♦
The following day Hamish strolled down to the harbour to watch the work on the new hotel. Jobs were scarce in the Highlands, and he was pleased to see so many of the locals at work.
“Hamish?”
He swung round. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe stood there. He felt for a moment that old tug at his heart as he watched the clear oval of her face and the shining bell of her hair. But then he said mildly, “Come to watch the rivals at work, Priscilla?”
“Something like that. It worries me, Hamish. We’ve been doing so well. They’re going to take custom away from us.”
“They haven’t any fishing rights,” said Hamish easily. “That’s what most of your guests come for – the fishing. And you don’t take coach parties.”
“Not yet. We may have to change our ways to compete.”
“I haven’t seen a sign of the new owner yet,” remarked Hamish.
“I believe he’s got hotels all over Europe.”
“Any of your staff showing signs of deserting?”
“Not yet. But oh, Hamish, what if he offers much higher wages? We’ll really be in trouble.”
“Let’s see what happens,” said Hamish lazily. “I find if you sit tight and don’t do anything, things have a way of resolving themselves.”
“How’s your new copper getting on?”
Hamish sighed. “I thought the last one, Willie Lamont, was a pain with his constant cleaning and scrubbing and not paying any attention to his work. One new cleaner for sale and he was off and running. Now I’ve got Clarry. That’s the trouble wi’ living in Lochdubh, Priscilla. At Strathbane, they say to themselves, now which one can we really do without, and so I get Clarry. Oh, he’s good-natured enough. And he’s a grand cook, but he smells a bit and he iss damn lazy.” Hamish’s accent always became more sibilant when he was upset. “If he doesn’t take a bath soon, I’m going to tip him into the loch.”
Priscilla laughed. “That bad?”
“That bad.”
“And what’s all this greening business?”
“It’s that bossy woman. You weren’t at the church hall?”
“No.”
“She is from the council, and she wants us to put all our rubbish into separate containers. There come the big bins.”
Priscilla looked along the waterfront. A crane was lifting the first of the huge bell-shaped objects into place. “We don’t like change,” she said. “They’ll rebel. They won’t put a single bottle or newspaper in any of those bins.”
“Ah, but you haven’t seen the green dustman yet. There he is!”
Fergus, resplendent in his new uniform, had appeared. He was standing with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels, his face shadowed by his huge peaked cap.
“Heavens,” said Priscilla faintly. “All he needs to complete that ensemble is a riding crop or a swagger stick.”
“I think that uniform means trouble,” said Hamish. “Have you noticed that traffic wardens and people like that turn into fascist beasts the moment they get a uniform on?”
“A dustman can’t do much.”
“He can do a lot in the way of petty bullying. The Currie sisters didn’t give Fergus a Christmas box, and he didn’t collect their rubbish until they complained to the council.”
“Well, there you are. Any bullying, they’ll all complain to the council, and then it’ll stop.”
“If that Fleming woman will listen to anyone.”
“What’s her game? Is she a dedicated environmentalist? It said on the flyer that she was in charge of the council’s environment department.”
“I think, talking of bullies, that she likes to find ways of spending the taxpayers’ money to order people around. In fact, here she comes.”
Mrs. Fleming drove along the waterfront while they watched. She got out of the car. Fergus strutted up to her.
Priscilla exploded into giggles. “Would you believe it, Hamish? Fergus saluted her.”
Hamish laughed as well. The summer days and lack of crime on his beat were making him lazier than ever and dulling his usual intuition. He did not guess that Fergus’s silly salute would make Mrs. Fleming not hear one word against him, and so set in train a chain of events which would lead to horror.
∨ Death of a Dustman ∧
2
The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwep ‘t, unhonor ‘d, and unsung.
—Sir Walter Scott
The next collection day passed without incident, and the following one. But then the boxes and wheelie bins were delivered and Fergus began to take his revenge.
The elderly Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, were the first victims. This was very unfair for they were among the few residents who had actually separated their rubbish into boxes and had put the rest into the wheelie bin. They found the boxes had been emptied of cans, bottles and papers, but the wheelie bin was still full and on it was a note on green paper.
It said, “Garden rubbish is to be burnt. F. Macleod. Environment Officer.”
“What does he mean, ‘garden rubbish’?” asked Nessie. “We haven’t got any.”
“Haven’t got any,” echoed her sister, who had the irritating habit of repeating the last words anyone, including herself, said. “I’ll get a chair, get a chair.” For the bin was too large for the small sisters to look into easily.
Jessie carried out a kitchen chair and, standing on it, lifted the plastic lid and peered down into the bin. “There’s just those dead roses, the ones that were in the vase, that we threw out, threw out.”
“I’m going to write to the council,” said Nessie.
♦
“He hasn’t taken the garbage,” complained Clarry.
“Where’s the wee man’s wretched wheelie bin?” asked Hamish. “You’re supposed to use it, not leave it in bags.”
“Och, I thought that wheelie bin would be grand for the hen feed,” said Clarry.
Hamish sighed. “Get it out and put the garbage into it, Clarry. We’re now living under a dictatorship.”
♦
And so it happened all round the village. After all, it was the villagers some years ago who had taken away the network-type metal baskets from the waterfront to use as lobster pots. Highland ingenuity had therefore found many uses for the wheelie bins other than the one for which they were intended. They were used to store all sorts of implements and cattle feed. Children played games at wheeling each other up and down the waterfront in them and their parents duly received threatening green notes from the dustman.
Letters of complaint poured into Strathbane Council. Mrs. Fleming hailed originally from Hamilton in Lanarkshire. She thought all Highlanders were lazy and difficult and just plain weird. And so she did not trouble to answer even one of the letters. She told her secretary to throw them all away.
♦
“I’ve got a wee job for you, Clarry,” said Hamish. “Our job is to protect everyone in this village and that includes a pest like Fergus Macleod. Get round there and tell him to go easy. He’s leaving garbage uncollected for this reason and that reason, and the atmosphere is getting ugly.”
Clarry brightened at the thought of seeing Martha again. “Right, sir.”
“And Clarry. Order yourself a new uniform from Strathbane.”
Clarry looked down at his round figure. “Why?”
“That one’s all old and shiny, and when did you last have a bath?”
Clarry blushed and hung his head.
“Aye, well, why don’t you nip into the bathroom and have a bath, and I’ll do what I can wi’ your uniform.”
Clarry meekly went off to the bathroom. Hamish opened up the ironing table in the kitchen and began to sponge and clean and press Clarry’s uniform.