What a Load of Rubbish (5 page)

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!”

“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?”

“But Mister Bartholemew sir,
mechanical superiority
, how can you say that… They’re like them dalek-wosnames on ‘Doctor Who’ – always bleeping an’ buzzin’ – I point-blank refuse to be replaced by a rabble of rowdy robots. An’– an’…” Malcolm’s voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper; as he ran out of breath his voice became weaker. “You can’t get rid o’ me, Mister Bartholemew sir, I’m an artist, I am – a guru of the kerb and gutter…”

“Yes, I agree, Malcolm, but you’re not a very quick one, are you? Not compared to our robots. And that’s the
buzz-word
here. We need speed,
baby
. Super, zippy-fast action man. The kind that will put us in line with our European counterparts. Plus – and I think I touched on this beforehand – we don’t have to pay them any money.” Mister Bartholemew gestured, if that was possible given the size of the office, towards the yard. The droids, lined up in the middle of the yard, silent and unmoving, were visible through the office window. Sunlight reflected on the plates bearing their identification numbers: RR: 1, RR: 2, RR: 3, and RR: 4.

Malcolm glared through the window
at them – he could imagine them laughing, or in any case burping at him. He turned to Mister Bartholemew. “So that’s it then, eh? I’m on the scrapheap. It’s
Goodbye Charlie
fer ol’ Malcy…”

“Now, now Malcolm – nobody is trying to get rid of you,” soothed Mister Bartholemew – poor chap, he wasn’t all bad, just a snivelling coward, that’s all. And he could not bear the thought of crossing Willy Eckerslike and losing his own job; he needed the money because Missus Bartholemew had expensive tastes, you know, she did like her holidays in Majorca.

“Have you ever considered a career in horticulture?” he suggested. “Now
there’s
something – um – more worthy of a man with your talents, requires skill, your kind of attention to detail. Fresh air – the smell of the earth. Good hard work. Oh – those halcyon days of summer, eh? – and you could have your pick of fresh flowers and plants. You could even start a vegetable garden. And you get your very own ‘Head Gardener’ badge. Of course…” Mr Bartholemew lowered his voice, “…you would have to retrain, attend technical college.” Then in almost a whisper, “And there is the small cut in wages to consider but you wouldn’t have to work such long hours…”

Malcolm shook his head, “Mister Bartholemew, sir. You can’t do this to me.
You just can’t I’ve been a street cleaner all me workin’ life – that’s nigh on 27 years, you know? My father was a street-cleaner, an’ his father, an’ his father an’ then o’ course there’s ’is father and ’is father’s father. ’Oo do you think piled up all them stones so neatly at Stone’enge. An’ it was one o’ my forefathers who cleared up all those bows an’ arrows an’ stuff after the battle of ’Astings. Blimey, Mister Bartholemew, sir. I ain’t no gardener, sir…”

About then Mister Bartholemew’s temper flared, not because he was angry at Malcolm but because of the thought that he was dismissing a faithful worker. And why? Because he had been told to, that is why.

Oh well – he’d tried the softly-softly approach; no more mister nice guy. “Now look Malcolm, I’ve tried be gentle about this. I’ve tried to lessen the shock – I’ve even offered you another –
ah
– position to replace your former one. And what have you done in return? Let me tell you – you’ve thrown it all back my face, that’s what. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, or the next day or the day after that because there isn’t anything for you to do. In fact, we never want to see you again, is that clear?”