QUILPS’ BRIGHT IDEA

Quilps remembers Victorian solutions...

Indigo Quilps was back in Brumpton after a hectic few weeks in Parliament. Brumpton was his own constituency, and was shocked by the number of people who came up to him on the street recognising him,, no matter where he was in town or what he was doing, and told him what they thought of him.

Some of the comments were quite flattering in that they came from people who said they agreed with every word he was reported as saying. But there were a few (he called it a minority when he thought of them, but in actual fact he should have thought of them as a majority which they were) who suggested his brain might be addled. Or words to that affect. It seemed that not everyone agreed with him.

For instance, “You’d have me in the workhouse then, would you?” barked one individual who was in the same queue as Quilps, who wanted to buy a couple of stamps at the Post Office, but someone was holding up the proceedings by trying to post at least a hundred small parcels, all of which needed to be weighed separately, and with an enforced delay the man, no doubt pleased to have collared Quilps continued. “and if I was there, with the locked gates stopping me from leaving because locked gates is what you’d put on it, and the beadle with his cane keeping control of comings and goings, how would I get to work on time?”

“The workhouse wouldn’t be for people who have a job, silly, but for lazy layabouts who want to bleed the state dry” he told the fellow, inserting a measure of jollity into his voice in order to convey a mixture of poor fellow, not understanding what workhouses were and with a brain like yours I’m surprised you’ve got a job at all.

“Oh yes, squire, I’ve got a job all right. But what with all the prices of everything sky-rocketing, I’m in need of the sort of help given out by food banks to stop us all from starving…”

“Then you must be pretty crap at housekeeping, that’s all I can say,” almost snarled Quilps, who’d heard it all before and didn’t believe a syllable of the whinging nonsense, as he thought of it.

“You tell me how to take a pound coin and by magic turn it into two, then,” demanded the other, “because that’s what I have to do if I’m going to pay my mortgage, attend to my bills without going to jail for debt, and feed my kids!”

Quilps couldn’t think of a mathematically provable reply so he merely said “Bah!” and then, when an idea struck him, “chimney sweeps! That’s the answer! Victorian kids did it, lads as young as seven, crawled up chimneys and swept away the soot and fed roses and rhubarb in the garden with it! You could send your kids round, and with sexual equality it could be girls as well as boys, you don’t want to face prosecution under sex discrimination laws, do you? They could rake in a fair fortune and afford to feed themselves, leaving you free to afford a pint at your local, and even a packet of f**s if you want one!”

The other looked at him as if he was examining an insane primate in a cage at Brumpton zoo, “You’re stark raving nuts!” he said, “who needs their chimney swept these days? I’ll tell you who: nobody! It’s all gas or solar, that’s what it is, and you ought to know that. Call yourself an MP. I should cocoa!”

Indigo hadn’t given the matter anywhere enough thought, but he wasn’t going to give up. If crawling up chimneys with a brush in hand was good enough for Victorian kids, why couldn’t it be adapted to the needs of the present century?

“There are other cleaning jobs they could do, jobs that adults are too large to squeeze into tiny spaces,” he said, “just you think about it, there must be dozens of such tasks, and if you were a man you’d get those kids of yours earning real cash by doing one of them!”

“You’re bananas! For starters there are laws about kids going to work when they should be at school!”

“Forget the laws! I’ll get them rescinded next week if you like! That’s what I’ll do! I’ll get the house to make it essential for kids over the age of, say three, to be part of the work force, and we’re not in Europe any more so they won’t stop us! Think of it man, how good it would be for the kids if they had some pennies of their own rather than begging off you every time an ice-cream van comes anywhere near!”

“You’re insane!”

“Think how healthy all those Victorian kids were, sweeping chimneys with great fat smiles on their cherubic faces!” pursued Indigo Quilps, his eyes closed as images flickered somewhere in the least sane part of his brain.

“And all those that died of burns or smoke inhalation because someone lit a fire below them without thinking,” snarled the other, who was mentally trying to formulate a proposal for an on-line petition on the subject of basic intelligence in Members of Parliament before anyone was allowed to vote for them.

“Not enough to matter,” retorted Quilps, “what’s one dead nipper when a hundred are smiling and plump with too much food in them?”.

“And the other illnesses. Look, Mr MP, there can’t be a loving parent who’d be happy to see their kids suffering like thyat! I bet you haven’t got any kids, have you?”

Quilps had to think about it before answering because he almost forgotten Olive. Almost, but not quite.

“I’ve got a daughter,” he said.

“And you’d be happy to let her go up chimneys for a living, would you?”

Quilps smiled warmly at him. “She couldn’t,” he said, regretfully, “she’s in France with foster folks, and they’ve got laws over there. Bloody E.U and its laws against child labour!”

“See what I mean?” grated the other as the queue suddenly became one shorter and Quilps was buying his stamps.

“Two second class,” he asked, handing over his money.

“That’s it, mate, second class! That’s what we are since your lot got into power, and all you can suggest is sending our innocent kids up chimneys with a big round brush to die young! While you farm yours out to somewhere nice in France, where life is nice and easy!”

© Peter Rogerson 02.08.22

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