guru of the kerb and gutter…”
“Yes, I agree, Malcolm, but you’re not a very quick one, are you? Not compared to our robots. And that’s the buzz-word here. We need speed, baby . Super, zippy-fast action man. The kind that will put us in line with our European counterparts. Plus – and I think I touched on this beforehand – we don’t have to pay them any money.” Mister Bartholemew gestured, if that was possible given the size of the office, towards the yard. The droids, lined up in the middle of the yard, silent and unmoving, were visible through the office window. Sunlight reflected on the plates bearing their identification numbers: RR: 1, RR: 2, RR: 3, and RR: 4.
Malcolm glared through the windowat them – he could imagine them laughing, or in any case burping at him. He turned to Mister Bartholemew. “So that’s it then, eh? I’m on the scrapheap. It’s Goodbye Charlie fer ol’ Malcy…”
“Now, now Malcolm – nobody is trying to get rid of you,” soothed Mister Bartholemew – poor chap, he wasn’t all bad, just a snivelling coward, that’s all. And he could not bear the thought of crossing Willy Eckerslike and losing his own job; he needed the money because Missus Bartholemew had expensive tastes, you know, she did like her holidays in Majorca.
“Have you ever considered a career in horticulture?” he suggested. “Now there’s something – um – more worthy of a man with your talents, requires skill, your kind of attention to detail. Fresh air – the smell of the earth. Good hard work. Oh – those halcyon days of summer, eh? – and you could have your pick of fresh flowers and plants. You could even start a vegetable garden. And you get your very own ‘Head Gardener’ badge. Of course…” Mr Bartholemew lowered his voice, “…you would have to retrain, attend technical college.” Then in almost a whisper, “And there is the small cut in wages to consider but you wouldn’t have to work such long hours…”
Malcolm shook his head, “Mister Bartholemew, sir. You can’t do this to me.You just can’t I’ve been a street cleaner all me workin’ life – that’s nigh on 27 years, you know? My father was a street-cleaner, an’ his father, an’ his father an’ then o’ course there’s ’is father and ’is father’s father. ’Oo do you think piled up all them stones so neatly at Stone’enge. An’ it was one o’ my forefathers who cleared up all those bows an’ arrows an’ stuff after the battle of ’Astings. Blimey, Mister Bartholemew, sir. I ain’t no gardener, sir…”
About then Mister Bartholemew’s temper flared, not because he was angry at Malcolm but because of the thought that he was dismissing a faithful worker. And why? Because he had been told to, that is why.
Oh well – he’d tried the softly-softly approach; no more mister nice guy. “Now look Malcolm, I’ve tried be gentle about this. I’ve tried to lessen the shock – I’ve even offered you another – ah – position to replace your former one. And what have you done in return? Let me tell you – you’ve thrown it all back my face, that’s what. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, or the next day or the day after that because there isn’t anything for you to do. In fact, we never want to see you again, is that clear?”
Then Mister Bartholemew switched moods again from angry and exasperated to crisp and businesslike. His nerveswould never stand-up to all these mood-swings. “Your P45 and any severance pay will be sent to you in the post…”
Distant thunder clouds began to roll and a lightning bolt flashed round the room as Mister Bartholemew added darkly, gravely, “And may God have mercy on your soul. Close the door on your way out. Thankyop! ”
That was it. Malcolm’s world collapsed. It was as though the rug had been pulled out from under him. It was as though two rugs had been pulled out from under him.
As he trudged through the yard he looked up at the first-floor
“Yes, I agree, Malcolm, but you’re not a very quick one, are you? Not compared to our robots. And that’s the buzz-word here. We need speed, baby . Super, zippy-fast action man. The kind that will put us in line with our European counterparts. Plus – and I think I touched on this beforehand – we don’t have to pay them any money.” Mister Bartholemew gestured, if that was possible given the size of the office, towards the yard. The droids, lined up in the middle of the yard, silent and unmoving, were visible through the office window. Sunlight reflected on the plates bearing their identification numbers: RR: 1, RR: 2, RR: 3, and RR: 4.
Malcolm glared through the windowat them – he could imagine them laughing, or in any case burping at him. He turned to Mister Bartholemew. “So that’s it then, eh? I’m on the scrapheap. It’s Goodbye Charlie fer ol’ Malcy…”
“Now, now Malcolm – nobody is trying to get rid of you,” soothed Mister Bartholemew – poor chap, he wasn’t all bad, just a snivelling coward, that’s all. And he could not bear the thought of crossing Willy Eckerslike and losing his own job; he needed the money because Missus Bartholemew had expensive tastes, you know, she did like her holidays in Majorca.
“Have you ever considered a career in horticulture?” he suggested. “Now there’s something – um – more worthy of a man with your talents, requires skill, your kind of attention to detail. Fresh air – the smell of the earth. Good hard work. Oh – those halcyon days of summer, eh? – and you could have your pick of fresh flowers and plants. You could even start a vegetable garden. And you get your very own ‘Head Gardener’ badge. Of course…” Mr Bartholemew lowered his voice, “…you would have to retrain, attend technical college.” Then in almost a whisper, “And there is the small cut in wages to consider but you wouldn’t have to work such long hours…”
Malcolm shook his head, “Mister Bartholemew, sir. You can’t do this to me.You just can’t I’ve been a street cleaner all me workin’ life – that’s nigh on 27 years, you know? My father was a street-cleaner, an’ his father, an’ his father an’ then o’ course there’s ’is father and ’is father’s father. ’Oo do you think piled up all them stones so neatly at Stone’enge. An’ it was one o’ my forefathers who cleared up all those bows an’ arrows an’ stuff after the battle of ’Astings. Blimey, Mister Bartholemew, sir. I ain’t no gardener, sir…”
About then Mister Bartholemew’s temper flared, not because he was angry at Malcolm but because of the thought that he was dismissing a faithful worker. And why? Because he had been told to, that is why.
Oh well – he’d tried the softly-softly approach; no more mister nice guy. “Now look Malcolm, I’ve tried be gentle about this. I’ve tried to lessen the shock – I’ve even offered you another – ah – position to replace your former one. And what have you done in return? Let me tell you – you’ve thrown it all back my face, that’s what. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow, or the next day or the day after that because there isn’t anything for you to do. In fact, we never want to see you again, is that clear?”
Then Mister Bartholemew switched moods again from angry and exasperated to crisp and businesslike. His nerveswould never stand-up to all these mood-swings. “Your P45 and any severance pay will be sent to you in the post…”
Distant thunder clouds began to roll and a lightning bolt flashed round the room as Mister Bartholemew added darkly, gravely, “And may God have mercy on your soul. Close the door on your way out. Thankyop! ”
That was it. Malcolm’s world collapsed. It was as though the rug had been pulled out from under him. It was as though two rugs had been pulled out from under him.
As he trudged through the yard he looked up at the first-floor
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