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.