Read by Lin Sagovsky - Full podcast here
Mid-December hung around Ely, Cardiff. It was cold but it had yet to snow. It had yet to do anything.
What Joseph and Mary called a flat was one room. A window that looked north across Bishopton Road. A gas cooker on which two of the four burners worked. A sink. A double mattress set on a floor industrially carpeted grey.
The thin sunlight sighed through Joseph and Mary’s window, dangled as threads about their room.
Their furniture was plastic, Joe’s mate Paddy had lifted it from the Culverhouse Cross B&Q. Straight into his van and dropped it here one late November evening. A table and four chairs. A housewarming present.
Joe’s blue eyes saw another perfect day.
Stretched out next to him, Mary said: “I’m late.”
Joe turned his block of a head to her.
Mary was small, black. Her Tesco uniform hung on one of the plastic chairs.
“For what?” said Joe.
Joe was white and large, a pale square of a man.
“For the fucking bus, Joe,” said Mary.
Joe sat up.
His cropped blond head turned to her.
“How late?” he asked.
She levered herself up on her elbows. “Enough late.”
How could this be? thought Joe. They’d got this place, everything had come just right. How had they messed this up?
He said: “I thought you were on the pill.”
Mary swung her legs off the mattress, got to her feet.
“Miracles happen, Joe,” she said.
“Miracles? Fucking miracles?” Joe stood. “What, you forgot to take your pill?”
Mary, naked, sat on one of the plastic chairs. “I didn’t forget, Joe,” she said.
“You took them,” said Joe.
Mary inclined her head: Yes.
Joe’s lips set to a determined line. “Then we’ll sue the buggers.”
Mary watched as Joe paced the room.
“Sue who, Joe?” she asked.
Joe explained: “The fuckers who make the pill. They must have millions.”
“You can try to sue, Joe,” agreed Mary. “See if anyone will take the case.”
Joe placed his large hands on the sink, looked out from their first floor flat over Bishopton Road.
How do you sue people? thought Joe, looking at a South Wales sky crossed by cloud.
Across Bishopton Road was The Anthony’s Pub, next to it a William Hill. Beyond that on Careau Road was the Highfields pub. Below them Patel’s Off Licence. Behind on Heol Trelai was the Home Guard Club.
They had it made.
‘Best place in the world,’ Paddy had admired.
They couldn’t let this interfere.
Joe turned back to the room. He knew what to do. He knew what to say.
“I’ll stand by you,” he said.
“I’m keeping the kid, Joe,” said Mary.
Joe felt his left eyebrow twitch. “Be reasonable,” he said.
“I am reasonable,” said Mary.
Joe began to circle the table.
“Who you been talking to?” The question fired from him.
“No one, Joe. Not about this,” said Mary.
Joe moved his head left to right. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said as his muscled body paced out the small room. “Not here. No one will think that.”
That was definite. That was certain.
“Gabby did,” disagreed Mary.
“Gabby? Gabby’s dead.” Joseph batted her ridiculous claim back at her.
Six months ago full of meth Gabby had pitched head first off the Golate car-park. Joe and Mary had got drunk for a week. A memorial.
“In a dream,” said Mary.
“So you were off your head and you dreamed of Gabby and that’s what you’re deciding on?” What part of the silliness did Mary not see?
Mary stood, put her hands on her hips, leant toward Joe’s circling form.
“Dream of Gabby or not, I’m keeping the kid,” she said.
Joe couldn’t believe it. There was a sensible thing to do and instead Mary was giving him this. He snapped: “You’re bloody mad, I know,” and nodded as though at an agreed thing. “And there’s a place for that. God knows, I’m as bad. But there’s got to be a limit to it.”
“I’m what?” said Mary taking a step toward him.
Joe tried to pass between her and the table but collided with a plastic chair and fell to the grey carpeted floor.
“Just see sense,” said Joe from the floor.
“See fucking sense,” said Mary and aimed a kick at him. “I’m fucking mad.”
Mary essayed another kick.
“Twat,” she declared.
“Stop kicking me,” said Joe.
Mary stopped. “Twat,” she repeated.
Joe got to his feet. He stood in a room webbed by December light.
“You’re keeping it?” said Joe.
The pub, the bookies, Patel’s off-licence - that beautiful world was passing.
Mary looked at him. “I’m keeping the kid,” she said.
“Fuck it,” said Joe and put his arm around her.
(c) David Gill, 2020
David Gill is from a mixed-race, working class family in Cardiff. He lives in London. He has had stories in Liars’ League, London Magazine, Bedford Square and others. He did an MA under Andrew Motion and is losing his vision: although he is sure the two are not connected.
Lin Sagovsky is currently playing William Shakespeare in Bard in the Yard – a kind of Deliveroo solo show, for real outdoors in London, and Zoomed indoors in three continents to date. Apart from voicework and acting in various media, Lin helps non-actors become better communicators – especially, nowadays, in virtual meetings.
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