The Magical Dustbin

About the Author

Mark Kumara, born and educated in England, is a multi-talented novelist, playwright and singer/songwriter. He presently lives in a quiet green village in the deep south of Western Australia. His pantomimes and plays have been regularly performed in Australia, and his children’s books, beautifully crafted, written with whimsy and humour, combining stories from both Great Britain and Australia, are popular with children everywhere. The stories include magic, fantasy, nature – even science fiction. Adults are also sure to enjoy them. Recommended for 6 to 100 years!

Dedication

For my daughters, Karen and Alison, (who first heard these stories around the fire) for my granddaughters, Peggy and Rosie, and for children everywhere, especially for those who remain children at heart.

Copyright Information ©

Mark Kumara 2023

The right of Mark Kumara to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398413337 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398413344 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

My thanks to Helen Giles, for her illustration on the front cover.

To Helmie Van Melle, for her back-cover illustration.

And to Don Eade, for his helpful comments.

Chapter 1

The Elf in the Dustbin

With one neat elf-like finger, the elf poked up the lid of his dustbin, and peered out upon a wet world. A very soggy wet world, it was. The rain had stopped. But the sun was still hidden behind grey clouds billowing over the English countryside like the sheets of soggy laundry that hung behind the flats every Monday morning.

A heap of cardboard was piled against his bin. He hadn’t heard it being put there. But well, he wouldn’t, would he. Once inside his dustbin he was in a world of his own. Cosy, it was – well, sort of cosy, and he was a sound sleeper.

He sighed. He supposed he shouldn’t complain.

But he was disappointed – and he was sad. He was sad at the fate which had befallen him (which I will tell you about very shortly), and he was disappointed that the sun wasn’t shining.

It was a double whammy!

At least, the sun could have cheered him up.

He loved the sun. Everything seemed happier in the sun. Especially, first thing in the morning when it was cold and frosty and hard to get out of bed.

He remembered how, early in the mornings, he used to marvel at the way the sun made every drop of dew into a prism of rainbows, turning the woodland (where he used to live) into a fairyland of shimmering colour, and making the spider’s webs which hung in the grass into lattices of sparkling pearls.

It had given him so much energy to do the things he liked doing.

It was hard to forget the dreadful thing: The thing that had happened to his home, his real home – his lovely home of not long ago.

You see, this elf had not always lived in a dustbin. Oh, good gracious me, no!

Elves don’t usually live-in dustbins. It is the very last place they would think of living in.

A short time ago, he would have been horrified at the very thought of living in a dustbin. Indeed, if you had suggested it, he would have thought you were a lunatic. But that just goes to show how quickly circumstances can change, and, when that happens, there’s only one thing to do and that is to make the best of it.

He used to live in a pretty woodland glade where there was a tinkling stream, cool dark rocks covered with emerald moss, and a wonderful old fallen beech-tree which had soft pulpy wood inside, its dark snug hole a warm little home from home where the elf liked to sleep on rainy days. It was the most perfect home for a woodland elf. He adored it.

Indeed, with such a lovely home, he was as happy and carefree as any elf ever could be. He was invisible to most humans, of course, which was just as well – and just as it should be. Such insensitive creatures, humans!

Perhaps his favourite game was to tease the serious-minded bumble bee. If you teased the serious-minded bumble bee when going about its serious business of collecting pollen, it buzzed even harder than ever. The bumble bee had a one-track mind.

But, one day his happiness ended.

It was that terrible, never-to-be forgotten, morning, which started with a dreadful screeching and squealing noise. And very soon, the earth was trembling, and the old beech log was tumbling over and over, falling into the stream – and everything became a sea of mud.

The monster responsible for this was the Council bulldozer. Screeching and squealing as it went, it pushed the trees and undergrowth into huge heaps. Then a man set fire to them. There wasn’t a thing the elf could do except flee from his hole in the log of the old beech tree in the very nick of time.

The bulldozer went backwards and forwards levelling the ground until not a living thing remained. All the periwinkles, crocuses, primroses, all the emerald, green moss, the wild dog rose that that the serious-minded bumble bee loved so much – and all the insects that couldn’t escape, were crushed to a pulp under its screeching caterpillar treads. Never had the little elf felt so sad, or so lonely as he did that day.

He used to be so carefree. Now, although he tried not to show it, he felt his heart weighed down with sorrow.

Workmen laboured for many months at what they called THE SITE.

They dug a huge hole. They poured in tons and tons of concrete. Then they started building and put up a huge block of flats.

During this time, the elf had to make do sleeping where he could: Which might be in one of the workmen’s huts, or in the concrete mixer (when it wasn’t being used, of course), or even in the cab of the fearsome bulldozer.

Later, he took to sleeping in one of the chilly rooms of the new building before they were occupied by the humans who were going to live there. He tried to make the best of it. He was a bright little elf. It was hard, but he did try to look on the bright side.

Though heartbroken at the loss of his home, he remained patient and hopeful. Something would happen, he was sure of it.

The one thing the Council workmen didn’t take away was the sun. He still looked forward each day to the sun. The sun hadn’t been removed by the Council men: They weren’t clever enough!

The day came when the building was completed.

The workmen departed, taking with them their long ladders, their scaffolding, and their concrete mixers.

Humans came to live in the flats, families with children. The children were very noisy. They yelled all day.

The little elf cringed away from them.

Before they left, the workmen placed twenty brand-new, gleaming, dustbins all in a row at the back of the flats. They looked very smart. Inside, the dustbins were as shiny as any bin could ever be.

The elf liked shiny. He had always liked shiny.

Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. At least, they are shiny.

He chose one for his home. It took a while to get used to, but after a while, and after some interior decorating, like gathering some dried moss for a bed, and sticking leaves around the walls (with beech tree gum) to makes the walls look more homely, he felt moderately satisfied that he had a snug new home.

He decided it would be important to keep the lid on. By magic, of course.

It wouldn’t do, at all, to have rubbish thrown on top of him.

It would be very alarming.

He knew this from a horrible experience on his first day.

He had forgotten to say the magic words to keep the lid on, and the worst had happened. Whilst he was taking his afternoon siesta, he had been rudely awakened by a plate of smelly fish bones and a rotten cabbage landing on top of him.

Oh, dear me, what a dreadful fright that was!

After that, he remembered to keep the lid firmly closed, using special elfin magic.

This puzzled the humans who lived in the flats.

But they were so busy making money, or watching television, or shouting at their noisy children, they didn’t have time to wonder about a dustbin that didn’t – just wouldn’t – open. There were nineteen other dustbins and they used those.

Now, on this particular morning – the morning of our story – when the elf (who was green, by the way) had been living in his dustbin home for some weeks, he poked the lid of his dustbin up a crack and looked out on a dismal, grey, dripping wet world.

Even the noisy children were inside watching television.

So, thinking to wait until the sun came out, he pulled down the lid, said the magic spell to lock the lid into place, to keep him safe, snuggled into a tiny ball and fell asleep.

As he fell asleep, he sensed a grid of golden light forming around himself and the dustbin, protecting him from anything the universe might throw at him – or on to him! He was safe.

But he had forgotten something rather important. Today was dustbin day!

And he was so fast asleep he never heard the Council truck pull up outside.

A human with a big yellow tub on his back (he happened to be a rather nice Italian called Angelo), began to empty each dustbin in turn into his yellow tub. When he came to the elf’s dustbin, he couldn’t open it, of course. This was very odd. He tugged and he tugged at the lid. He tugged as hard as he could, but it wouldn’t come off. He banged at it with his gloved hand. It still wouldn’t budge.

Strange, he thought. I don’t think there is anything in it. But, why won’t the lid come off?

He went to get help. When the other dustbin-men heard he couldn’t get the lid off a dustbin they laughed loudly.

You call yourself a refuse-collector, they jeered.

What a weakling you are!

The workman who laughed the loudest had big bulging muscles under his blue shirt. He marched up to the dustbin and gave the lid a huge yank, expecting it to fly off with ease.

Ouch! He cried. My arm! I’ve hurt my arm!

It felt like he’d pulled his arm off. More cautiously, he tried again. He tugged and heaved, but it was useless. In anger, he kicked at the dustbin. He soon grew tired of that.

Get Fred. He shouted. He scowled and rubbed his arm. His muscles still bulged under his blue shirt, but he wasn’t laughing any more. He looked fiercely at the Italian. What are you looking at! He yelled.

The foreman was peeved at being disturbed. He had just made himself a cup of tea inside his warm hut and was sitting down to enjoy it. He was gazing at a large map, wondering where to dump the next load of rubbish.

He was even more peeved when told about the dustbin that refused to open.

If this is a joke, he said, I’ll be cancelling your tea breaks for a week.

With a grumpy look on his face, the foreman approached the dustbin.

He said to himself: If these silly men think they can play silly games with me, they have another thing coming. They’ll soon see who is boss around here!

He put both his large hands on the dustbin and heaved. Then heaved again. He kept on heaving until he was very red in the face. He tugged and pulled, puffed and panted, and then started bellowing at the top of his voice. But none of it did the slightest good.

My word! He said at last, wiping his hands down his trousers. It is more difficult than I thought.

He