Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

20

The old geezer never said a word, he just stood there, looking at the word in front of Frederick's house as though someone had hit him with a taser. He hardly looked at the word on the pavement in front of his own house. Then, he left, still not saying anything at all, rushing back down the side of his house as fast as his old, arthritic legs could carry him.

Frederick wasn't even certain what he had expected the old man to do. Tell Frederick's mum to stop trying to scrub away something that councils used industrial cleaners for? Get down on his knees to take the brush from her? Meanwhile, his mum still scrubbed at the filthy word, making little difference to it. The other word was as disgusting to see, too. To accuse someone of that could ruin lives, but the person, or people, who wrote these words didn't care.

He didn't even notice the old man returning until he appeared at Mum's side, passing Frederick a bunch of things before leaning down, knees creaking, to put a hand under Mum's elbow. So gentle, the old man whispered something to Frederick's mum and, after a second, she stopped scrubbing and turned her eyes to the old man, who helped her to stand before moving the bucket and brush to the side.

"'Ere, lad. Hand me the towels." He held out his hand as he lowered himself to his knees. "We've got to dry this afore we can fix it."

"What about the other word? We can do that while this one dries." Frederick had looked at the other objects. A closed tin, like a tin of paint, and a paint brush. "Are you painting over them?"

"Nay, lad. And never thee mind about t'other word." As he rubbed the paving stone dry, the old man glanced toward Frederick's mum and looked away. "We'll get this cleaned first. We do as needs doing."

Once he had dried the pavement to his satisfaction, the old man took the tin and brush from Frederick's hand, laying them beside him. His old pen knife emerged from his pocket and he used that to pop the lid off the tin, allowing a thick, powerful smell to emerge, causing Frederick to recoil. He held out his hand for his mum, but she had already walked away, her shoulders slumped, slippers scraping against the ground. Frederick knew that look well, but the old man needed help.

As though painting a wall, the old man dipped the brush into the tin and then began to apply it in liberal swathes, not only covering the spray-painted words and the arrows, but also every square centimetre of the paving slabs. Once done, he sat back, sniffing. His hand began to move to his pocket, but stopped, using the sleeve of his overalls to rub his nose instead. A quick glance at a watch on his wrist, the old man looked up and down the street.

"This is my fault, innit?" At the top of the street, Frederick could see two people walking to the shops, looking down toward them, curious. "I think it's that boy. The one with the bike nicked. He's had it in for me since we moved in."

"It's not thy fault, lad, and don't thee start blaming theesen." He took another look at his watch and sniffed again. "Folks as did this are nasty. Only ones t'blame are them. Takes nowt to be kind. To be this vile takes effort. Right, hand me the brush again. Make sure it's sopping."

Frederick dipped the scrubbing brush in and out of the bucket several times, soapy water slopping over the sides, and handed it to the old man. He grunted as he began to scrub, his entire body moving as he rubbed the brush back and forth, bristles rasping against the rough, concrete surface of the paving slabs. Only now did Frederick realise that it should be him doing that scrubbing, not an old man who'd just had a heart attack, or close to one, at least.

"I'll do it, Mister Dibbs." He tried to reach for the brush, the stench of what the old man had painted onto the pavement almost burning his nostrils. "You've just got out of hospital."

"And thy'll be going to hospital if thy breathes this in. Get theesen back." The old man used his forearm to push Frederick away and then let out a deep breath, turning to Frederick. "I know thy wants to help, but this 'ere is powerful stuff. Thy don't want it on thee, or in thee lungs. I tell thee what thy can do, though. Run into my garden and fill a bucket with soil. Don't ask why, just do it. Then get theesen inside and fix thee mother a cuppa. I reckon she needs it."

Frederick didn't quite understand. Not about making his mum a cup of coffee, not so much why the old geezer wanted soil, either. He didn't understand how it was fine for Mister Dibbs to work with whatever that stuff was, but not him. If it was hazardous for Frederick, surely it was hazardous for the old man. Still, short of trying to drag the old man out of the way, Frederick doubted he could move the daft old geezer.

As he stepped back, though, he could see that whatever that stuff was, it had removed almost all the spray-paint with ease. Only, now the outlines of the words and the arrows were as clear as though the paint were still there. The old man had got rid of the paint, but it had left its mark and it would take ages for the passing of feet and dirty weather to wipe away the afterimage of those words. A snort from the old man's nose and a withering glance had Frederick barrelling along the path at the side of the old man's house, the gate squeaking closed behind him.

It didn't take him long to find a bucket and a spade, and he dug up soil where there was nothing planted, tipping the dirt into the bucket. He didn't know how much the old man needed, so he filled it to the top and, once done, struggled to lift the full bucket and carry it back along the side of the house. By the time he arrived back at the front of the house, the old man had finished scrubbing.

"God blind me, lad!" The old man lifted his flat cap and scratched his balding head before resetting the cap back down. "Did thy dig up the entire garden? Where did thy dig for t'soil?"

"Don't worry! I got it from that bit without nothing growing in it." Frederick dropped the bucket of soil beside the bucket of water. His arms ached. "I'm not stupid."

"Nay. Thy's not." Once again, the old man's hand drifted back to his pocket before hesitating and moving it away. That usually meant he was going for his ratty handkerchief, but not today, for some reason. "There go my bloody autumn crocuses."

Frederick wasn't certain the old man meant him to hear those last, exasperated words, but didn't have time to say anything before the old man picked up the bucket of soil and tossed the contents all over the paving slabs. Using his old boots, almost as old as the old man himself, he began to kick the dirt around until it covered the entirety of the pavement that had held the painted words and then started scuffing the soles against it, rubbing the dirt down and flat.

"Oh. Oh! I know what you're doing!" He jumped onto the dirt and began twisting his entire body to move his feet, rubbing the dirt into the concrete. "You're dirtying at all again to hide the words."

"Aye! And I can do it mesen!" The old man nudged Frederick back, off the soil-covered paving stones. "Thee mother'll kill me if thy ruins thee shoes! And I thought I said thy should get theesen inside and make her a cuppa?"

"You did, but she's in a mood. I can tell." He leaned back against the wall, the twigs and branches of the privet hedge digging into his back. It wasn't his place to say anything about his mum's moods to other people, but it didn't matter. Mister Dibbs wouldn't say anything. "When she gets like that, it takes more than coffee to make her happy. And she never wants me around when she's like it."

The old man stopped stomping on the dirt and looked toward Frederick, causing Frederick to droop his head and shoulders. He heard the old man sniff again and saw a hand move to his pocket, realising, again, the handkerchief wasn't there and putting the hand in the pocket anyway. He pretended that was what he intended doing all along.

"Lad, I'll tell thee now. I know 'moods' like that. I've seen its like afore and it's not something as folks can switch on or off. And it's not something as means they aren't happy. Believe me." The old man crouched down, trying to catch Frederick's eyes. "Thee mam doesn't not want thee there, no matter what she says, or how angry she might seem. She needs thee there. Not to try and make her happy, but just to know thy's supporting her. That thy's there for her. Don't ignore her when she's like this, eh? Don't ever ignore her."

Frederick had never seen the old man look so sad. Sad and certain. Through those glasses, that Frederick was certain he couldn't see out of properly, the old man stared, as though trying to make Frederick understand something so very important. Then, with a slap on both his thighs and a pained groan, the old man pushed himself up to stand, picked up the bucket of water and tossed that over the packed dirt upon the pavement.

Once again, the old man started kicking around, moving the water over the soil, turning it to mud. Frederick wasn't certain the dirt and the water and the mud would make any difference, but the old man was not as daft as he appeared, sometimes. Frederick looked over his shoulder, toward his house, and thought he caught sight of his mum moving past the window.

The old man could finish doing this. Frederick needed to make his mum a coffee.