If you get an old copy of “The Guinness Book of World Records” – say, from 1972 or 1973 and look it up – you’ll find the following reference:
Window Cleaner – the World’s Worst.Undoubtedly the very worst window-cleaner in the world, and in the whole history of window cleaning, is an individual known as Brother Duncan in the London New-Suburb congregation of Jehovah’s Witnesses. This utterly inept incompetent attempts to make a living by this means without ever having the acquired slightest skill or aptitude for the art. Truly lacking any clue, he inflicts his craft upon the unfortunate householders of the Hayfield housing estate in New-Suburb Town, many of whom obviously pay him out of some sense of pity …
If it’s not there, then it certainly ought to be.
Washing windows is what we pioneers did. It was tradition, nothing else was ever considered. Pioneers Washed Windows. There was probably a scripture about it. And whereas all the other members of the pioneer corps, fitter, stronger, much more skilled in a practical sense than me, managed to make a decent living, I was hopeless. I was just awful.
The other pioneer-brothers managed to construct a decent round of well-to-do houses, in the better parts of town, houses you could charge premium rates for. They somehow contrived to get contracts from shops and offices to clean their windows, using those squeegee things, and make a ton of money, on a good regular basis. The wherewithal to accomplish all these things was simply beyond me.
I would turn up at the house, put some ladders up against a wall, and begin sloshing water all over the windows. Oh, I knew the basic theory well enough: warmish water, no detergent, a vigorous once over with a wet chamois, follow-up with a wipe-over using barely-damp scrim (a type of coarse linen, I believe, perfect for the purpose) and - there you go! Sparkling windows! Take the money and rush off to the next house. You should aim to do twenty or thirty a day. A good day for me was six.
I was slow for all sorts of reasons: To start with I had a natural lack of ability in handling the ladders; sometimes I think I must have looked like the Keystone Kops, falling about all over the place, unable to walk in a straight line under the weight of the ladders. I also worried too much, I would convince myself that the windows looked smeary, so I would do them all again. And, I was easily distracted: “Cuppa tea, Window cleaner?” Every time I’d say yes.
But the main reason I was hopeless, was because I hated it. I had never had to deal with such mind-numbing tedium in my life before, and I wasn’t handling it well. I would set out in the morning with my sandwiches and flask packed in my shoulder-bag, along with a novel to read during my lunch break. I was making a point of buying each week one of the titles in the Penguin Classic series, and I was working my way through Dickens, Trollope, The 19th century Russian novelists, and so on. Halfway through the window-cleaning morning, after just a couple of houses, I would get fed-up and go and sit in a bus shelter and just read that weeks novel.
I was earning hardly any money – and what I did earn I spent on books. My folks, I have to say, were excellent - they never asked for anything in the way of a contribution to household expenses. I guess they were proud to support a pioneer son.
But, as I explained in the earlier post, I really wasn’t a terribly good pioneer either. I was getting the hours in, and the literature placements, but it absolutely wasn’t the life I thought it would be, and I knew in my heart it was an empty way of life, a meaningless round of magazine and book-selling. Though I would still not admit it to myself, I knew I had made a huge mistake.
And I was beginning to get the first inklings of what I have now learnt (since reading sites like this one) is called Cognitive Dissonance.
One particular episode stands out in my memory: those articles printed in the Watchtower around that time that taught how the heart of an individual was not merely an organ for pumping blood but actually had some capacity to “think bad thoughts” for that person. It was simply idiotic. It was nuts. It was offensively stupid – that’s right, I was offended that I was supposed to take this utterly laughable notion seriously. How could they print such nonsense?
Well now, the window cleaning, the pioneering, the gradual dawn of internal doubt about the Watchtower society, all of this was coming together with the effect of making me a seriously unhappy and depressed young man. And, of course, I thought the problem was all me. My weakness, my immaturity, my failings.
Meanwhile, Hillary and I were becoming good friends. He was such a welcome change from the company of the other pioneer brothers, whom I was finding to be, truth to be told, somewhat dull companions. Hillary, on the other hand, was extraordinary.
He wasn’t just clever – his breadth of knowledge was immense. He knew things! He knew Art, he knew Jazz. He spoke languages, he had spent time living abroad in another – or several other - countries. He knew cooking. He walked hills and mountains, he knew Classics, he knew Literature. It didn’t matter what you threw at him, he was informed, and had interesting opinions. He was an education to be around.
He could talk to you about Philosophy, or History. He was into American and British rock bands I had never heard of. Even on my home ground – American Comic Book Art – it turned out he was as clued-up as me, knew the artists and writers.
It was like my life was a black-and-white silent movie, while his world was this fantastic 3D surround-sound Technicolor interactive tactile Aroma-vision experience.
So, from my point of view, it was like this:
On the one hand, here’s me faced with another dull day of trudging around the streets, calling at not-homes, or delivering magazines to people whom I suspected were simply binning them as I left; or, possibly, another tedious day of glass-smearing….
…Or, on the other hand, I could go round Hillary’s house!
He was unfailingly polite, welcoming and patient. Always made me feel that what he had just been waiting for, to make that day perfect, was me turning up for the afternoon. He had himself left school by now, living in his parents house, but I had no idea how he supported himself. He was always in when I called, and always seemed to have hours of time for me.
We would talk. Or rather, I would. In fact, it wasn’t talking, so much as unloading, really. All my anguish and turmoil and hopelessness. He would listen with infinite patience and kindness. He didn’t even say much. He is probably the most centred, self-possessed person I have ever met, and he was entirely non-directive in dealing with me. It was never “ Okay, what you need to do is (a) (b) and (c)…” it was always “why don’t I make us a cup of tea?” or “I’ve been meaning to play you this piece of music…”
Hillary never offered me a cut-and-dried solution to anything, and I can’t bring to mind a single piece of advice he gave, but there was understanding and concern and kindness. Those afternoons flew by in an enjoyable haze. Occasionally there would be a chance to meet some really interesting people at his house. Old friends of his. He was a fine upstanding baptised member of the congregation by now, and without doubt the Elders’ darling, but nothing would persuade him to do the classic Witness-thing and turn his back on his old friends, he kept up with them..
I would say those afternoons I spent round his house are among my fondest, happiest golden memories.
Anyway, time passed. Eventually I did leave the pioneer service, got a full-time job (in an office!), got married to the daughter of the PO from a neighbouring congregation. Hillary and I drifted slowly apart, and one day – he wasn’t there. I don’t even remember him leaving.
Someone told me he had gone to live elsewhere in England, someone else said he was in Europe. Who could tell with Hillary? Like an iceberg, nine-tenths of him was hidden from view, no one knew his motivations or reasons .
Eventually, It turned out he had gone to live in the US. He sent me a card, which I kept for years. But I wasn’t to see him again for six or seven years, by which time, I had thoroughly worked things out for myself as regards the Watchtower, and, by now guilt-free, Borg-free and set free from a life of spiritual drudgery, I was happier than I’d ever been since childhood. There would never be any turning back for me.
But I did have one more meeting with Hillary to come, the telling of which will conclude this little series….
Duncan.
