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Copyright Oggbashan August 2019
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
This was originally started (in 2012) to be an entry for Literotica's now-defunct Earth Day Contest.
Recycling Belinda
Belinda was an accustomed sight around our city centre, pushing her old supermarket trolley loaded with tightly tied plastic bags. What was in them? No one knew.
People who had seen Belinda several times knew she was a dedicated recycler. She pounced on discarded aluminium cans or glass bottles that she found in the street or in litter bins. Eventually she would put them in the recycling bins in the city centre's main car park.
On Friday and Saturday nights she would prowl the streets harrying drinkers to give her their empty beer cans. If one of them discarded a can on the street Belinda would abuse him roundly and insist that the can was picked up and handed to her. Almost always the offender complied meekly. Belinda had the sort of manner and voice that made drunken youths obey. She would politely thank anyone who gave her a can. She was tolerated as a part of the street scene. Anyone who teased or tormented Belinda would be ostracised by the crowd. Belinda was almost a city mascot.
I recognised Belinda when I saw her, but at first I didn't know her name. I thought of her as the 'Recycling Lady'. She was just a feature of the cityscape whenever I was walking through the streets. She looked thin, pale and tired. Her layers of outer clothing were dirty but her face, the only part of her skin visible, looked clean if grey. Her hair was lifeless and dull. If I had thought about her age I would have guessed that she was in her mid-50s but looking older because of the way she lived. I hadn't thought about her age, or anything else about Belinda. She was just part of the street, like a lamppost or traffic island. We recognised each other's faces and might wave if we noticed each other. Until that Sunday at almost the end of the university's summer term...
I had been to a meeting in the city centre, discussing the impact of increasing student numbers on our community, and I was walking through to a car park. I saw Belinda ahead of me beginning to cross a narrow road. A large truck turned the corner. Its rear wheels caught Belinda's trolley and pulled it over. Belinda hung on grimly as the trolley slid along the ground. In a few seconds her plastic bags were strewn around like discarded footballs. The truck had gone, the driver probably unaware of the damage. Belinda lay in a crumpled unmoving heap in the road. I rushed towards her, pulling out my mobile phone.
Belinda was conscious, not moving and moaning softly. I rang the emergency services and summoned an ambulance. I didn't touch Belinda because I wasn't sure what injuries she had. I thought at least one wrist was broken.
By the time the ambulance crew arrived I had righted Belinda's trolley and restored the spilled plastic bags inside it. I explained what I had seen to the ambulance crew as they worked to establish the extent of her injuries. They checked Belinda's responses and asked her questions to see if she had suffered concussion. They asked me if she had been unconscious when I arrived. I said no. Belinda heard me. She opened her eyes, looked straight at me, and said clearly:
"Please take my trolley to the yard behind the travel agents in Moon Street. The key to the yard door is on the bunch attached to the trolley handle. Please, Mr Owens?"
I looked at her. She looked so frail and lost. I put aside my thought of appearing ridiculous.
"Yes." I said.
"Promise?"
"Yes, I promise."
"Thank you. Could you bring the keys to me at the hospital?"
Belinda turned to the ambulance man.
"Which hospital this time, Fred?"
"The nearest one, Belinda. You will be able to walk back when we've sorted you out."
"Thank you, Fred."
Then to me:
"You heard?"
I nodded.
"I'll probably still be in the Accident and Emergency Unit when you come. If you can't find me, please give the keys to the Sister on duty. She'll get them to me if you tell her they belong to Belinda Flite. You will?"
I nodded. The ambulance men loaded Belinda into the ambulance and drove off. I started pushing the trolley through the deserted city centre streets, grateful that no one saw me. Once at the travel agents I found a gate around the back with a strong security lock. One of Belinda's keys fitted. There were about five other keys on a ring attached to a thin leather strap that I had unbuckled from the trolley's handle.
Conscious that I was being watched by two or more security cameras and that it was likely that the camera watchers had been following everything since Belinda's accident, I opened the gate and pushed the trolley inside.
There was a lean-to roof under which the trolley could be put. Next to it was a large shed. I peered through the window. A dingy mattress showed that the shed was Belinda's home. Across the tiny yard the door of an outside toilet was ajar. I left the trolley, closed and locked the gate and made my way back to my car, stopping at the toilets to wash my hands clean.
I drove to the hospital and parked. I was irritated by the expensive charge for parking. Surely that was profiteering from the sick and their relations?
In the Accident Unit I looked around for Belinda. There was no sign of her. I went to the reception desk and asked where Belinda Flite was.
"She's in X-ray at present. She should be back in about ten minutes..."
I waited. Why? I don't know. I thought I knew how important the keys were to Belinda and I wanted to make sure that I put them in her hand personally. I wanted to redeem my promise. Another motive might have been to avoid going back home to my empty house, empty since my wife had died in a riding accident four years ago. A few minutes observing the customers in the Accident Unit might be interesting...
It wasn't. Most of the people there were waiting attention for minor injuries most of which could have been treated at home. There was nothing really wrong with any of them.
As I waited I saw a back that looked familiar. Was it? It was. She turned round and saw me. The smile that lit up her face reminded me how much I liked her. Mrs Laker, the hospital social worker, had been a frequent contact three years ago when my father was discharged from hospital after his final and ultimately fatal stroke. She had made the arrangements that made his last few weeks not just tolerable but dignified. At the time I had been preoccupied but still able to express my and my father's thanks for her work. She had dismissed it as part of her job. I knew that she had gone far beyond her guidelines to ensure my father's comfort. I stood up as she walked towards me.
"Hello Ralph? How are you?"
"Very well, thank you, Gloria," I replied, grateful that her first name had stuck in my memory.
"What are you doing here? Have you injured yourself?"
"No. I was a witness to an accident -- to Belinda the bag-lady. I'm waiting for her to return her keys. I put her trolley in a safe place while she came to hospital..."
Gloria looked astonished and then laughed.
"You must have looked a sight, pushing Belinda's trolley through the streets dressed in your Sunday best."
"I did. I hope no one saw me, except CCTV."
