“‘Change' is not a four-letter word, you know Ginger,” Mr Plummer watched as ‘Ginger’ Green pondered this statement. He could almost see Ginger's fingers working as the calculation was made.
“Yes, Mr Plummer, I can see how that might be true, however, I can also see that the gang might think of a few four-letter words that would describe the prospect of change. They won't like it. As Ted would say, that's a known fact.”
George Plummer couldn't disagree with the sentiments expressed. It was at times like this that he looked back to the days he had spent on those courses on ‘handling change’ and reflected that none of them seemed to adequately cover ‘handling change’ when dealing with the members of Refuse Gang Number 3 of the Morvin District Council. They definitely didn't cover handling Ginger Green. Ginger was about as broad as he was long, a slab of a man wearing bib and brace overalls and a chunky knitted jumper. He wore a greasy cap over what remained of the hair that had given him his nickname. A hand-rolled cigarette hung from his lower lip, remaining in place even when he spoke. He differed from his workmates in that he never wore a donkey jacket, “I ain't no donkey; he'd cry. Perhaps he was no donkey, thought Mr Plummer, but he certainly was a stubborn man when he was crossed.
“Let's give it a try,” said Mr Plummer, “I'm sure they'll realise it's a good idea if they give it a try.”
“Right, Mr Plummer, we'll see how it goes.” Mr Plummer watched the receding figure of Ginger Green and thought to himself, well that's the first bit of change started, though God knows what they'll do when it comes to the second. He shuddered and went back to his office in search of a cup of coffee with a little ‘strengthener' from the bottle in the bottom drawer.
Ginger Green removed his cap and scratched his head, all the while considering the three other members of Number Three Gang. There was Ted who he'd already quoted to Mr Plummer. He was an intelligent bloke, was Ted. Why he was content to be a dustman with such a brain, no one could ever work out. “I know a lot of stuff,” he would say, “but it ain't necessarily useful stuff,” he would add. He wore steel rimmed glasses perched on a bulbous nose and smiled his chubby, cheery, knowledgeable smile. He was a leading light in the Popington Magna and District Quiz League and could always be guaranteed to have an answer or an opinion in any conversation. His snippet of knowledge was generally followed by, “And that's a known fact,” hence his nickname, ‘Known Fact’. When he delivered one of these facts the rest of the gang would echo “Known fact” and fall about laughing. Ted always took it in good part.
Next to Ted was Pete, ‘Piggin' to the gang. He was six feet four. His mother was four feet six. Actually, she was four feet eight and a quarter inches, but Ginger wasn't one to let two and a quarter inches spoil his idea of symmetry and this was Ginger's description. When you looked at Peter it was hard to imagine that this gentle giant had ever sprung from such a little woman as Alice Bourne. It had been a difficult birth and an emergency caesarean had been needed to complete the deed. As so often with ‘big' men, he was a gentle creature. As Ginger said, “When the brains were being given out, Peter wasn't so much behind the door as outside the building and in the next street.”
When he joined Number Three Gang of the refuse department it was the noisiest, most foul-mouthed gang in the department and ‘Ginger’ Green was its Gaffer. When Peter heard his new Gaffer utter his usual greeting to the gang, he covered his ears with hands the size of shovels as tears welled in his eyes. “Don't swear,” he'd whined, “Don't like swearing.” Ginger was a soft-hearted bloke and the gang agreed, there and then, that they would no longer swear.
‘Known Fact’ suggested they have a swear box and put ten pence in every time a swearword was used. They all agreed, though Ginger was having second thoughts by the end of the week when he was told that he owed a fiver. His reply to the news cost him another fifty pence. So that Ginger could afford to survive in the gang they had to agree that ‘piggin' wasn't swearing. This decided, peace returned and Peter became ‘Piggin' Pete’.
Frank Pearson was the gang's driver. He was so deaf that he wore two hearing aids which he switched off when he was operating the dust cart. He said that the noise of the cart got on his nerves while he was working. The gang, with customary insensitivity nicknamed him ‘Deafo’, but not within hearing aid range. Piggin of course, didn't understand and one day called him it to his face as they sat in a circle, swilling hot tea. Frank's face coloured and Ginger could see a storm coming. Known Fact saved the day by telling Frank that the nickname was spelled ‘Defoe’ and was from Daniel Defoe because of Frank's wild appearance, he didn't comb his long hair much and his stubbly chin made them think of Robinson Crusoe, Defoe's famous character. This seemed to please Frank, though the rest of the gang couldn't think why and had to have the whole thing carefully explained. They called him Daniel or Danny after that when they remembered, just to be on the safe side.
The three gang members looked at their gaffer anxiously. “What did he say, Ginger?” Deafo asked.
“He said we got to give it a try. He thinks we'll get used to it.”
“Get used to what, Ginger?” Piggin’ asked, wringing his cap between his great hands as if it were wash leather.
“Change!” said Ginger.
“I got change,” said Piggin’. “I got two tens and a fifty and one of them tokens for the car wash.”
“Not that sort of change,” Known Fact said, “It means doing something different, son.”
“Like what?” Piggin's face scrunched up with the effort of considering what ‘change’ might be.
“Wheelie bins mate,” said Known Fact with a sigh, “wheelie bins.”
The previous week, a large lorry had toured the streets of Popington Magna depositing a bright, shiny, green wheelie bin at each property on the Number Three Gang's collection route. This fine sunny Monday was the first day on which they were due to collect the refuse under this new system. The gang were not happy. The sun shone brightly but a cloud hung over the dust cart as it wound its way to the beginning of the collection route, its new-fangled apparatus bolted to the back. They had been given training. Well some spotty kid from the office had said it was easy and operated the lift a couple of times but they hadn't really given it a lot of notice.
They reached the first houses on the route and Piggin’ leapt out and grabbed the new bins. He effortlessly swung one onto each shoulder and set off for the back of the cart. As he swung them up they bashed into the new lifting apparatus and bounced off, depositing their contents over Piggin’ and the footpath.
“Not like that Piggin’, you put them one at a time on this bracket here and press this button.” Known Fact pressed the button and Piggin’, who was leaning on the wheelie bin trying to examine the bracket found himself rising majestically into the air to be deposited, not so majestically, into the back of the truck.
“Watch it, Known Fact,” said Piggin’ as he climbed out of the truck and picked off bits of assorted refuse. As the morning went on they got used to the new way of working. Piggin’ agreed that it was easier if he wheeled the bins rather than carrying them on his shoulders but Ginger secretly thought that there wasn't much in it. The one thing they did decide was that Piggin’ should not be allowed to press the button. It was a simple process, hook on the bin, and press the button. Such a simple process gave a fifty-fifty chance of being right but in Piggin's case it became a dead cert of being wrong so either Known Fact or Ginger stayed by the truck and operated the machinery when Piggin’ brought the bins.
Midway through the afternoon they arrived in Honey-pot Lane and stopped outside ‘Bee Skeps'. Ginger Green looked at the new wheelie bin outside the high wooden gate and smiled to himself. Perhaps, he thought, these new bins were useful after all. It was taller than the old metal bins and had a hinged lid which seemed sturdy enough for the purpose. The bin was nicely full and so the lid would be supported well by the refuse underneath. He wheeled the bin into position beside the tall hedge and called to the rest of the gang.
“What are you up to?” said Known Fact with a knowing smile on his cheery face.
“Just you come and hold this bin steady,” said Ginger, “come on, Piggin’ - give us a hand up.” With Piggin's help he climbed onto the bin and stood up carefully so that he was able to look over the high hedge into Mrs Turton-Smythe's pride and joy, her garden and apiary.
The bees buzzed in the warm sunshine and Mrs Turton-Smythe hummed to herself as she attended to the little jobs that needed doing around the hives in summer. She wore her hat with its veil and wielded the smoker with care. This sight, one would have thought, would not have interested a man of Ginger's type. It was the fact that the hat with the veil was all that Mrs Turton-Smythe wore that interested Ginger. Ginger's Missus was a substantial figure in her own right but she was as nothing to the rubenesque form of Mrs Turton-Smythe as she flitted from one hive to another, like an enormous pink bee, humming all the while.
“What's he looking at?” asked Piggin’ as Known Fact adjusted the position of the bin to Ginger's instructions.
“Never you mind," said Known Fact, “You're too young to know such things.”
“I doubt if he'll ever be old enough to appreciate this view,” said Ginger, wobbling slightly as the bin was moved. “Definitely one for the connoisseur is our Cynthia, damn it, she's gone in.”
“That's swearing,” Piggin’ said with a smile, “ten pence in the box.
“Worth every penny,” smiled Ginger climbing down, “In fact here's twenty, it were bloody marvellous.”
Cynthia Turton-Smythe was well known in the town for her famous honey and her work on the council but, perhaps, less well known for the ideas on naturism that her large and secluded garden allowed her. Ginger had often glimpsed her in the past from his perch on an upturned metal bin, but these new wheelie bins were just the thing for a grandstand view. The rest of the gang dragged him, reluctantly, back to work. Ginger had decided that these bins were alright.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
George Plummer was a worried man. The new wheelie bins had been, in his opinion, a great success. After a fortnight, there were no complaints from any of the gangs, not even from Number Three. Why was he worried then? He had given himself two weeks’ grace before he knew he would have to tell Ginger and the gang about the second bit of change that the powers-that-be had made it his onerous duty to implement. The time was now here when he must ‘bite the bullet’.
‘Could I have a word, Ginger?’ George said, on a bright morning at the depot. George felt anything but bright.
‘Sure, Mr Plummer,’ said Ginger, ‘would that be a swear word or one of Known Fact’s long and ‘ardly pronounceable ones?’
‘Please don't be flippant, Ginger, I have prevaricated too long already and it doesn't get any easier.”
‘Definitely one of Known Fact's long words is that, Mr Plummer.”
‘Oh, do shut up, Ginger, this isn't easy and you're making it harder. The fact is…’
‘Known fact, is it?" Ginger grinned.
‘Ginger, please. The truth of the matter is that when they introduced the new wheelie bins, they had done a ‘time and motion’ study which shows,’ Mr Plummer paused and licked his lips nervously.
‘This shows that only three men are needed for each round, a driver and two collectors.’ Ginger finished the sentence for him.
‘You know?’
‘Of course, we know,’ Ginger smiled, ‘the whole thing had to be agreed with the unions, didn’t it? Well, Mr Plummer, who's it to be?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Who have you chosen to move on from our gang, who's for the chop?’ There were times when Ginger enjoyed watching George Plummer squirm and this was one of them. He did not envy him the task. George looked at Ginger grinning like a Cheshire cat and sudden inspiration came. The smile that spread across George's face was easily the equal of Ginger's.
‘Ah, well, Ginger, Head Office has insisted that I delegate.’
‘There you go George, using big words again.’ Ginger's expression had now become one of uncertainty, of fear, in fact.
‘I'll use words of one syllable then, shall I Ginger? You choose.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes Ginger, the job of choosing has been delegated to crew gaffers. You can make a choice yourself or you can allow your gang to do it democratically. There I go using big words again. Oh, and by the way, drivers and gaffers are exempt of course; flip a coin if you like. Just let me have the name by the end of the day, there's a good chap.’ George Plummer walked back to his office with a lighter step.
He would ring Head Office immediately and let them know that the gaffers had requested that they be allowed to make the choice themselves. He just hoped that neither the gaffers, nor Head Office found out that he had worked a fast one.
‘You look as if you've lost a shilling and found sixpence or whatever that is in new money.” Known Fact put a hand on Ginger's shoulder as the gaffer of Number Three gang joined his mates for a mug of scalding tea. ‘Two sugars?’ Deafo asked.
‘Make it four,’ Ginger moaned, sitting on a rickety dining chair and putting his hands to his face.
‘That bad, is it?” Known Fact quipped. ‘Come on then Ginger, who has he chosen? We've known for a fortnight that one of us had to go, trust George to leave us sweating on it for so long.’
‘Well, that's the problem. I can't help thinking that George has pulled a flanker. He was about to tell me about it, and I was just enjoying how awkward he was feeling about the whole thing, when he ups and says that the gaffers of the refuse gangs have to do their own dirty work. I have to choose.’ Ginger took a mouthful of tea and winced at its sweetness.
‘So, what do we do then, put four names in a hat and pick one?’ Known Fact looked at Ginger over his glasses and then he took them off and polished the lenses with a handkerchief that was none too clean.
‘No, mate, George says that drivers and gaffers are not to be chosen so, basically it's down to you and Piggin’. George suggests we might toss a coin.’
‘I got a coin,’ said Piggin’ digging his great fist into his pocket, ‘Heads or tails?” He tossed the coin into the air and caught it carefully as Known Fact said,
‘Heads.’ Piggin’ peered at the coin carefully.
‘Well,’ said Known Fact, ‘what is it?’
‘It says, one wash,’ Piggin’ peered at the coin until Ginger took it from him.
‘I'll do it.’ Ginger took a ten pence coin from his pocket and they went through the process of flipping and calling, then explaining to Piggin’ that he had lost and would, therefore, have to go and join Refuse Gang Number Five who were a man short. It could have been worse; some of the men were being made redundant. For Piggin’ it was hard to understand. These were his friends, they understood him, they were patient with him, and they laughed with him, not at him. They all wondered what might happen to Piggin’.
Within two days, Piggin was back with Number Three gang.
‘Just for a while,’ said Mr Plummer, ‘just until we sort out where best to put him.’ Piggin’ hadn't enjoyed his time with Number Five gang. They all swore all the time and when Piggin’ tried to explain about the swear box, the gaffer told him where he could put the swear box. Piggin’ had picked up the gaffer and deposited him unceremoniously into the back of the dust cart. Each time the gaffer climbed out and swore at Piggin’ he was put back until the other gang members and a passing policeman persuaded Piggin’ to stop.
‘He's not a nice gaffer,’ said Piggin’, ‘not like you Ginger. Can I come back?’ Piggin's face was a picture of misery and the whole gang rallied round to try and cheer him up. Mr Plummer did a bit of juggling of the crews and managed to get a place for Piggin on Number One gang whose gaffer was known to be a churchgoer, though ‘only chapel’ as Piggin’ put it. Piggin's mother was church warden at St Botolph’s and she and Piggin’ were bell ringers. George knew that Jim Fletcher wouldn't have swearing on his gang so he thought it might work out.
Piggin’ was back in less than a day. The driver of the dust cart for Number One gang was a lump called Bert Tredall. He took against Piggin’ almost immediately as he could see that Piggin’ was a big lad but a soft touch. After he had called Piggin's mother a midget it had taken the rest of the gang ten minutes to get Bert out of the wheelie bin where Piggin’ had jammed him, head down. Ginger and the gang had laughed when they heard of it but they knew that things were getting serious.
‘What are we gonna do Ginger?’ Deafo said, ‘If Piggin’ does something like that again he'll get the push. I know what Bert said was sizeist, or whatever, but he can't go doing this sort of thing.’
‘I don't know what to do for best. Let me think about it for a bit then I'll go and see Mr Plummer and get it sorted.’
Mr Plummer had no idea what to do either. It would not be fair to Known Fact to make him move instead Piggin because the thing had been done fairly, yet at this rate there wouldn't be a gang that Piggin could work with. On the other hand, he did not want to sack Piggin who could, literally, do the work of two men. The answer came to him at about five in the morning after a restless night.
‘I have made up my mind what to do about young Peter,’ George's face looked very serious.
‘Don't sack him, Mr Plummer I've got a suggestion. Give us some longer routes to work and let us keep Piggin. You know we can work a much longer route in the same time if we have his help. You know what a hard worker he is. We'll all muck in and that way it'll save money ‘cos you won't need to get an extra crew started when that new housing estate gets finished. Popington's growing all the time. We could take up the slack.’ George Plummer had never heard such a long and impassioned speech from Ginger before. He was impressed, especially since this was the solution that had come to him in the small hours.
‘You're right, Ginger - that could just be the answer. You do know it would mean you'd lose out on Honey Pot Lane.’ Ginger looked at George. How could he know about Cynthia the naturist?
‘Er, well, look Mr Plummer…' he stammered.
‘I know how much the tips from that area mean to you lads at Christmas. There won't be as much coming from the cheap houses on the estate.’
‘Tips at Christmas? Yes, of course it would be a shame but for Piggin I'm sure the lads would understand.’
‘Right then, I’ll get the new routes sorted and you can have Peter back.’
The gang were very pleased. ‘Pity about Cynthia,’ said Known Fact.
‘Never mind about Cynthia,’ muttered Ginger, ‘I've got Piggin back and we're a team again.’
‘Thanks Gaffer,’ said Piggin Pete with a grin a mile wide.
‘Here Gaffer - you can have the money from the swear box.’
‘Thanks, Piggin, that’s bloody good of you.’
‘And that's ten pence you owe for the new box,’ said Piggin.
It was about the time that Ginger was sinking the first pint that he had bought with the money from the swear box that it struck him that most of the money in it had come from him in the first place.
‘Never mind,’ he said to no one in particular as he picked out a ten pence piece and set it carefully aside from the rest, ‘without your friends the world is a whole heap of …’