What a Load of Rubbish (7 page)

Unfortunately for Malcolm the oil tycoon told him himself for he had no idea who Malcolm was, otherwise he may have used a little tact and spared his feelings.

“Oh GODDAMIT! I'm real sorry!” The tycoon, a former oil-baron from Texas apologised when Malcolm told him that he was the “Guy” that this tycoon spoke of.

“Ah had no idea – Ah have one
hellova
big mouth!”

“That's alright!” Malcolm assured him. “You weren't to know that I am he!” And offered the tycoon a swig from his paraffin bottle, which the man declined, saying that he had not sunk that low yet.

But that news was the last straw for Malcolm. He spent the remainder of that week – even though it was only Tuesday morning – wallowing in self pity, still destroying himself with solvents, still staring blankly into space – when he was conscious. No wonder Gisele could not find him; but she would not give up. And here's another one: meanwhile, Malcolm was getting worse. Much worse, drinking more and more hazardous substances, getting worse and worse; deteriorating fast…

One day the huddled figure of a crazed and drunken vagabond was removed from a park bench in the town park. The Residents of Suburbiaville did not like things like ill people, old people, the disabled or vagabonds to be seen by visitors to the town. They felt it may cause a drop in house prices. So a unit of specially trained paramedics was sent out
every other Saturday, in a special ambulance, to areas such as the town park and other public areas, to clear it of tramps and low-lifes. The “low-life” in question this time was Malcolm.

He had just woken from another solvent-fuelled bender and had just started searching the public-trash cans for food, to soak up his liquid diet. Who knows? Maybe he would discover a discarded hamburger, party-goers and evening workers did throw away the most amazing things and today he was feeling lucky.

“Look Phil – there's one!” said the paramedic to his driver, pointing at the figure of Malcolm hunched over the waste bin so that it looked as though he was trying to fit his head into it.

“Seen him, Dave, let's pick him up.” The ambulance screeched to a halt, the rear doors flew open as Phil leapt out. “Come along now, sir! Let's get you in the warm with a nice cup of tea!”

“But I don't want a
nice
cup o' flippin' tea.” Malcolm had found a half-eaten “Giant-Mac” meal and was just about to tuck into it when the medics arrived. “I'm nothing, me – why don't you mind your own… Mere flotsam I am… HIC! OOER! OH NO!” But Malcolm had become yet another victim of too much too soon, and landed flat on his back covered in burger-relish.

“…And better bring a stretcher Dave –
reckon we'll need it!”

For a full hour the two worked on Malcolm's prone figure. Things looked very dicey indeed. But in the end Dave called, “Right Phil – he's breathing a bit more regular – let's get him loaded up,
quickly
!” And in no time at all, the two men had him on a stretcher, hooked up to a drip-feed and were hurtling through the streets, in the direction of Suburbiaville General Hospital.

Hours later an unconscious Malcolm was transferred from emergency to a recovery ward, where he remained unconscious for days on end.

“Ooh Gladys, did you read in the ‘Siren’ last week about that feller they picked up in the park?”

“You mean the one with…”

“No, not ’im – that feller ’oo did himself in on all that methylated spirit and metal polish and whatnot and stuff like that!” The lady, still dressed in her apron bearing the logo “Suburbiaville Council Domestic Services” with a duster and rubber gloves pushed into the pouch-pocket, lowered her voice and spoke in a hushed tone to her friend. “You know, that one who frightened all them ducks at the town park. Well, Dorrie, that woman in the Co-op told me he was with that girl up at the depot offices – well, they
split up, see. An’
he
went doo-lally, see. Started drinking all sorts o’ muck.”

“Oh him, yeahss!” Dorrie folded her arms and blew out through her cheeks. “Four
hours
they were pumping out his stomach, well that’s what I heard anyway. What was his name, Marcus? Milton? Something like that. O’ course I blame the council.”

“Oh yeah, Dorrie, why’s that luvvy?”

“Well, Glad, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? He was a
council
street cleaner wasn’t he?”

“Was ‘e now?” Gladys was shocked and held a hand to her brow.

“Yeahss!” continued Dorrie, “and they say he was a dapper young man!”

“Do they now?” A sharp intake of breath – Gladys was in awe.

“Yeahss – and the council have gone all high-tech haven’t they? They’re sacking all the street cleaners and using robots instead – o’course I blame that Eckerslike bloke.”

“Why’s that then, Dorrie?”

“Well – they say he wants to be the next Mayor. Don’t they? And you’ve got to blame someone, it’s
always someone’s
fault.”

One morning, after another evening searching fruitlessly for her “liddle Malky”, a tired, beaten Gisele –
oh, she could not go on much longer
– was trudging wearily to work. Usually she undertook
the journey with a spring in her step but ever since she watched Malcolm trudge out of the depot gates and, or so it seemed, out of her life, Gisele’s energy levels had dropped to an all-time low. . She had learned to speak English by listening to other people talk and so, could not help but tune into the ladies’ conversation.

“Ah – vas ist das?” She could not be she sure she had heard correctly so she listened a bit harder. Then, “Das zounds like mein liddle Malky!” She hitched up her skirt and sprinted girlishly towards the hospital, with new hope surging in her breast.

“Entschuldigen sich bitte –
PUFF! PANT!
– I am lookink for mein klein Malky –
PANT! PUFF!
– but kan I find himm? Nein – I kannot. I am lookink for him here, zhere und everyvhere but he ist novhere to be found. So I am thinking I
am losink himm forever
– HUFF! PUFF! - But zhen I am overhearink zhese two ladies talking about zhis ‘dapper jungen man’ who ist being picked up und taken to der krankenhaus und zhen I am thinkink that zounds like mein liddle Malky!”

Twenty minutes later Gisele stood in the reception of Suburbiaville General Hospital, having knocked the security senseless after he had attempted to find out the reason for her visiting the hospital outside of visiting hours - silly man.
Emergency reception staff were summoned to take him, unconscious, to the casualty department.

“Yes madam.” The man on reception rose quickly from his desk and, brandishing a notebook and pen, ran over to meet her and get a few details… “And how many ‘Ds’ in
liddle
?”

“DONNER UND BLITZEN!
You ist vasteing mein time!” Gisele shoulder-barged the man out of the way and the Emergency Reception Team were called again to take another member of the administration team to casualty.

However, Gisele need not have asked directions because – as in all good love-stories – love lit the way and she followed that light all the way to the recovery ward, where Malcolm now lay in bed, watching a day-time documentary on the ward’s television, his expression empty, his eyes even emptier.

“Koo-ee Malky darlink!” Gisele enquired around the ward in a hushed whisper. No response – so she enquired a little louder and patients with hearing-aids switched them off. KOO-EE MALKY LIEBE SHON, VHERE ARE YOU? I AM LOOKINK FOR YOU EVERYVHERE. BUT YOU ARE NOVHERE, SO ZEN I AM LOOKINK IN HERE, MIT I SCHTILL KANNOT FIND YOU UND SO I AM KRYINK VER’ VER’ MUCH!
PLEASE
BE HERE!”

Tears were, once again, beginning to form in Gisele’s already watery eyes as they scanned the ward: nothing. Then, on the last sweep of the beds: “AH SO
ZHERE
YOU ARE! I AM LOOKINK ALL OVER FOR YOU UND VHERE ARE YOU. I VILL TELL YOU. YOU ARE IN HERE.
UND VAS IST YOU DOINK
. YOU IST VALLOWING IN YOUR OWN PITY DAS IST VAS YOU ARE DOINK!” There was a brief pause while Gisele got her breath back. The windows stopped rattling in their frames. The walls no longer shook. Then panes of glass began to crack. Plaster began to crumble from the walls. “UND MEIN GOTT! VAS HAVE YOU BEEN DOINK YOU ARE SO SKINNY MIT DER RIBS LIKE EIN GLOCKENSPIEL – YOU IST VASTEING AVAY!”

She was right, now he no longer needed that extra bit of bulk to his shoulders to move his unwieldy barrow around with skill and dexterity, those muscles were no longer there. And in their place bones were beginning to push to the surface of his skin. Instead of being a bit of a hunk, he was on the road to becoming a piece of junk.

Malcolm’s eyes looked up from the set. “Gisele – it’s you innit, what are you doin’ here?”

“I haff kommen to wrench you from der depths of despair. Und to re-kindle a
liddle leibe in das broken heart of yours.”

“Forget it darlin’. I’ve ’ad it, I ’ave – mere flotsam on the sea of life – that’s me…”

“Nein,
nein
Malky do not be sayink das. I do not zink you am ein ham floatink in der sea; vas ist zis mere ham you ist speaking of?” A puzzled look.

“No – no Gise. You don’t understand.” Good old Malcolm, true to form, from his sickbed he was still trying to correct Gisele’s pidgin English, even when he could see no future in their relationship. Now
that
is love for you, “Flotsam, I said. Flotsam – it’s about shipwrecks, things that float about in the sea and stuff like that.”

“Oh!” said Gisele, glad to have gained a little knowledge from this difficult situation but still worried at the thought of losing her man. She still looked puzzled as Malcolm went on.

“Look at it from my point of view Gise, I’ve grafted f’that lot – man an’ boy – for twenty-seven, twenty-seven years. I’m clean, I’m smart, an’ I’m brilliant at my job. Cor blimey! I clean streets, disinfect where dogs ’ave done their business, take old ladies to town on me barrow, polish the numbers on doors so the postman can read ’em clearly. ’Er Majesty ’as even sent me an award for efficiency –” here Malcolm took on a very noble expression; he looked like royalty in pyjamas.
“– Above and beyond the call of duty. And then I meet you and we get on brilliant – an’ I think you’re lovely you are. An’ just when I think things can’t get any better, what happens? That Willy ‘I’m going to be the next chuffin’ Mayor’ Eckerslike bloke sacks all us street cleaners and gets this ‘All-in-One-Der’ monstrosity an’ them rubbishy robots to do our work ’cos ’e don’t ’ave to pay them any money. An’ then to add insult to injury, I ’ear that you’ve run off with a perishin’ lollipop-man. I mean, I ask you? I’m a skilled urban roadside and pavement specialist. He just leans on his pole all day, ‘Stopping Children’.” Then a thought crossed his mind. “Stopping children from doing what, I’d like to know. No, I’m sorry Gise darlin’, I give up. You’ll have to find somebody else – it’s over…”

Rumble, rumble, rattle, clink! Rumble, rumble rattle, clink, clink, rattle!
The tea trolley sounded, quite far away down the ward. This meant it was three o’clock when patients and their visitors were given tea or coffee and, sometimes, a jam sponge-cake left over from lunchtime.

“Oh no Malky mein chatz, you kannot be meanink that, ich liebe dich!”

“I love you too Gise but I’ve got no job, no perishin’ money so this relationship is goin’ nowhere…”

Rumble, rumble clink, rattle! Rumble, rumble, rattle, clink!
That tea trolley was
getting closer. It stopped next to Malcolm’s bed.

“Tea! Coffee – would anybody like a slice of ca…
oooh arrgh oh gosh no!
” Just as the Voluntary Services lady stopped at Malcolm’s bed, Gisele made one “last ditch” attempt to save the relationship and tried to put her arms round him. All this action – in the limited confines of Malcolm’s bed space – was obscured even further by the clouds of steam coming from the tea and coffee urns. Disaster!

“No! I’m sorry Gise,” Malcolm was announcing gravely, “when I say it’s over, it’s over…” And made a cutting gesture with his arm outstretched and a flat hand, as if to physically sever the bond. The sweeping gesture of his arm turned that gesture into a karate-chop which gathered momentum. And caught Gisele, full force, in the throat, just as she was bearing down to try to plant a kiss on Malcolm. Sending her staggering backwards into the Voluntary Services lady. Winding her and making her throw a scalding hot cup of tea – or was it coffee? – into the air. And we all know where that landed, don’t we? Yup –
all
over Malcolm.

“Oooh-Aahh-help!
I’m melting – Ouch – AAAH!” screamed Malcolm, his skin glowing red, then peeling away completely as the boiling liquid soaked into
his pyjamas.

Within seconds that bed space became the next Armageddon. Malcolm was yelling out in pain, shock, surprise – or probably all three. The Voluntary Services was apologising and attempting to dry-off Malcolm’s pyjamas with a tissue, which made him shriek even louder as paper-tissue is not the gentlest material to rub recently scalded skin with. And Gisele, herself in shock, was shouting at the top of her voice.

“Achtung! Achtung!
Nurse! Nurse!
Mein Malky ist dyink! He ist boilink alive in hot hospital beverages! You must help him before it ist too late und he ist scarred for life!”

“Quick! Get a trolley! Contact the burns unit. Madam – will you stop panicking,
please!
” The ward-sister arrived and tried to calm Gisele down but it was no good; her fears for her man were too strong.

“Kall der Fire Brigade! Kall der doctor, Kall anyvun! Kall no-vun! Kall somevun! You must help himm – ach nein, I am beginnink to panic!”

SLAP! WACK! SLAP! WACK!
But the ward sister was good at her job. Expertly trained in emergency procedures, she spun Gisele round by the shoulders until they were face to face and gave her a hearty slap across both cheeks. Then did it again and again, until Gisele collapsed,
unconscious into Malcolm’s bedside chair.

Poor old Malcolm; his feelings for Gisele were so strong that in spite of his wounds, in spite of the sheer pain he was in, he wanted to calm her and called out to her while he was on the trolley being wheeled down to the burns unit. “It’s alright Gise, darlin’ – I’ve had much,
much
worse. Remember that time I was run over by that…”

But Malcolm was never to finish the sentence. As he lay on that trolley the powerful drugs that were injected into his bloodstream to deaden the pain kicked in, making him quite numb and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Downstairs where it was cool, in the burns unit, Malcolm was treated for first, second, third and, possibly, fourth and fifth-degree burns and major scalding. The lady doctor who treated him, a Missus Pam Fry-Bacon wrote in her notes: ‘If the beverage that Mr Tilsley came into contact with had been one or two degrees hotter he may have required plastic surgery.’

Hours later Malcolm was wheeled back up to his bed on the ward, where Gisele was dozing fitfully in his bedside chair. She woke with a start.

“Oh Malky mein chatz – ist you okay? I haff been worryink so much!” There was a little mountain of tissue-paper,
shredded on Malcolm’s bedside table; she had bitten all her fingernails down to nothing and was about start on her toenails.
UGH!
That’s worry for you. “I am so ver’ ver’ sorry I haff given you so much pain. Can you ever forgive me leibe shon?”

“Don’t worry about that, darlin’,” Malcolm was chewing something over in his mind, “Listen, Gise, darlin’ – that accident just now, that little dice with death has really made me think!”

“Nein, nein – Malky surely it vos not that bad…!”

“Let me finish, will ya! When I get out of here I’m goin’ up to council, like. And I’m gonna find that perishin’ Eckerslike bloke, like. And I’m gonna say to him… ’Ang on, what was I gonna say..? Oh yeah, I am gonna challenge ’im, them rubbishy robots and that ‘All-in-One-Der’ to a duel, winner take all!” Then the scientific part of his brain kicked in – remember how good he was at maths and science at school. “Hang on. That can’t be a duel, can it? ’Cos there are more than two in the fight…” He thought for a minute… “Aw, never mind – we’ll have a fight to the death. And there’s gonna be one winner, me, know why? I’ll tell ya why, cos I’m a human bein’, I am. An’ I’m cool an’ I’m smart – suave even.” He took a comb from the pocket of his pyjamas and ran it through his hair and even that
seemed to inject power and enthusiasm in him – directly through his scalp.

“AAAH VUNDERBAH MALKY! Das zounds a little more like the man I haff come to know und luff. You must fight. Und I, Gisele, vill help you all der vay. Together ve vill make der mincemeat of der maniacal machines und exterminate der liddle fat dumkopf Herr Eckerslike!” No, she didn’t like him either. Then, sounding a little more reasonable, “But first, Malky darlink, you must be getting vell again. Und all these blisters und abrasions must be healink. Gutte gott in Himmel, you are more red than der – der…” She snapped her middle and index finger repeatedly, looking at Malcolm quizzically.

Even from his sick bed, Malcolm tried to help her. “A lobster?” he suggested. “Jawohl Das ist korrekt – der lobster!” She echoed, pleased to have arrived at the right word. Although we feel that really, Gisele knew this already, she simply wanted to get Malcolm to use those “little grey cells” a bit – her English wasn’t that bad.