Cleaner: Chapter Two - Part Three

MELISSA

Come three thirty I was at my third job in Corbridge school, waiting for the last of the kids to clear out so I could get to work, cleaning the classrooms.

After leaving Summertop, Dahlia Western’s house, early I’d had to hang about waiting to start at the place I did every third afternoon in Chauncy. That was a big old place that the mixed race couple who owned it had done up recently. More wealthy people. He was a building contractor. She ran a hair and beauty boutique in Nockton town centre. It wasn’t heavy work as they were rarely in.

The school was another matter altogether. Corbridge was one of the most run down areas of Barton overlooking the river. The school was an ancient manor that had been built on and extended in the seventies, stripping it of any kind of class. No expenditure had been put into it since and it was a real shit heap.

The students were no better. They were all Bartonites, born and bred and it showed in their behaviour and their slovenly nature. The boys were filthy. The girls were dressed like twenty one year olds; little sluts in training. And the teachers weren’t much better. I didn’t think there was one of them who drove across from Nockton. They were all local; each one flawed in some inbred kind of a way.

I hated it. It was the worst part of my day and I had to do this every weekday afternoon and Saturday mornings. At least the kids and teachers weren’t there on Saturdays. There was a team of cleaners who did it, working their way round in a spiral. I didn’t talk to them much. They were either very old, wizened, gaunt, blank-eyed zombies; or else they were straight out of school; little scantily-clad tarts who thought it was hilarious to make fun of my weight.

They had no idea the stress I was under. They didn’t give a shit about how hard it was to stay in shape when I had to work all hours God sent.

I stacked chairs on top of tables in my first classroom, taking guarded looks at the teacher marking exercise books at his desk at the front. He didn’t say “hello” or acknowledge me. I didn’t exist to him. I might as well have been invisible. There was litter on some of the desks; some on the floor. Someone had spilt a pot of ink on the tiles near the back of the room in a fan-like puddle. The edges had dried already but the centre was moist. I sighed heavily and went to fetch the mop and bucket from the cleaners’ cupboard in the hall.

It was a big metal thing on wheels, but three of the wheels were jammed with tightly wound human hair and it was hellishly heavy to carry, I filled it with near-boiling water and struggled through with it. It made a clang as I set it down and the teacher darted an irritated look in my direction. “Sorry,” I said, then scowled at myself for apologising. I was only trying to do my job. He hadn’t bloody helped, letting the kid do it in the first place. Why should I be sorry?

He tersely got on with it and I found myself creeping, mopping up the majority of the ink off the floor with the mop. The dry rim didn’t come up no matter how hard I swabbed. I cursed to myself and got some double strength cream cleaner and put it on a rag from the cupboard.

I crouched, trying to get it up but my bulging stomach made crouching difficult. In the end I grumbled and got down on my knees, scrubbing the floor on all floors. It started to come up better so I worked harder, leaning into it and went on scrubbing.

Two feet stepped into my field of vision and I looked up, straining my neck to see the teacher’s scowling face. He pointed toward the front of the class. “Can you make sure you do into the corners today? You haven't been cleaning properly for the past week.”

I stared up at him, wanting to tell him to sod off. I felt embarrassed that I was on my hands and knees and he was standing there giving orders like Lord Muck, but the school administrator was apt to make my life a living hell if he complained to her. “Yes,” I replied. “Sorry. I’ll do it better.”

He didn’t reply; just turned and walked away.

I glowered after him furiously.

The day had really taken a turn for the worse after I’d left Summertop. I wished I could spend all my days lounging in front of the TV with my feet up!

It had been such a weird thing of her to ask, but I had enjoyed it.

I mused on it now, smiling gently, remembering what it had been like to put on her fancy wrap and lie on her bed. It was a shame we couldn’t do that every day.

I sat back on my haunches and took in a deeper breath. Bending over always restricted my breathing, my stomach was so big.

I thought about Dahlia and her childlike exuberance, wondering if she would ever ask me again and what it would be like that time. It made my smile broader. I sat on my heels, knees on the floor, imagining it for a minute or two, then the teacher made a little tutting noise that drew my attention.

I glanced at him. He had his eyebrows raised in disapproval, then he gave a pointed glance at the rest of the floor; the kind of meaningful glare he might give a class of unruly children. Get back to work. You aren’t getting paid to sit around.

I lowered my head and got back to work quickly, finishing off cleaning that patch of floor, but as I worked I made the resolution to do anything I could to encourage Dahlia Western if she did want to trade places again. If I could help matters along with that then perhaps I could enjoy life a little more.