Community Service Ch. 03

I then climbed the step-ladders, got up onto the platform, and emptied the large basket of dirty white socks into the laundry boiler tank.

Now, at last, the four feet wide, three feet deep laundry boiler tank was full of girls' and women's dirty white socks.

Good ... Now I had to leave the dirty white socks in the laundry boiler tank, for their 2-hour-minimum soak.

I spent what little remaining time there was, leading up to my half-hour lunch break, at 1 p.m. by traipsing some of the now more-than-half-full white-painted wheelie bins up and down the ramp, transporting more and more of the dirty white socks, and tipping them into the main, open-topped hopper ... Repeatedly passing the smirking and chuckling, eating and drinking Norma Newlove, and Gina ("lemon fondant cup-cakes") Stainham.

* * *

Fortunately, as promised by the Community Service Liaison Officer, Harriet Harmman, someone had dropped my clothes off at the Sock Room. Fortunately, because I certainly had no intention of going into town to get something to eat, dressed in my community servant's uniform.

I went to Burger Heaven, a town centre fast-food joint, and bought a burger and fries.

The attractive, blue-eyed, pleasant and cheery eighteen-or-nineteen-year-old counter-girl who served me, who's blonde hair was tucked into her baseball cap style serving hat, and who's name tag proclaimed her to be 'Tina', greeted me with, "Hey! It may never happen! What's up? Why the long face?"

It's already happened -- and you would have a long face, too, Tina, if you had to spend all day hand-washing girls' and women's dirty, stinky socks, I thought. But didn't say.

But I left most of my burger. I'd completely lost my appetite. I just sat there, gloomily staring into the middle-distance, and absentmindedly pushing my fries around my plate.

"See ya!" said the ebullient Tina as I got up to leave my table. She was still trying to cheer me up, and put a smile on my face. But it was a lost cause. I did my best, but I knew my return smile wasn't sitting right on my face. As if some of my facial muscles were now rendered incapable of performing the functions they used to. As if, through chronic lack of use, my 'smiling' muscles were already atrophying.

However, eating out was an extravagance I couldn't afford. From tomorrow, I would bring sandwiches. And, weather permitting, I would eat them sitting on my folding seat in the courtyard -- out of sight of the likes of Mrs Newlove and Gina Stainham.

My half-hour lunch break went by quickly. Very quickly. Seemed to be over in a flash. And, all too soon, it was time to be heading back ... to the Sock Room.

* * *

Upon my return to the Sock Room, my two tormentors, Mrs Newlove and Gina Stainham, pointedly looked at their watches, and tapped the dials accusingly. But I knew I was back early. My own watch read: 1:28 -- and I knew it was right. It was a radio-contolled watch, given to me by my dad on my eighteenth birthday ... Fortunately, it was waterproof.

My two tormentors, I saw with dismay, had now been joined by a third, with-nothing-better-to-do female -- Cheryl Chubb. A friend of Gina Stainham.

A single mother, Cheryl Chubb was aged about twenty-five. She was reasonably attractive, with neck-length, brown hair, brown eyes and; yes, she was a bit on the chubby side.

Though I had seen Cheryl around; out and about, and around town, I had never actually made her acquaintance ... But that was about to change.

This latest Sock Room spectator had settled herself on the third, of the four recliners -- the first, of the two recliners to the right of the six wooden steps (as seen from the Sock Room entry door), and that was just about opposite the hot-and-soapy-water sink.

The fourth, presently unoccupied recliner, was situated about three feet further on to the right, facing between the hot-and-soapy-water sink, and the mangle.

I needed to change back into my community servant's uniform. So I nipped out into the privacy of the courtyard to put my white T-shirt, white shorts, and rubber flip flops back on.

As I was changing, I found myself thinking about Tina.

Tina ... the lovely, pleasant and cheery counter-girl at Burger Heaven, who'd gamely tried to engage me in conversation ... ("Hey! It may never happen! What's up? Why the long face?) ... she'd sounded as if she really wanted to know.

Tina, I'd noticed, had been pleasant and cheery to all of her customers -- long-faced, or otherwise. But ... was it my imagination ... or had Tina been maybe just a little bit extra pleasant and cheery, towards me? Was it my imagination ... or had she looked at me in ... 'that way'? Both, while serving me at the counter, and the times when she'd, seemingly surreptitiously, occasionally glanced over at me, at my table.

And, when she'd said, "See ya!" ... had there been something more, to it? A thinly-veiled message, in her voice? An invitation? Was it my imagination ... or had Tina been showing 'an interest'. Actually ... well, for want of a better phrase: coming on to me?

But I'd been too dull to realise it? I hadn't picked up on it? I was unaware of the signals? I'd been criminally oblivious, to Tina's overtures?

Because, wrapped up in my woeful preoccupation, I hadn't been tuning in? Because, immersed in my own, self-pitying, bleak and disconsolate thoughts, I'd been unreceptive to those subtle signs? Because, intent on my miserable, mournful musings, and shutting out anything and everything else, I'd missed the vibe?

Ha! Dream on! I told myself. Who am I kidding? Get real! Of course, it was just my imagination! Just wishful thinking. I mean, come on! As if! A girl like her -- interested in me? She's well out of my league. Of course it was just my imagination. Must have been! She was just being personable, that's all. She was just being hospitable, that's all. She was just being courteous, and polite, that's all ...

... Or was she?

Having now changed back into my community servant's uniform, I returned to the Sock Room ... My thoughts, full of Tina.

The lovely, ebullient, and caring Tina. The beautiful Tina. The heaven, of Burger Heaven.

Maybe I could make my dwindling finances stretch to another burger, sometime later this week, after all ...

*

Cheryl Chubb also, had taken off her trainers, and had swung her dark blue with white piping tracksuit-bottomed legs up onto her recliner. The soles of her white cotton socks, I now saw, were grey-patched, like Mrs Newlove's. But they were grimy, too, as though Cheryl often walked about shoe-less.

Even more, hard work for me, I bemoaned -- and so unnecessary! But I bemoaned silently, this time. I didn't want to provoke Cheryl Chubb's ire, and find myself having to grovel to her, as well -- my ill-considered and ill-fated run-in with Gina Stainham, still painfully fresh and raw in my mind.

Unlike her two companions, Cheryl Chubb didn't ask me how I was enjoying my first day, working in the Sock Room. Instead, she just followed my movements, as though watching the eccentric and amusing antics of some exotic zoo animal. As if she was thinking: What, in the world, is he going to do next? Ha ha ha ha!

Just look at the three of them -- just lying there! I thought disgustedly. Just lying there, like three well-to-do spa club members relaxing by the Jacuzzi. All that was missing were the pina coladas.

I went back up the makeshift ramp, and checked the current status of the wheelie bins.

My God! Lifting the lids, I found six of them to be more than half full: Four of the white-painted wheelie bins, the navy-blue-painted wheelie bin, and the black-painted wheelie bin.

Obviously, while I'd been out, some of the girls and ladies of Canford had visited the Sock Room during their lunch break. Changing their socks at lunch time -- how extravagant was that! So Gina Stainham, then, was by no means a one-off.

And some of the schoolgirls of St Kate's, and St Esmeralda's, had come to the Sock Room and changed their black socks, and their navy blue socks, respectively, too -- the little minxes!

I could only hope that the novelty value, for the females of Canford, would fade quickly ... But I knew that it wouldn't -- and that, for many of the town's rubbing-my-nose-in-it, females, it never would.

But, I realised with dismay, it wouldn't matter if the novelty did start to wear a little thin, in time, for some of the town's females. Because, out of a sense of civic duty, the wanting-to-do-their-bit, girls and ladies of Canford would still come to the Sock Room in droves. Because of the whole point of the thing: To motivate me -- the community servant sock washer -- into finding gainful employment. And then, no doubt, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda would frogmarch some other poor sod into the Sock Room.

Well ... for now, I could only deal with the white socks. Because the two large dark blue soaking tubs were already being fully utilised -- fully loaded, with the Canford High Year Five schoolgirls' sports socks ... Which reminded me. Another half-hour or so, and I could begin hand-washing them.

I glanced over, at the two large dark blue soaking tubs. Thick, sudsy foam was spilling over the sides, and starting to spread out over the floor, three or four inches deep, towards the mangle ... Well, that's only to be expected, I supposed.

As I steered one of the more-than-half-full, white-painted wheelie bins down the ramp, I was acutely aware of the three pairs of tracking eyes, avidly watching my every move. Acutely aware, of those three spectating females' chuckles, giggles and titters, as I transported yet another load of dirty white socks -- this load, the first of the afternoon -- to the main hopper.

As I descended the makeshift ramp, I overheard Mrs Newlove say, to her two comfortably reclining companions, "Look at the state of those two tubs, heh, heh, heh. I told the idiot he's used far too much detergent ... There's going to be fun, later."

Rubbish! I thought, as I pushed the Start button of the main, open-topped hopper. Once again, the electric motor thrummed, as it hoisted up the latest wheelie bin of girls' and women's dirty white socks.

*

I looked at my watch. It read: 2:15.

Right then, I thought. Time to start hand-washing Year Five's sports socks.

This was going to be easy, I thought. A cinch. The two large dark blue tubs of socks had been frothing up a treat, and they would be sure to wash easily; just a quick, rub-a-scrub-dub, and then transfer them into one of the rinsing tubs.

I put on my rubber washing-up gloves, and got down to work. I plunged my gloved-up-to-the-elbows hands into the first of the two large dark blue soaking tubs. And, as instructed by my two supervisors, I agitated, one by one, dirty white sock after dirty white sock in the hot and soapy water, rubbing and scrubbing and mashing them in my hands.

And, as I did so, one by one I transferred the clean, but sudsy socks into the first of the two rinsing tubs ... Phew! It was hot work!

But I reckoned I'd have both tubs of sports socks -- all 200 of them -- washed, rinsed, mangled, and pegged up on the clothes-lines in the courtyard, by about four o'clock.

The weather was forecast to stay dry, so the socks could be left out overnight. And then I'd iron them tomorrow. Miss Pardew told me she would be here to collect the socks at four o'clock. So they would be done in plenty of time. Ready and waiting for her ... At least, that was the plan.

*

Hmm ... maybe Mrs Newlove did have a point, after all ... perhaps I had, been just a bit heavy-handed with the Kolour Kind detergent.

Rich, ultra-sudsy lather was now foaming out of the two tubs of Year Five's sports socks -- especially the one I was stoically working my way through -- and spreading out across the basement floor. It was already over my ankles, and rising and spreading all the time. And I wasn't even half way through the first of the two tubs of socks yet!

Oh, hell! I thought.

"See, David?" said Mrs Newlove smugly. "What did I tell you?"

Tell me how I can get rid of all of these suds, then, if you want to be of some use! I thought, but didn't say. Hell if I was going to ask her, for advice!

The foamy lather was now almost up to my knees. I started taking the socks; thick with the now gooey detergent, out of the two wash tubs, and I transferred them to the two colander-like rinsing tubs.

Having done so, I attached one end of the rubber hose-pipe to the cold tap of the rinsing sink, put the other end of the hose-pipe into one of the colander-like rinsing tubs, and spun the cold tap fully open.

But, when I began agitating the socks, trying to rinse them through with cold water, things only got worse!

Oh, hell! This was all going wrong. So wrong! How could it get this bad, this quick? Mrs Newlove had been right -- damn the woman!

I went to my janitor's closet ... and came back with the long-handled, 12-inch long, 4-inch deep rubber-bladed squeegee I'd seen earlier.

But it was no good! The squeegee was useless; no match at all, for the ever increasing, rising tide of foam. Foam, that only seemed to get ever thicker. Too thick, to drain away down the grid under the mangle.

Mrs Newlove, Gina Stainham, Cheryl Chubb, and all of the other females present in the Sock Room, hooted with laughter at the spectacle of my self-imposed predicament. The girls and women laughed their heads off, as they watched my lamentable, wholly ineffectual efforts; scooping up handfuls of the gooey stuff, and slopping it down over the already severely congested drain.

Even though the hose-pipe was gushing out cold water full blast, it was proving impossible to rinse out the socks. The cream-coloured, highly-concentrated Kolour Kind had thickened considerably -- and was continuing to thicken. Congealing into a gooey, greasy texture the consistency of whipped cream at the bottom of the rinsing tubs, and blocking up the 1-inch diameter holes.

It was a nightmare! Being laughed at and derided -- ridiculed -- by the sock-changing girls and women ... Not least, Mrs Newlove, Gina Stainham and Cheryl Chubb, the three reclining spectators.

*

Inevitably, the hullabaloo in the Sock Room soon brought my two supervisors hurrying to the scene.

"What, the ...?" said C.S.O. Karen, upon her seeing the mega-sudsy state of the basement floor.

"I've been flushing and flushing and flushing the socks through with cold water, Miss Karen, but I can't rinse the soapy suds out of them!" I told her despairingly.

"He used too much detergent -- that's why! Much too much! I told him!" Mrs Newlove informed C.S.O. Karen -- informed, on me!

I gave Mrs Newlove a look.

"Didn't you follow the simple directions on the label, David?" asked C.S.O. Karen.

"I -- I might have ... maybe used a tad too much, Miss Karen," I admitted.

"And, he was cheeky this morning! Very rude, in fact, to Canford High's schoolgirls' PE teacher -- a Miss Pardew!" blurted Mrs Newlove, seizing her opportunity to land me in even more hot water, as it were. "Miss Pardew asked him to do one little job for her -- and he gave her a right load of lip!"

I gave her another look.

"What ...? Miss Pardew ... Polly Pardew?" said C.S.O. Karen, who sounded as if she knew the lady in question ... And, not only knew her, but also held her in high esteem. "Is this true, David?" C.S.O. Karen demanded, portentously.

"No ... Well, not exactly, Miss Karen," I hedged. "I -- I only said—"

"It is! It is true!" interjected Mrs Newlove. "He bad-mouthed her. He said he wasn't going to drop everything -- just on her say-so!"

"Is this true, David?" said C.S.O. Karen, even more ominously. "Did you actually say that? Because -- for your sake -- I hope you didn't!"

"I -- I told her I was sorry, Miss Karen," I said uselessly. I was caught bang-to-rights, and I knew it -- trapped, by Mrs Newlove's testimony.

"See!" cried Mrs Newlove triumphantly. "I told you it was true! And, that's not all! He disrespected Miss Pardew. He flapped his hand at her! He turned his back on her when she was still speaking to him -- and he flapped his hand at her! In fact, he did it twice! And Miss Pardew was not happy. She wasn't happy at all -- I can tell you!"

I glared at Mrs Newlove. Hell! Why couldn't the woman keep it zipped? Put a sock in it, as it were.

So Mrs Newlove fanned the flames. "Miss Pardew said that his manners left a lot to be desired. She said his behaviour was inexcusable. Quite intolerable. That his manners were not at all what they ought to be -- for a community servant!"

"David ...?" prompted C.S.O. Karen, her face darkening by the second with deep displeasure.

"I did say sorry, to Miss Pardew, Miss Karen," I said, almost totally deflated.

"Only when she threatened to speak to your supervisors -- and have you suitably brought to heel!" blabbed Mrs Newlove relentlessly.

"And," piped up Gina Stainham, indignantly, "he even complained about me -- changing my socks! Can you believe that? Changing my socks -- in the Sock Room!"

"It was your second pair today!" I threw back.

Mrs Newlove yelled, in support of her friend, "Yes, he did! He did! I'm a witness to that! Perhaps ... perhaps it's time, that community servant David was taught a lesson in manners," she added suggestively.

Ah, I'd had enough of Mrs Newlove. I said to her, "Why can't you mind your own business?"

Addressing my two supervisors, Mrs Newlove said indignantly, "Surely, you're not going to let a community servant speak to me like that, are you?"

"No. No, we are not," said C.S.O. Linda, flexing her cane meaningfully.

To C.S.O. Karen, she said smugly, "See, Karen? What did I tell you? Didn't I tell you, eh? Didn't I tell you, that double-oh-seven was incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head?"

C.S.O. Linda then intoned officiously, "Community servant David double-oh-seven, I am awarding you six strokes of the cane. This is your chastisement, for speaking out of turn to a lady."

"Ha! Her? A lady? Don't make me laugh!" I responded foolishly.

To C.S.O. Linda, Mrs Newlove complained, "You're not going to let him get away with that, are you?"

"No. No, we are not," said C.S.O. Linda.

"Community servant David double-oh-seven, you have just compounded your offence. Your chastisement is therefore increased, to twelve strokes of the cane. To be administered to your bare bottom. By myself, and by C.S.O. Karen."

My two supervisors then pushed me against the wall, directly in front of Mrs Newlove's recliner. Taking their handcuffs from their utility belts, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda used them to restrain my wrists to the recliner's front legs; my head, just under the lower bar, of the two-barred safety railing ... and the soles of Mrs Newlove's white-socked, toe-scrunching feet were right in my face.

"No ... oh, no ... oh, please ..." I moaned. This couldn't be happening.

And then I felt C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda's hands grabbing hold of either side of the elasticated waist of my white uniform shorts. Without further words, as per the C.S.O.'s chastisement manual, C.S.O.'s Karen and Linda pulled my shorts down around my ankles, preparatory to the administering of chastisement.

Oh my God! I thought. This was really going to happen ... There had to be a way of stopping it -- there just had to be!

"Please ... please, Mrs Newlove. I'm -- I'm sorry ... I'm very sorry. I -- I was ... out of order. It won't happen again, Mrs Newlove ... I promise. You -- you can stop this, Mrs Newlove ... Just -- just one word from you, that's all it would take. I -- I appologise ... You -- you are a lady, Mrs Newlove. In ... in every sense of the word ... Please. Please ... Norma."

"You can appologise all you want, and you can grovel all you want, David. But I want to see you get what's coming to you -- what you deserve! Speak to me like that, will you? You need to be taught a lesson in manners. Miss Pardew is right: your manners are not at all what they ought to be -- for a community servant! And, it's Mrs Newlove, to you -- community servant David!"