At primary school there was a small, T-shaped space behind the toilet block.
It housed an incincerator, and the man who kept it.
The area was bordered by trees and strictly out of bounds.
But through the chain-link fence and foliage, you could glimpse the device if you tried.
It looked to be cast iron, painted silver.
The air intakes were shaped like halved grapefruits - almost floral.
The contraption sat in silence, smoking sporadically; awaiting its next meal.
Also mute was its keeper, who wore a coat as grey as the ashes he shovelled.
In six years at the school, I never heard this man speak.
Nor did I ever see him collect refuse from the grounds.
He simply appeared, on occasion, to feed the incinerator with boxes of paper that spontaneously materialised.
There were never any flames; just languid wreaths in the autumn sky.
Today it seems extraordinary that a strange man in a filthy coat would be allowed to combust behind the boys' and girls' toilets.
But in those days, kids could safely knock on strange doors for bob-a-job week.
Like the papers, the dust man, the incinerator and their reason for being,
have all vanished
in time.