The Road Sweeper

Tom the road sweeper pushed his cart through the tall back gate of his high walled yard at the back of his terraced house, chained it to the black iron drainpipe and unlocked the back door and let himself into his small back kitchen. After taking off his fluorescent orange coat, black over-trousers, woolly hat and black rubber boots, he turned on the kitchen light, kicking the boots off to one side and hung the coat and trousers on a peg on the back of the door. In stocking feet, he padded into the hall and removed from his inside jacket pocket an earpiece and small black Dictaphone and placed them on the side table and walked upstairs in the semi darkness.

He stepped into the small bathroom, switching on the light which automatically turned on the noisy extractor fan. Tom turned on the electric shower and closed the curtain, cursing that he had got the sleeve of his jacket wet once again. He dumped his clothes into the washing basket and stepped into the bath and under the hot shower. He spent longer than necessary luxuriating under the hot water, playing the stream onto his left leg whilst vigorously massaging it. Satisfied and relieved, he dried himself thoroughly and wandered into his bedroom. Sitting on the bed in a dressing gown, he picked up his mobile from the bedside table and checked the messages, lay back and speed dialled a number.

“Hi Linda! How are you?”

“Fine Alex. Just wanted to know if you checked the last transcript? There were bits that were a bit muffled and I’m not sure I got those bits right. It’s all in red italics so please check before I send you out the hard copy.”

“Will do Linda. It’s Thursday tomorrow so I’ll send you the next tapes. Have you spoken to Harry?”

“He’s been on the phone wanting to speak to you personally. Wants to know where you are?”

“Keep telling him I’m in the Bahamas recovering. The heat is good for my limbs, tell him and that the advance he gave me is running out.”

“I think that’s what he wants to talk to you about personally. I told him that you were incommunicado. Only on Email. I also told him you were writing again, full stream, both your poetry and the novels. Shall I send him some drafts?”

“No, let him stew a little longer Linda. Wait till we have finished the first draft and then send him the first chapter.”

“But that’s been finished for weeks Alex.”

“But Harry’s not to know.”

“Your production line is up to full speed Alex. I can hardly keep up with the typing.”

“You’re doing fine Linda. This mundane job I’m doing keeps my mind off my discomfort so that I can concentrate on my poetry and fiction.”

“You’re doing great. But do be careful on the roads. Don’t want you being hit by a bus or something.”

“Don’t worry Linda. You should see my fluorescent get up. You can see me from miles away. I’ll have some supper and then check the stuff you’ve sent me online.”

‘He’s a good fellow is old Tom,’ stated Doris from forty-seven, ‘When ah had this turn and fell, he picked me up, sat me on the step of his cart. He got me a drink from the Paki family at number ten. Ah could smell the curry on the glass but beggars can’t be choosers ah says.’

‘He’s got the job on’t Council cos he’s a cripple,’ answered Mavis from Number four, Hill Top Gardens. ‘Our Cyril says they have to take on a number of disabled. It’s the law you know.’

Alex descended slowly back down to the kitchen, stuck a ready meal from the freezer into the microwave and started making himself a mug of instant coffee. After tipping the hot contents of the foil container onto a ready plate he carried his food and drink into the large sitting room next door. A shiver went through him and he turned on the electric fire with his foot and placed the plate on a small shelf next to an old-fashioned mahogany dining table. One hand clutching the mug, he flipped open a laptop and switched it on, turning back to the shelf for his supper. He ate silently, deep in thought as the computer gave off numerous musical prompts, warning him that his Email was busy. He ignored the noise and didn’t even savour the food on the plate before him. His thoughts always harked back to the incident which brought him to all of this and he shuddered. He felt grateful though that he had found a useful occupation for himself as ‘Tom the road sweep’ that allowed him to forget his pains and continue with his writings again.

He blamed himself for the accident. Wasn’t concentrating on the driving and mind on some difficult stanza that needed tweaking. Fortunately, Meg died instantly. He, on the other hand was ‘a bit of a dog’s dinner’ when they got him to A & E, according to the ambulance driver who spoke to him a few months later. The reconstruction of his body took over a year before he was discharged home in a wheelchair. He was more fortunate than the chap in the next bed. He had private medical insurance which paved the way to get him home and provide him with care. After all it was cheaper for him to be cared for at home than in hospital.

They persuaded him that it would speed up his recovery but all it did was to constantly remind him of his wife and what he had done to her. He limited his pain killer intake to remain in purgatory. Since his body was still broken, the University didn’t want him back until the team of physicians had fixed his gammy eye, gammy leg and frozen face. They didn’t want a slavering zombie frightening the undergraduates. They put him out to grass. A sabbatical and on ‘don’t contact us, we’ll contact you,’ terms.

At first, he thought he could take his mind off his predicament by serious bouts of physiotherapy and continuing with his creative writing. After all he had two volumes of poetry, well received by the critics, and six successful crime novels under his belt. The latter was under a pseudonym so as not to upset the sensibilities of his snobbish colleagues. It would have really upset them more if they had known what a healthy regular income was accumulating in his piggy bank from this venture.

Unfortunately, his writing activities were hampered by the constant discomfort from his injuries. He put all his efforts into the physio and this speeded up his physical mend. This exertion required concentration. He couldn’t wander off in his mind into the world of crime and poetry. The multi-gym needed even more attention than driving if he was to avoid further injury. His doctor suggested some gentle exercise like gardening. He tried cutting the lawn a few times and this helped but there was a limit to how many times he could trim his lawn or the number of times he cut through the cable. He needed a dull boring job, not on a treadmill, easy physically, continuous, that would allow him to move about physically to dull the pain in his limbs but not demanding enough to stop him thinking and musing.

He studied his local postie but that job required more walking than he could manage. Bus driving would be too dangerous and possibly fatal for his passengers. Train drivers on fixed rails needed to be physically fit for some reason and to have good vision. He thought of training to be a pilot of say a cargo airline. Most flights, he had read somewhere, were flown on autopilot and didn’t need human intervention. Neither did he need to be nice on the intercom and talk to the cargo. It was a ridiculous idea and again full physical fitness was mandatory and the training was long and tedious. He had given up on those ideas. A documentary on the workings of Local Council put the idea of working as a road sweeper into his head, particularly, that the Councillor stated that he had difficulty in filling his statutory quota of disabled workers.

Alex made enquiries and sure enough he was sent an application form demanding his details and references from the disability register. He didn’t want to be classified as disabled but the parking benefits were just too good to pass. A letter from his consultant stating that he was capable of light physical work sealed the deal and he got the job starting on Monday, seven thirty at the depot, reporting to a Mr. Wheeler who would explain to him his duties and working conditions. A second note, almost an after thought, stated that he would be supplied with appropriate outdoor apparel, suited to his position; a rather pompous description of a fluorescent jacket, over trousers and pair of regulation black wellies. In his own letter he had stated that he would reside in the Parish, initially with an aunt until he found himself appropriate accommodation.

“H’is a bit keen on logging the repairs on his patch,” stated Jim Wheeler, Tom’s manager, to his foreman Bob as he scrutinised the register. “Means we have to do som’it about it Bob. Councillors like to check on stuff like that.”

“Aye, but at least he does write, not like the other lazy buggers. Ah passed on the message about the fly tippers to the Panda Police but they aren’t going to do ought about it. They say that he’s no good as a witness being a cripple and all that.”

“Aye, but he’s a good worker and doesn’t skive like the rest of them. He’s a funny bugger. Doesn’t talk much but just gets on with it.”

“The Unionare talking redundancy with the cuts and all that. Ah suppose we have to keep ole Tom on to keep the numbers up. The machine could do his job.”

Tom caught the bus at the bottom of the hill to the depot on Thursday morning, all dressed in his working gear. He was off to collect his weekly wages and pick up supplies. Since he had found rented accommodation close to his working patch, his Foreman Bob had allowed him to keep his dust cart in his yard, as long as it was chained up. He had been allotted the patch just off Newland’s Lane; a parade of shops, six parallel streets of terraced houses, old mill worker’s cottages and the new Council estate of New Abbey Park. It was the usual shabby sink estate comprising hundreds of cheaply built semi’s and terraces plus the three regulatory high rises, sprouting up in defiance. His main job there was clearing up the dog shit off the pavements and reporting the fly tipping. He religiously wrote things down in the repairs register on his Thursday visit even though he knew it was discouraged by the Foreman. On the way back to his area, the Post Office would be open and he would post his cassettes onto Linda and pick up any packages sent to him, again mainly from Linda addressed ‘Tom the road sweep.’

His main duty was to cover his patch at least twice per week, picking up trash and ensuring the gutters were clean from grit and debris. The area being exposed on the hillside, to the full force of the prevailing winds, most of the rubbish got blown away or at least blown into corners where it could be easily collected. The heavy rains generally swept the road grit down the drains though occasionally he would have to shovel some away. He ensured that the wide pavement in front of the parade of shops was cleaned daily and the butcher’s wife Doris would normally provide him with a mug of tea. On his way home he would pass by this parade to pick up his provisions and also his laundry.

‘He’s a good feller is old Tom. Keeps the place nice and tidy outside,’ remarked Winney, the cook and general manager of the pub. ‘He cleans the yard and bottles up the empties from the night.’

‘Aye Winney, ah wish my old man would do that at home the silly sod. Hardly lifts his arse off the settee all day apart from coming here and wasting his dole money on the dogs,’ answered Susan, stubbing her cig out on the greasy carpet.

‘Yer don’t give him any of your earnings here, do yer Sue?’

‘No fear Winney. My money’s me own. T’other day when we were a bit slack, ah sidles up to Tom and says, ‘fancy a blow job for a fiver?’’

‘An what did he say?’

‘Looks at me with his one good eye; not embarrassed like, and says “not today Susan,” and sure as the devil, winked at me with his funny eye.”

His other daily port of call was at the aptly named Red Dragon pub on the estate. Tom would sweep the front pavement and Winney would let him into the yard. He would sort the bottles into crates and stack them up. When he had finished, he’d clean up at the outside tap and Winney would bring him out a glass of cider and a large soup plate of meat pie, mushy peas with lashings of gravy. That’s all she served on a daily basis, day in day out. On special occasions the peas might be swapped for baked beans. The pub had been empty for years. No self-respecting landlord would run a pub on this estate. The local drug baron set up the pub as his outlet, which provided beer if you could afford it, drugs, betting and meals.

The upper floors operated as a brothel where Susan and other local girls supplemented their benefit payments. The toilets sported condom and free hypodermic needle machines donated by the local drug rehabilitation centre, in an attempt to cut down on Aids. ‘No smoking,’ regulations inside communal buildings hadn’t reached the Red Dragon so Tom ate his meals outside, on wet days under a garish beer advertising brolley. Tom ate there because he knew the provenance of the meat pies. The butcher on the parade made them and delivered them personally at twelve. The Red Dragon only opened at noon and closed when the last punter left or was kicked out some early hours of the morning. Two bouncers on the door vetted the punters and ensured order inside. With no altercations ever reported the police gave the Red Dragon a wide berth.

“H’s a strong bugger is our old Tom,” remarked Colto his mate Elvis as they passed Tom cleaning the pavements outside the Red Dragon.

“Aye, ah heard that Joey took him on and he’s no slouch. That’s how he spent his time inside you know like.”

“Joey comes out of the Dragon, spots Ole Tom and chucks his fag end and tells him to sweep it up. Tom does without batting an eyelid. Then Joey gobs up a real green un and tells him to clean that up. Then Tom wacks Joey in his guts with the back of his spade. Knocks the wind out of him like. Grabs him in an arm-lock and has him on the pavement rubbing his nose in it.”

The youths on the estate gave Tom a wide berth after the incident with Joey for which Tom was grateful. The ones who had missed out on the regular meals and body building inside were too feeble to be much of a physical problem but they liked to bait someone that seemed to be in a position inferior to them. Tom could put up with the cat calls and antics of a few. His earpiece and preoccupation with other things ensured he missed most of it. What he did notice was the constant petty crime on the estate. He wondered why these people wrought havoc on people of their own kind rather than away from their own patch.

The landlord of the pub, the local drug baron, had converted a row of three vacant, boarded up houses into a cannabis nursery. He mentioned this to the local bobby and wrote a note in the register but no one took notice for a while. The police set up surveillance by posting a telephone van nearby to observe. Since no one had a land line on the estate, the observers were soon spotted and the van bodily overturned. The drug enforcement agency sent a team in to investigate but failed to heed Tom’s warning that all the windows on the ground floor had been bricked up behind the boarding and the flimsy wooden doors had been replaced by steel ones. After four hours, the fire brigade was eventually called in to make access through a top window. They found plenty of evidence of cannabis growing but the crop had been removed by the culprits through the adjoining attics and had been trucked away from five doors down along the end terrace whilst the police were trying to get access. They backed off empty handed quickly as a mass of youths started hurling stones at them.

‘Hi Linda. I’ve read all of the transcripts you sent me and updated everything on my laptop.”

“I’ve seen the updates Alex and think they are great. Shall I send them on to your editor? After all you have two tomes sitting on my desk, plus your collection of poems.”

“I’m not sure Linda. I’ll give it some thought.”

“Well, there’s no harm in sending the drafts to Erin. He’s not the fastest editor on the planet. I should think you would like some feedback. I think these last two novels are the best you have produced so far but who am I to judge?”

“OK Linda, post them out but only to Erinand tell him I don’t want our publisher to know. I want them to stew for a little while.”

“No problem, Alex. You seemed to have picked up some local colour. Some of the descriptions and antics of your characters are priceless.”

“Well, the job certainly allows me to observe the local humanity in the raw. I didn’t think it would be such a source of inspiration. All I wanted was some mild physical exercise to take my mind of the pain and discomfort.”

“I don’t think I would want to be a road sweep just to write. Don’t you find it tedious?”

“That’s what I needed Linda, something simple and physical that gets me out into the open air. The bonus as you have noted is that I’ve managed to observe people carrying on their lives at close quarters. The other thing is, and it’s quite shocking, the way people are dismissive of the disabled and the lowly workers. I think that in most people’s eyes, a road sweep is the lowest of the low. Many have said within earshot that I must be mad working all day in all weathers for a pittance and that I would be much better off on the dole and on disability allowance. In many ways I agree with them. The worst thing is that I’m looked on as a simpleton. The police have dismissed me as a reliable witness in crimes I’ve reported. Even my Depot manager talks down to me and each Thursday I write a missive in his register. He doesn’t seem to connect that I’m not stupid, well maybe I must be to take on a job like that in their eyes.”

“It’s done you good Alex it seems. Now how long are you going to keep up this pretence?”

“Well, I’m due for a medical in six weeks time when they decide to fix my leg or not. That may be the marker.”

“Well, don’t overdo it Alex. The winter’s coming and you shouldn’t be out in that weather.”

“Thanks for your concern, Linda. Now this Sunday, can we meet up again for lunch at the Butcher’s Boy? I’ll bring the transcripts for you to file and you can bring me some more blank tapes.”

“I’m not sure I should be associating with a road sweep. But on the other hand, I’m not going to pass up an invitation to the Butcher’s Boy. It’s quite a drive for you. You sure it’s OK?”

“Let’s say it’s far enough away so that nobody recognises me. I promise to leave my brush at home. Bye Linda.”

‘Tom found me handbag Mavis,’ said Freda from sixty-nine. “The buggers had chucked it over the wall into Olive’s garden. Tooken the purse, the bastards.”

“Aye and Tom telt the bobby that it was those two Walkerlads that done it. Said they were in’t Dragon spending yer cash on’t drugs like.”

“Ahs didn’t see them. They knocked me over and fled like. Had those hoodies on. They’ed vanished by’t time ahs got up,” continued Freda. “Bobby took nor notice of’t Tom. Ahs reckon they could have caught the buggers if’t they gone up to’t Dragon.”

Six weeks later and on a bleak Thursday morning, Tom, instead of taking a bus ride, was trundling his dust cart to the Council Depot with a package resting in the basket and letter in his overcoat pocket. The package contained his rubber boots, over trousers and fluorescent coat and the envelope contained a white sheet of bond paper, with his resignation neatly written in a flowing style, thanking the Manager, Foreman and the Councillors for giving him the opportunity to work for them. The letter stated that he was resigning on health grounds; signed, Yours sincerely, Alex Teddington (Tom the road sweep).