The Whistler and the Bin Lady

A story partly inspired by conversations on Facebook about putting yout bin out in the early morning and some other thoughts going around my head....

   Charlie Pipe had always been a whistler. He whistled when he was happy. He whistled when he was sad.
   He whistled when he walked his dog, a grey Bedlington terrier called Terry, named after Terry Wogan.
   For many years every day had started with Terry on Radio 2, sometimes he wondered if he missed Terry more than his late wife Mona.
   Although she never lived up to her name, she was a jolly soul but the only music in his life now was his whistling.
   Once both Mona and Terry were gone from his life, he had taken to walking the dog early, whistling all the way.
   They used to stride over the hills beyond the town but these days they walked the streets at a slower pace as Charlie pondered what was going on behind the closed doors they passed.
   He didn't have to wonder much about number 43.
   Irene Bradshaw was a divorcee twice over. She had a poor taste in men, at least that was the local gossip.
   He waited at the corner while Terry did his business.
   “Good lad!” said Charlie with a wink.
   There was a rumour Mrs Bradshaw put her bin out in a most revealing lacy negligee and she had a fine set of pins on her, or so the story went!
   When he heard the rattle of the wheelie bin he started whistling Moon River as he turned the corner. She was only three doors down.
   “Can I help you with that?” he asked as she seemed to struggle with her task.    Caught unawares she pulled her pink spotty dressing gown closer to her ample breast.
   “Oh that’s Ok, there’s nowt in it really, being on my own and all.”
   She blushed a little. Then there was an awkward silence before she asked, “Do you want to drop your poo bag in, save you carrying it while you walk?”
   Charlie was taken aback, couldn’t help but stare, he’d never seen her so close up before. Her face was soft and delicately lined, her eyes a mysterious bluey grey, her nose Roman but neither too large of too small for the rest of her features. But her crowning glory was her hair, on the brassy side of blonde but caught in the morning sun it shone.
   Mona used to have auburn hair, beautiful wavy and natural. But when it went grey, she never coloured it, “just as nature intended,” she would say, “like Terry.” She would pat the dog whose coat had almost changed colour from dark to light over night the way most Bedlington terriers do.
   He hadn’t minded that so much but when he found grey hairs on the pillow, clumps in the shower and a strand in his shepherd’s pie, he found that hard, but never told her.
   The treatment was harsh and she spent her last days covering her head in a green knitted hat, not quite how nature had intended.
   He was roused from his thoughts as Irene lifted the bin lid with one hand and gently took the bag from him with the other.
   “Oh you are too kind, Terry always does his business just around the corner by the post box. But I always pick it up.” He added hastily.
   The action of taking the bag from his hand left the dressing gown gaping a little, she must have felt the cool breeze on her skin but never pulled it close.
   Charlie lifted his eyes back to her face and thye smiled at each other.
   He doffed an imaginary cap as he turned, “Come on Terry.”
   He had only reached the house next door and whistled a few notes when she called after him.
   “Hey what’s that song? The one you always whistle when you walk by.”
   So she'd heard him before then?
   “Moon River.”
   “Thought so, one of my favourites.” She waved and walked back to her front door.   She really did have a good set of pins on her.
   Charlie Pipe continued whistling with a smile and somehow the slightly melancholy tune took on a sweeter melody from that day on.