Guzzling garden waste. Destroying everyday dirt. Removing rubbish. Purging poo, paint and oil stains from pavements. Breaking down boxes and slurping up semi-solid or gooey stuff directly into their guts. Crumpling cardboard and sorting a variety of recyclable materials into categories then storing it out in front of the house to be picked up by the recycling van later. Seeking out any matter that could be described as foreign with their flashing red sensor and, promptly, deporting it, whilst at the same time scrubbing the concrete paths clean with the brushes beneath each robot’s tracks, until Willowy Lane looked like an advert in an estate agent’s manual. These droids seemed to possess an energy that had Malcolm gulping and wondering how, or even if, he would be able to compete with these machines.
Racing around as they scrubbed oil and paint from affected areas, ducking and diving, weaving intricate patterns. These dust-devils reminded Malcolm of “The Red Arrows” display team, he had seen on television a couple of times. He watched, his mouth opening and closing in time with the “Jaws” of the “Crusher”, as every time a “Rubbish Robot” filled itself up it would belch, and return to be hoisted and emptied into that ever-hungry hopper.
Then the finale: buzzing, bleeping, whizzing and whirling the “Rubbish Robots” returned to the “All-in-One-Der”, lining up like hungry schoolchildren in the dinner-queue to be emptied into that ravenous hopper one last time – accompanied by that characteristic, cute “burping” sound. In reality, this final belch was an electrical message to the control-box that this was the final load to be crushed. It would then send orders to “The Crusher” to “continue crushing” and to munch the rubbish into material small enough for the hopper to digest.
The droid wheelie-bins then re-grouped under the outstretched, wing-like, cantilever doors. Maybe, thought Malcolm, whatever these things were were getting their breath back after all that racing around. Then they simply paired off, turned inwards and, from where Malcolm was standing at the other end of Willowy Lane, seemed to disappear into the side of the vehicle under the doors.
The icing was put on the cake when the vast vehicle started forward, the large rolling brush going round and round, constantly turning. It was then dealt with by “The Dirt Disperser”, a new improvement added by a whiz-kid mechanic in the “Motor Transport” (MT) department, at the depot. This device looked like an enlarged industrial vacuum-cleaner head which was connected to a large suction-pipe and lay, like a basking python, over the roof of the vehicle, and sucked any gritty or sandy waste that the Rubbish Robots may have missed directly into the hopper.
Malcolm struggled to get a grip on what he had just seen. It was unbelievable. It was remarkable. Maybe it was remarkably unbelievable or unbelievably remarkable. Who knows – it could have been a bit of both. Cardboard had been crushed. Paper had been shredded. Rubbish removed and the entire area “blitzed”. The whole operation had taken minutes. Malcolm was fast and efficient, but by the time he had stopped and chatted to everyone, given sherbet lemons to well-behaved children and helped elderly people do whatever they had to do, one street would take a full morning. And that was if he did not spend time polishing the door-numbers on houses; he liked to make sure each number was clean and stood out clearly. That way the postman would be able to read each door-number clearly and deliver the right mail to the right house, another reason Malcolm saw his job as essential. He could not bear the thought that because he did not do his job properly, some poor home-owner may receive mail addressed to somewhere else; the confusion it would cause, the sheer panic.
He pushed his barrow across the street to this great vehicle – what a weird wagon; it’s like something out of Doctor Who. Only it’s more like Doctor What – Malcolm’s mind was working overtime. What are these strange robots? What the heck was going on? The “All-in-One-Der” was ticking over quietly, menacingly.
The sun reflecting on the windows made it impossible see who the driver was, so he rapped on the window sharply. An electrical whirring, the window wound down – PUWEEZZZZ – the whirring stopped.
It was his “mate”, Geordie the driver. “Oh ’allo, Malky ol’ son – what are ye doin’ ’ere, mon? What’s up, mucker?” All sweetness and surprise, mixed with a degree of pride and smugness at his new job, as if he was saying, “I’ve been promoted but I’ll still talk to you.” Clearly, he was not expecting to see Malcolm.
“W-what’s goin’ on?” stammered Malcolm, confused by this new situation, awestruck by this enormous machine.
“’Aven’t yer ’eard mon – we’ve gan all ’igh-tech,” Geordie went on to explain, “Ah’ve been away on a course learnin’ how to drive this beggar. They’re phasing yer oot, mon. Malcy ol’ son – ah’m afraid yer obsolete, mon!”
Malcolm looked down the street. He had to take his hat off to those droids. They had done a fantastic job, in a fraction of the time. Willowy Lane looked immaculate, clear of rubbish, garden gates closed, gutters swept and vacuumed. Pavements hosed and scrubbed. So quickly, so easily, so efficiently, so effortlessly. But it was all so impersonal, it lacked the human touch. Malcolm just did not know what to say.
“I – I don’t know what to say.”
“Say what ye like, mon – this is the future,” said Geordie matter-of-factly. He grimaced and hunched his shoulders. “Yerra thing o’ the past noo!” He leaned out the cab window, covering his mouth with his hand so that only Malcolm could hear. “If Ah was you, Malcy ol’ son, Ah wuild wait till Monday, like. An’ gan an’ see that feller, Eckerslike, like. He’ll be able tea tell yer what’s ’appenin’, like!”
Malcolm could not believe it. After all the years of dedication. After all his hard work and professionalism. The council wanted simply to oust him and in his place put mindless machines. And nobody had said anything to him about it.
So that was why no-one had any time to stop and chat on Friday…
This made Malcolm angry – very angry indeed. But he didn’t lose his temper; in his practised country drawl he said, “Oh-arr, we’ll just ’ave to see about that – won’t we?” He pointed Belinda, his barrow, in the direction of the council depot, and set off at a brisk pace. But when he got there he found them locked up and empty, the administration staff, i.e. Mister Bartholemew, was at some kind of administrative meeting in London and had taken his secretary Gisele with him to take the minutes. Mr Eckerslike was on the golf-course, meeting important people at the nineteenth hole, buying huge rounds of drinks and recruiting sponsors for his nomination for the position of Lord Mayor of Suburbiaville in the Mayoral Elections taking place during the following summer. He would claim the money he spent buying those drinks back from expenses. Our Willy would never be short of a few quid. All the other workers, who would hang around the yard, all had business elsewhere and were “too busy to stop and chat” so Malcolm was none the wiser for his visit to the depot.
In the end, his head buzzing with questions, he returned home to his flat on the other side of town and quelled his frustrations alone in his garden shed, polishing his dustbins, cleaning and lubricating his barrow. Then, after selecting a fresh shirt and tie for the coming Monday, he went to bed early with an uneasy feeling – what was going on?
Chapter 6
Thunderclouds in the Office
Mister Bartholemew looked out of the window of his tiny office and frowned. Something about the man standing in the yard outside intrigued him. He was sure, well, almost definitely sure that he had seen this man before. The way he stood, proud, smart with an almost military bearing; he stood out from other workers in the yard, smarter, more crisply dressed. Really, he found his presence quite unnerving, menacing even. It did not occur to him that he bumped into this man most mornings during the working week. He asked his secretary, Gisele.
“Miss Thunderhosen – who is that that extremely well-turned out individual standing outside in the yard?”
“Mein Fuehrer – das ist Malkolm, vun of your street cleanink operatiffs – he has been standink out zhere since eightthirty zis mornink!�
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“Good heavens. How do you know that? These offices don’t open until nine-thirty which means that you do not have to come in until nine o’clock sharp.”
“Mein Fuhrer – ve ist bekomink ver’ klose friends – und ve ist schtayink up until twelve o’clock last night vatching der moon und der tvinklink stars, und holdink der hands.” Her voice softened and rose an octave as Gisele continued in pidgin English mixed with her own guttural German, “Ah, it vos wunderbah – und Malky ist such a gentlemann.” Again her tone changed, she became quite cross indeed, “However last nacht he said he vould haff to be krying off und get his head down early because he ist gettink up ver’ ver’ early in der morgen so he could catch you. He says you ist runnink away all der flippink time – humph!”
Mister Bartholemew looked through his tiny office window and scratched his head. Deep in thought, he ran his index finger under his lower lip. “Hmmm – I must say he doesn’t look very happy.” Malcolm was standing against the far wall, almost expressionless but for a fixed jaw and the traces of an angry frown on his forehead.
“Mein Fuehrer – he zinks you vant to giff him der old heave-ho.”
“So he knows then?”
“Jawohl, mein Fuehrer. I vould say he has der kleine inkling – und I must say vas a vay to be finding out!” Gisele’s voice softened again. She swallowed, fighting back a tear or two. “Mein poor kleine Malky!”
“Yes – but Gisele, it isn’t my fault, I – I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him. Just look at him out there – he’s so smart, suave even. So smooth and efficient. So – so, what’s the word, Gisele?”
“Konscientious – mein Fuehrer?”
“Yes conscientious – that’s it. He is just so conscientious that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. He’s so dependable, is Malcolm. Out there in all weathers. Come rain or shine – and he’s so clean and well-groomed. Ahem.” Mister Bartholemew stopped dead; he was beginning to go on a bit. “But I’ll have to break it to him gently somehow. Soften the blow. You know, sweeten the bitter pill.” Mister Bartholemew was really dreading this confrontation, ever since he had received that directive, that order from upstairs to “lay off” most of the street cleaning staff. Suddenly he had a “brilliant” idea. “I know, I’ll offer him the depot gardening vacancy.”
“Vas?” Gisele scoffed, “Zhose two scrappy liddle lawns und ein vindow-box – poo! Meine Malky ist ein skilled artist. Und anyvay das ist only two morninks verk a veek!” A sharp intake of breath. Gas escaped from somewhere in Gisele’s head. She let fly. “Vhy are you not standink up to der management dumkopfs? I zink you are ein gross koward –” and she added in a mocking tone, “Like der kowardly kowardly kustard!”
Mister Bartholemew was not used to being spoken to like this, not by his secretary anyway; who did she think she was? His tone sharpened. “Look Miss Thunderhosen – Mister Eckerslike said, make cuts and if Mister Eckerslike says, make cuts, we make cuts. Understand? And – tough luck my old darling – Malcolm is one of those cuts we have to make! He’s the boss is Mister Eckerslike. And what Mister Eckerslike wants, Mister Eckerslike gets – ooohh he’s a great man.” Meaning that it was in Mister Eckerslike’s power to fire him if he disagreed too often. So Gordon Bartholemew just gritted his teeth and nodded his head whenever Willy Eckerslike tried out a new idea on him. Mister Bartholemew knew only too well what fate befell those who opposed the Managing Director of Suburbiaville council.
That outburst took a lot out of Mr Bartholemew. He sat down, wheezing and out of breath; his therapist had told him before not to get so excited. Dismissing or disciplining staff was a part of his job that he loathed. Council works managers were the mouth pieces of the Managing Directors and the Managing Director in this council was Mister Willy Eckerslike. In other words, Mister Eckerslike could hire and fire who he liked. The workers never saw him. He just wrote a little note, a directive, and sent it downstairs to Mister Bartholemew. And Mister Bartholemew implemented his instructions. Poor old Gordon fired the bullets that Willy loaded into the gun.
When he got his breath back Mister Bartholemew barked sharply, using as much authority as he could muster – which wasn’t very much, “Miss Thunderhosen – show him in!”
Gisele shrugged and was about to say something back when Mister Bartholemew raised a hand for silence then added a sly afterthought, with aloofness: “I think one should remember, Miss Thunderhosen, that if it wasn’t for Suburbiaville council’s willingness to employ and house you, one may find oneself back in East Germany where one belongs…
“It could quite easily withdraw that support we so generously afforded you in your hour of need – then where would you be?”
Gisele did not know what to say. Mr Bartholemew, or rather the big-wigs at Suburbiaville council, held the trump card. She turned, clicked her heels together, and through the open window bellowed sweetly, gently. “Koo-ee, Malky darlink – Herr Bartholemew vill see you noww!!!”
The windows were still rattling in their frames when Malcolm nodded his head, tucked his broom under his arm and marched quickly, with the hint of a swagger, into the council building. He came to a smart, almost military halt outside Mister Bartholemew’s door, and knocked sharply on the door three times.
“Yes – who is it?” Mister Bartholemew asked through the door – as if he didn’t know.
“Mister Bartholemew sir, it is I, sir, Malcolm – one of your street cleaners.”
Footsteps sounded inside, the door was wrenched open. “Malc my old mate – don’t mind if I call you Malc – do you?” Mister Bartholemew was wearing the sort of smile that kills at twenty paces. “Come in – come in. Sit down, relax – would you like anything? Tea, coffee – you will call me Gordon, won’t you. All my friends call me Gordon.” The truth was, that in all his years as Works Manager, nobody had called him Gordon. He went on.
“Now I gathered you wanted to see me.” He smiled again, putting on his caring employer mask.
“No thankee, Mister Bartholemew, sir, I’d rather call ’ee Mister Bartholemew, sir – if y’don’t mind, like. Gives me a sense of where I fit in.”
“As you wish, as you wish, er, Malc. I must admit I do rather enjoy being called sir.” The truth was that in the same number of years nobody had called Mister Bartholemew “sir” either. He went on, “Now I understand you have a problem – in what way can I help?”
Malcolm took a deep breath. “Well, Mister Bartholemew sir, it’s like this: I’m out there this mornin’ doin’ me rounds like. An’ just when I gets ’alfway round like, this ’uge – no – it was gigantic – no it was enormous – gert wagon pulls up. An’ all these robots come out the side like. An’ then they starts emptyin’ bins, sweepin’ up, ’ooverin’ up dirt an’ dust – an’ they only got one eye – un’oly it was, Mister Bartholemew sir… un’oly…” He shuddered, then continued, “So there I am like, wonderin’ what the thunderin’ eck’s goin’ on like. An’ then I sees Geordie – the driver like. An’ ’e tells me you’ve gone all ’igh tech like. ’E’s bin on a course an’ I’m obsolete – no – what did ’e call it – a thing o’ the past – well one o’ the two. Either way I’m out of a job – well it just ain’t fair, Mister Bartholemew sir. It just ain’t. An’ then ’e just drives off – wiv that big roller in the front goin’ round an’ round…”
Mister Bartholemew rose from behind his desk and walked over to where Malcolm stood, quaking with frustration – remember, it was only a tiny office, so Mister Bartholemew almost fell over Malcolm as he did – and gently placed an arm around his shoulders, drawing him into a brotherly embrace. “Come now Malc, my old mate – how long have we been friends?”
Malcolm writhed in the embrace – he did not like this at all – and answered, “Well sir, Mister Bartholemew sir. Ever since you put your arm round me and I can’t say I’m that ’appy about it either, Mister Bartholemew sir. A bit familiar don’t you think – Mister Bartholemew sir?”
Mister Bartholemew dropped his arm
. This was going to be harder than he thought. He sighed loudly and tried to put his hands on his hips; unfortunately his arms were too long and thin and the office was so small that this proved quite impossible, so he put them in his pockets. “Come now, MALC my old – ah – chum, there really is no cause for alarm – ahem!” He cleared his throat. “So you’ve met our new Rubbish Robots – a bit scary eh?” He forced a laugh, nudging Malcolm with an elbow, his right elbow, as there wasn’t enough room to turn round and nudge him with the left, “Aha – aha – ha – ha – haa!”
No reaction, Malcolm failed to see any humour in the remark. “Oh well,” commented Mister Bartholemew and came straight to the point. “The thing is Malc, my old pal, we at Suburbiaville Council…” Meaning the big-wigs on the floor above, Mr Bartholemew was only an office Dogsbody after all, Willy Eckerslike’s whipping-boy, “…Have found it necessary to revamp our highway maintenance service – ah, um – particularly our street cleaning service, am I going too fast?”
“No – no, Mr. Bartholemew, sir. I follow yer.”
“To bring us in line or to possibly compete with – er, as it were – our European neighbours. And management – and, er, um – I really must agree, I think that – er - the best way forward is to replace that element of human frailty, risk – call it what you will – with – um, ah – mechanical superiority.” Mr Bartholemew’s voice rose as he put the icing on the cake. “And the beautiful part about all this is that we don’t have to pay them a penny, whereas we pay you…” Mr Bartholemew snatched a notebook from his desk. Then he snatched a figure out of the air and scribbled it down, shoving it under Malcolm’s nose. Malcolm gasped.
“But Mr Bartholemew, you don’t pay me anything like…”
“Sssshh – now Malc, my old chum – bit of creative book-keeping there, that’s all that is. How do you think I can afford to take Missus Bartholemew to Majorca twice a year?”
What a Load of Rubbish Page 4
