He was the graffiti cleaner

at the local railway station - and much more.
Every morning C...would take his bucket and brush and other equipment and he would go and clean off the graffiti left at the local railway station. He would pick up any rubbish left lying around, mend anything broken by vandals and help to tend the garden.
He was the good neighbour. Away on holiday and need the bins put out? Not a problem. He kept the plants alive too. He was the Neighbourhood Watch representative. The local council knew him well - and not because he complained but because there had been a small problem and C.... had fixed it before it became any worse.
His own garden was the best in the street and the produce from it was shared freely. 
He once bailed up a couple of young troublemakers and told them, "Come and have a look at this."
He took them and showed them the old signal box, told them how it worked and asked them to keep an eye on anyone trying to damage it. They supported him ever after.
C... would bail me up as I passed and say, "We need to write a letter."
      "C.... you write it," I would say but I always knew that I would be the one who would end up writing it. 
He knew each successive MP both state and federal, alerted them to issues he knew they could fix with simply the letter "we" had written. 
And, unfairly, while being treated for cancer, he had a bout of shingles. The pain must have been horrendous. It was too much. 
He did not manage to last until they unveiled the little statue honouring all he had done. It's there next to the bicycle racks at the railway station for which he did so much.
I understood when his wife told me, 
     "I can still say hello to him."