What a Load of Rubbish (3 page)

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?

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…

“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 – hiding 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…