm Tilsley, one of your ex-street cleaners. He has come here – HA! HA! – in his pyjamas – HO! HO! – and challenged the council – CACKLE – and all its marvellous technology to a contest – AHA! HA! HA! - he wants his old job back!” Then he lowered his voice, “Naturally, sir, I’ve told him that the council can’t afford to fund contests of this nature. A contest, I will add that he will only lose.”

  “Aye, y’reet there, Bartholemew, worra laff…” chortled Willy. “’Ere, ’ang on a bit, I said. ’Old y’chuffin’ ’orses a mo…” A little burst of inspiration sprang to mind. Then it grew into an idea. So he attempted to place an arm around Mister Bartholemew’s shoulders in order to speak to him in confidence. But because of his lack of height and the size of Mr Bartholemew’s office this proved to be quite impossible, so they went into the corridor and Willy stood on a chair.

  “Reet, Bartholemew,” whispered Willy into his ear, “we’ve already spent next year’s budget on that fantastic idea I ’ad about gerrin’ that ‘All-in-One-der’ an’ them state-of-the-art Rubbish Robots, reet?”

  Mister Bartholemew nodded, drying his ear with a handkerchief. Willy Eckerslike had managed to lubricate it as he confided. He carried on whispering. “…So what we’ll do, I said what we’ll do, is let our Malcolm chuffin’ Tilsley ’ave ’is day o’ glory – reet?” He waited for another nod. Mister Bartholemew nodded. Mister Eckerslike went on again, “Then when t’residents see fer ’emselves how much time and money I am prepared to spend makin’ sure my residents get t’best machinery money can buy. Then they won’t be so chuffin’ quick t’complain next year, when I ’ave to double their ground rates and land taxes to pay for it all…” He waited for a nod from his nodding dog. Mister Bartholemew nodded again – and cringed.

  “C’mon Bartholemew,” Willy ordered, jumping down from the chair, “I said c’mon!” Then remembering he was a Managing Director, soon, he hoped, to be the mayor of Suburbiaville. He jumped back onto it and had his underling, Mister Bartholemew, help him down and led him back into the tiny office, once again making the walls bulge.

  “I have consulted my dogsbody, Bartholemew ’ere, and we both think that it would be only reet an’ proper to allow young Tilsley ’ere to challege t’ ‘All-in-One-Der’ and my wonderful Rubbish Robots t’duel – don’t we, Bartholemew?”

  Mister Bartholemew nodded again. Willy went on again, doffing his imaginary three-cornered hat and adjusting his imaginary mayoral robe. “The winner will be awarded t’contract for permanent employment by t’council.” Adding gleefully, “An’ we both know y’don’t stand a perishin’ chance, I said. Yer ‘aven’t gorra hope in hell.” Then a joyous reminder, there were tears of mirth in Willy’s eyes: “Yer ’aven’t even gorra perishin’ barrow – HA! HA! HAA!”

  “Ver’ well Herr Eckerslike, der kontest vill take place,” Gisele promised, determined. Then she added tenderly, “But first I need a little time to nurse mein Malky back to health. He has been ver’ ver’ sick you know und in der krankenhaus!”

  “Huh!” replied Willy with a shrug of the shoulders, “Tek as long as y’want, I said. Tek as long as y’want – shall we say t’second Bank ’oliday in August. Reet, it’s a date then, I said t’date is set!”

  Gisele nodded once to confirm. “Kommen sie Malky, mein chatz. Ve haff verk to be doing – Oh, Herr Eckerslike, vun more thing. I QUIT! Und here ist mein notice…” Raising a flat hand to each side of her head elephant-ears fashion, sticking a thumb in either ear and poking out her tongue She blew a long, drawn-out raspberry, turned on her heel, and marched through the sagging door.

  “MALKOLM!” He froze as Gisele’s sharp tone battered his ear-drums. “AT DER DOUBLE – VE HAFF VERK TO BE DOINNGG!” And she double-marched him back to his flat.

  The things Malcolm did not know about Gisele! For example, before the Berlin wall crumbled in 1989, she was chief trainer, physiotherapist and cook for the East Berliner Ladies’ Amateur Shot-put Team and had brought many training techniques with her to the west. She applied those techniques to Malcolm’s rehab program. For the first week following that meeting she ran Malcolm ragged to, “Try und purge zhose nasty chemicals from der bloodstream.” It was the same boring routine every day. Walk, jog, sprint. Walk, jog, sprint. Between his back-door and his shed there was no break in routine and it wasn’t easy for Malcolm to keep his mind on the job in hand. Gisele had him singing, laughing at the jokes she told him and reciting times-tables to relieve the boredom and take his mind off the pain he was going through.

  Using her knowledge of cooking and skill with a liquidiser, she would make Malcolm up countless numbers of rich-in-protein milkshakes. Indeed some of these shakes were so nutritious, packed with vitamins, proteins and anything else that stood a chance in hell of doing you good, that there was no room left to put the milk in. They had the effect of making Malcolm want to use the loo a lot, a desired effect; desired by Gisele but unwanted by Malcolm, who was running out of toilet paper.

  Then one day Gisele turned up at Malcolm’s flat and gently told him, “Malky leibling – I zink you can be taking ze mornink off tomorrow und haff der lie-in – your rehab ist over.”

  “Sounds good to me, Gise, I was getting sick o’ running round that back-yard…”

  “Gutte – so zhen you will not mind if you komme to mein liddle cottage und you vill go for der gentle afternoon schtroll in der park…”

  “Malky darlink, das vos not you I saw getting off der autobus just now, vos it?” Gisele sat astride her bicycle, a large shopping basket mounted on the handlebars covered with a couple of towels concealing its contents. She had on a pink tracksuit and her “Team – Berliner” running vest, which had seen a few years’ service; it was a bit faded, there were dainty little stitches here and there. Around her neck there hung, on a leather cord, a referee’s whistle.

  “Well,” Malcolm answered, sounding a bit what-have-I-done-now? “You said take morning off. You said we were going for a stroll in the park. So I caught the lunchtime bus.”

  “Nein, nein, nein, leibling I said you were goink for der schtroll. I am ridink on der fahrrad – now kommen sie. Move das behind…” And with a second-hand sergeant-major’s swagger-stick (the previous inhabitants of her cottage had been military people: a former Coldstream Guards drill sergeant and his wife) that was clipped to the crossbar of her bike, she prodded and poked Malcolm around the pony tracks in the park. After that first afternoon when he hopped off the bus, Gisele decided that was not going to happen again – and Malcolm did not know what hit him.

  Using her knowledge of circuit training, a skill she thought would never be needed once she had defected from the East and the referee’s whistle, she put Malcolm through the most rigorous training imaginable. She wanted her man back to his former self. And while she had breath in her body he was going to get there, whether he liked it or not.

  Every day for a fortnight Malcolm would run, sprint, jog, sometimes forwards, sometimes backwards using Gisele’s eyes to see ahead, around pony tracks, nature trails, the athletics track. And Suburbiaville Newtown has a very large park indeed. Every couple of hundred metres she would blow, PHEEP! on the whistle, and have Malcolm do press-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups if there was an over-hanging branch nearby day in, day out for nearly eight hours a day. She would keep Malcolm’s energy levels topped-up with regular doses of sauerkraut-und-banana milkshake, which she would concoct at home using her liquidiser.

  People love a trier, they like to see somebody making an effort. Early morning park users, joggers, runners and the like. Folk out for a stroll and horse-riders. Cyclists, birdwatchers and parties of school children out for a nature ramble. The t
ots from the local infants’ school and others who just used the park because it was a nice place to be would look out for Malcolm and spur him on with cries of encouragement.

  “Come on mate – you’re doing well!” an early morning jogger would yell. “Go on son, push it out!” These shouts of support were helpful enough but the thing that helped most was when the children of local junior school recognised who he was. The whole third form of Suburbiaville Elementary School were holding their summer athletics day in the park, when Malcolm ran past, prodded on by Gisele and the swagger-stick, urged on by shrill blasts on that darned whistle. They presented quite a spectacle to the hurdle-jumping, long and high-jumping, shot-putting, track-running and javelin-throwing kids.

  Then one of them called out, “Look – there’s Malcolm. Remember Malcolm? Best street cleaner there ever was, my Dad says!” and he waved. “Whatcha, Malcolm!”

  Other people began to recognise him too and the word went out: “Malcolm is on his way back!” and he began to feel that he was not alone. Cries of, “Come on, son, you can do it!” would push him along when his energy levels flagged. “Go, Malcolm, go!” the children would cry.