Chapter 3 - Lord Rubbish

Lord Bryan’s carriage drove smartly out of London and headed towards the open countryside.

As the vehicle drew near the city dump, it began to pass trucks piled high with refuse. Despite the fact that it was a freezing cold day and the air was sharp and crisp, the nauseating smell that assailed the noses of the passengers became quite overwhelming, the nearer they got to their destination.

Lord Bryan had hit on the idea of opening a community waste disposal facility quite by chance. One day, he had mislaid a pair of gold and diamond cuff links. Fearing that they had somehow fallen into one of the rubbish bins, he had summoned the servants and ordered them to comb through all the garbage, while he stood by, with his eagle eye, watching them. He had been astounded to see just how many things the servants carelessly threw away. As no trace of the cuff links could be found, he had then enquired where the city tip was situated. He had gone there and forced his servants to rummage through the refuse for three whole days. He did not find what he was looking for. However, his belief that a rubbish heap contained everything you can possibly think of was confirmed. All you had to do was look.

Remembering that he owned an old abandoned mine, he had leased it to the city council - naturally at an exorbitant price - so that they could use it as a dump. And then he had had a brilliant idea. How could he recover all the iron, copper, paper, cloth and bits of wood that the foolish Londoners discarded so easily?

Ah! he thought, orphans! That’s it! There are plenty of orphans around! The orphans became another of his lucrative sidelines. In no time at all, he had obtained gifts, charity donations and public contributions to build two orphanages where he gathered a hundred and fifty orphans, and he spread the word that he was giving them the benefit of an advanced course in economics. The children, he said, worked up to ten hours a day in the open air, in close contact with Nature, where they studied the sacred principles of economics, the first of which was not to throw away anything that might prove useful.

Occasionally, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the children did not enjoy scavenging in the garbage with their bare hands, summer and winter, in sunshine and rain. This doubt upset him a little. In fact, he was forced to admit that some of these horrid, lazy, ungrateful little urchins even ran away sometimes. This was deplorable, because he received benefits from the government for each orphan in his care. The more children ran away, the less money he received.

His lively and enterprising mind had therefore devised a means of solving the problem. He created a category of “Humanitarian Guardians», made up of fifteen hefty young thugs, led by a certain Johnny the Stinker. Each “Guardian” was made responsible for ten children. Their services were rewarded with 10% of the profits gained from the sale of all the material recovered (the remaining 90% went into his own pocket and the children got nothing, naturally). It has to be admitted that, thanks to this incentive, the Humanitarian Guardians were sometimes a little rough with the children. They often beat them to make them work harder. However, the Earl reflected, this was all quite understandable. After all, the children had to learn that one of the pillars of the science of economics was the division of labour.

The fact that the kids called him Lord Rubbish did not perturb him. After all, he thought, there were the “Coal Barons” and recently, in the City, strange foreign personages dressed in long ridiculous caftans had begun to make an appearance. These were known as “the New Petroleum Lords”. The aforesaid petroleum was a horrible black liquid with a worse stink than his refuse. Did these Lords get offended? Of course they didn’t! So why should he care?

If anyone should be ashamed, his thoughts ran on, it was the children. They ought to be more respectful towards his person. He, Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones, was one of the greatest benefactors of mankind - or so he had been classified by “The Times”.

To tell the truth, “The Times” had not exactly mentioned him directly. The Earl had read the headline and the first sixteen lines of an article (he rarely read more than that). This stated - if he had understood correctly – that, according to the theories of a distinguished expert in the economic field, much appreciated in the City (a certain Adam Smith, as he recalled), entrepreneur who produced wealth in a free market system did not work for himself alone. He brought riches to the whole of society by creating work for people, who would produce more and consequently spend more.

In other words, a benefactor of mankind.

Now, he pondered, as England was a free market and he was the richest man in England, he was therefore the greatest benefactor in the kingdom! This revelation, which he had gleaned from the pages of the most authoritative daily paper in the country, had relieved him of all the niggling doubts that assailed him every so often. He was not unscrupulous, he told himself proudly. He was not a cynical scoundrel (as many people claimed). He only liked doing business, just as a child likes playing. And the great thing about playing about on the Stock Exchange and in the City was that, if you managed to do good business, you also became a benefactor!

Then, one day, he had met the brilliant Dr. Otto Kohops, whom he had jokingly nick-named Dr. Octopus. This was because his hands were always flying around in a frantic search for his notes, papers, pencils, pipe, watch and so on. He moved his arms so fast that there seemed to be more than two of them.

Otto was a master of what Lord Rubbish indulgently referred to as “Confused Science”. He had attracted the Earl’s attention with his idea of building a “Synthesizer”. This was a machine that, he claimed, would be able to extract and reproduce the chemical elements of any chosen sample of trash.

Lord Rubbish could already see this “Synthesizer” in his mind’s eye, standing between two gigantic conveyor belts. A big glass dome containing the samples to be duplicated in the middle, and all the London waste would be poured onto one of the belts, while duplicated tins of beans, tomatoes, lettuce heads and all other kinds of goodies would issue from the other belt. The pleasure of thinking that he could make money out of something he had been paid to destroy kept him awake at night.

His dreams were filled with this vision. He was elated at the thought that the scrapings and peelings he recovered from the garbage could be given to the hungry poor he saw hanging about at street corners. Naturally, he told himself, they would have to pay something for it – not much maybe - but they would definitely have to pay. There were many honourable members of the Opposition who heatedly claimed that money should be doled out to the poor. Lord Bryan firmly believed that this was a dangerous idea and, if it were taken too far, it would seriously undermine the honest, hard-working spirit of the British.

The secret laboratory where he had confined Octopus was in the middle of the immense London rubbish dump. The poor man carried out his experiments with a clothes peg constantly on his nose so that he wouldn’t be overcome by the noxious fumes. “You will leave here, “Lord Rubbish had told him, half serious and half in jest, “When your machine works.” Then, with one excuse or another, he had prevented him from ever leaving the laboratory.

However, after innumerable experiments the machine still did not work properly and the Earl started to get impatient. He began to think that perhaps it wasn’t sufficient just keeping the professor shut up in these unsavoury surroundings. Maybe it would be a good idea to let him wander around amongst the garbage for a night or two in summer, when there was a lovely full moon. All the rats would be seen in the light and the moon would make the gangs of stray dogs howl louder than ever.

It was this careful attention to details, plus his ability to motivate his collaborators and workforce, combined with his extraordinary business instinct, that had made Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones the richest man in the realm.

As the carriage drew nearer to their destination, they came across groups of children between six and eleven years of age, laboriously pushing wheelbarrows loaded with junk. They were followed by brawny thugs who greeted Lord Rubbish by raising their knobbly sticks as a sign of respect.

Finally, they reached the laboratory. “Professor!” the Earl cried gaily. “Well then, have we brought it off?”

“Ya, ya! Kom, kom, I zshow you.”

The professor’s pronunciation, which was normally almost incomprehensible because of his heavy Teutonic accent, was even more nasal and unintelligible than usual because of the peg on his nose.

An enormous machine puffed and wheezed in the centre of the shed that housed the laboratory. Piles of refuse were being fed in at one end and neat rows of tins of beans, tomatoes and fruit flowed out the other end. Some samples were on display under a big glass dome. The duplicated cans seemed perfect and even the labels were identical to the originals.

“Excellent, professor! The outside looks great! What about the inside?”

“Zame inzide! Kemical kontents identical to original!” replied the professor. “Ja! Vun problem only…”

“Only what?” his Lordship demanded in an aggressive tone. “You didn’t bring me here to show me the usual botch up, I hope?”

“Octopus,” said Mortimer in a quiet, deadly voice. “If that food is as good and wholesome as you say, you eat some of it. Go on! Right now, like a good fellow. Show us, take a little from each tin.”

“Excellent idea, Mortimer! Eat up, professor!” the Earl agreed. “Let’s see you!”

“Jaa,” poor Octopus twittered,  “I cout eat zum. Only…”

“EAT!!!” ordered father and son together and the professor was obliged to eat Recycled Jones in the varieties: Special Beans, Special Bacon and Special Tutti-Frutti.

When he had finished, Mortimer sneered, “Well, professor, what was wrong with it?”

“Iss only zat food from machine…. stink! Wissout peg on nose nein eat!” poor Otto cried.

“Is that all?” Lord Rubbish said calmly. “These paupers who are always complaining won’t expect us to sell them caviar and champagne, will they? They want healthy, nourishing food that’s cheap? They’ll get it. It may smell a bit strange, but if they’re really hungry, they’ll end up buying it - you’ll see, professor.

“I remember,” he mused, “When I was a child, I hated spinach and my nanny always said: ‘Bryan, hold your nose. Be a good boy and eat up and then I’ll give you a treat. I’ll take you to the merry-go-round!’ And so I ate it!”

As he recalled this incident, the Earl’s face lit up. “We’ll do the same thing as my nanny did! Whoever buys three tins of Recycled Jones will get a free peg so he won’t notice the smell. What’s more, I’ll get some top designer to create the peg. We’ll make blue ones for the Dads, red for the Mums, pink for little girls and pale blue for little boys.

“And I will promote the peg in person. When I attend Parliament, and the Opposition begins to speak, I’ll don my clothes peg and have them  write on the first page of “The Times”: “Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones can listen to the Opposition without vomiting, but that is only because he put his special peg on his nose.” It will be a wonderful advertisement!”

Like all great men, the Earl was immediately aware of the historic importance of that moment. He was sure that the words that were to issue from his mouth would be handed down from generation to generation. He was absolutely convinced that the Ffink Pfenninger Jones family would come to an end that night. Instead, in its place, a Dynasty would be born and the words of the Founding Father would be recorded for posterity.

“My son,” Lord Bryan said, leading Mortimer to the window, where he could admire the view of the dump in the light of the moon. “Just think, one day, everything that you see, all this,” He made a sweeping gesture with his left hand towards the piles of refuse, while he placed his right hand on Mortimer’s shoulder, “All this” he repeated, “Will be yours! In every major city of the world, wherever garbage exists, we’ll be there!

“I can guarantee, son, that a day will come, and perhaps I shall no longer be amongst you, when we’ll manage to eliminate the smell. And we’ll be able to produce every single thing - even bigger and better diamonds than that detestable De Beers…. 

“We shall be the biggest economic power in the world, son, and you will be at the helm!”

Lord Bryan stood in silence for a moment, then he shook off his vision of the future, took his arm off his son’s shoulder and said gaily, “This is a truly wonderful day! All my dreams have come true! Just think! Even my dream of finally getting rid of William and Betty. As luck would have it, Betty’s dreams are going to help me achieve this!

“Here we are dreaming about conquering the world and – believe it or not – she’s dreaming about Peter Pan and the Neverland!”

“BETTER BAN?! ZE NEZERLAND! WHO ZAYS ZEEZ FINKS ARE DREAMS?” exclaimed Dr. Kohops in great agitation, speaking through his nose more than ever. “Ziss iss no dream. Ziss iss zi truf, Milort!”

“Professor, what are you saying?” cried Lord Bryan. “How can there be a Neverland? How can you believe you can fly there?”

But the poor professor was unable to reply because he had burst into tears.

“Come now, come now, professor! What’s this all about? Why are you crying?”

You may not be able to believe this, but the professor told them that when he was a little boy, he had been with Peter Pan and the lost boys in the Neverland. Then he had wanted to grow up and Peter had sent him away.

How sorry he had been! How often he had longed to return! But- he explained, sobbing louder than ever – nobody could go back to the Neverland without Peter’s permission and some fairy dust.

It was almost impossible to convince Lord Bryan that this incredible story could be true, but, in the end, Otto more or less succeeded.

“In island, nicht dirty, everyzink pure, everyzink beautiful, everyzink clean…” cried the professor, who then added in a wistful tone, “Why we don’t go to ze Island, Milort?”

At this point, a short and rather absurd exchange took place between Lord Bryan and Octopus that was, however, to have unforeseen and drastic consequences for everyone in our story.

“All right, professor, but how do you get to this Neverland?”

“Iss zimple, Milort: only need to fly!”

“Yes, I realise that,” snapped the Earl  impatiently. “But how can you fly?”

“Even more zimple. Zu jusst need fairy dust!”

“But, curses, how do you get hold of some of that?” shouted Lord Rubbish, whose patience had often been sorely put to the test by Octopus’ extravagant theories, “Where do you get fairy dust?”

“Now everyzink zimple wiss my new great invention: zu get fairy and put it into Synthetyzer!”

At this point, the Earl put an end to the conversation. He decided that if, as was likely, the stories spun by Betty and this lunatic Octopus were nonsense, he would still have the excuse he needed to get rid of his nephew and niece for ever. But, on the other hand, if this Peter really existed and came to get the children, he would be able to get hold of some fairy dust…

Now, he decided, the first thing to do was go back to London and read Betty’s letter.