Dustbin
By paul_diamond
- 951 reads
DUSTBIN
By Paul Diamond
I first met Augustus Clapp when we were enrolled in the reception class
at
Bethnal Green mixed infants on the same day. Augustus was the youngest
of a large
and impecunious family. His father, Billy, obviously thought that he
could make up
for what his children lacked materially by giving them fancy names.
Augustus's
sisters were Fiona, Hortensia and Ariadne; his brothers were Marmaduke,
Claude
and Horatio. He was Augustus and his mother got very aggressive if she
heard
anybody refer to him as Gussie or Gus.
He was a skinny scraggy child with a layer of snot on his upper lip
which he
was constantly trying to sniff back up his nose. As this was bound to
fail he would
relieve the wet discomfort by occasionally cuffing the snot away with
the woollen
sleeve of his ragged jumper which looked as if an army of snails had
marched along
it. His brown hair was lank and greasy although he was taken to the
barber every
few months to have the electric clippers run all over his head to
produce a
fourpenny all off. This did not dissuade the Council nurse, Nitty
Norah, from
plunging his head into a school washbasin to scrub it with coal tar
shampoo
Augustus sat quietly at the back of the class trying not to be noticed.
Miss
Chant, the teacher, avoided him. The first time she had addressed him
directly he
had been so frightened that a liquid stream had dribbled from under the
patched
grey shorts and formed a pool under the desk. Some even splashed on the
little girl
sitting in front of him. Everything was cleaned up fairly quickly but
Miss Chant
was not going to have another run-in with the little girl's mother so
Augustus
dreamed his way through infants' school undisturbed. It seems that he
learned to
read after a fashion, more by osmosis than by instruction and passed up
into the
junior school at seven.
It was here that he got his nickname. He was permanently hungry and
only
showed enthusiasm when the bell went at the end of the morning and we
snaked
into the hall for school dinner. He ate very fast, shovelling food into
his mouth.
When he had finished he looked around the table for unemptied plates.
He would
bellow "Shove 'em over!" and two more dinners might follow the first.
We watched
the performance every day with some awe until one of the boys laughed
"Augustus
- you're not a boy - you're a bleet'n dustbin". After that he was
always called
Dustbin. He did not mind, in fact he took some pride in the name. He
was not
clever at school work; he was not particularly good at games but nobody
could deny
he was the best eater in the school.
After junior school we parted company. I passed the eleven plus and
went on
to the grammar school off Cambridge Heath Road while he finished in a
low stream
in the secondary modern. By now he was growing enormous; eleven years
old he
was five foot seven and weighed over twelve stone. I lost sight of him
then for some
years. He must have left school at fifteen because I used to see him
from time to
time around the town sitting on the tailboard of a covered lorry
working as a van
boy for a local firm. He always waved cheerily and at first I used to
wave back and
call "Hello Dustbin". By now he was over six foot and had a girth to
match. When
I got to the sixth form I ignored him when I saw him. Young
intellectuals who
intend to become famous writers do not consort with van boys.
After 'A' levels came national service. I decided to go for a short
service
commission in the army. It meant serving for three years instead of two
but I could
be sure of a university place and a gratuity when I was demobbed. I was
accepted
and did officer training until I was allowed to wear a made-to -measure
uniform
with a Sam Browne belt and a single golden pip on each shoulder. My
mother
thought I looked lovely. I was posted to an infantry battalion in
Wiltshire.
Approaching the camp gate I saw the guard attempt a very clumsy
move
from 'at ease' to 'attention'. I was an officer and was entitled to a
smarter salute
than this. Going to tick the man off I saw that it was the six foot
six, fifty four inch
waist Dustbin. He dropped his rifle in the dirt, grinned happily and
stuck out a
hand. "Hello me old mate." I was mortified. What could I do?
"Atten-shun!" I
yelled, and he pulled himself straight. "Pick up your rifle." He picked
it up by the
butt end and took some time to get it the right way up and to stand
once again at
attention.
"Private Clapp" I barked "You know how to address an officer.
`` Any more of this and I'll have you on a charge."
Dustbin looked hurt. "Sorry mate."
"I'm not mate. I'm sir. What am I?"
"You're sir, sir."
"Now come to attention properly."
He did the best he could and I left it at that. I found that he was
still eating
everything in sight and his nickname had followed him into the army.
When his
two years were up he tried to sign on for regular service but there was
little use for a
General Duties private whose only skill was picking up litter and
scrubbing floors.
He went back home and I served out my time.
The University I went to was a long way from Bethnal Green so for
three
years I rarely saw my parents. I stayed on for teacher training and at
twenty five I
found myself living at home, sleeping in my old bedroom and eating my
mother's
food, a scale one English teacher at my old school. My mail consisted
almost
entirely of rejection slips.
One summer evening, feeling thoroughly miserable, I decided to go to
the
movies. Crossing Old Ford Road I saw a small crowd gathered outside
the
entrance to York Hall our local indoor arena. I stopped to see what the
fuss was
about. A limousine drew up, a uniformed chauffeur jumped out smartly
and
opened the doors. The crowd began to cheer. A huge man got out,
expensively
groomed and beautifully dressed. He waved patronisingly to the crowd
and turned
to help a woman out of the car - a six foot blonde showgirl with legs
up to her
armpits. The cheering got louder and he waved again. "Who is he?" I
asked the
man next to me. He pointed to a large poster. There was Dustbin in
black tights,
naked to the waist and leaning forward menacingly. Under the
heading
WRESTLING there was a name in 90 point. ' AUGUSTE POUBELLE' and
in
smaller type underneath 'The Parisian Panther, World Heavyweight
Champion.'
Dustbin had made it.
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bernard shaw What an
bernard shaw
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