Rosie’s Last Week
It’s raining tight little lines on me, as I’m skipping over puddles on Richmond Road. My flares get soaked through every time I’m unsuccessful in my leaping, water and brown leaves sticking fast to my shoes. My toes get wetter, but I keep on jumping, I have to meet Rosie before eight or she’ll kill me. She told me she’s got something special planned for tonight but she wouldn’t say what. I turn quickly on to Newport Road, into the honk and blare of cars ripping through the wet tarmac. I pause under the viaduct to light a fag, and two girls walk past me with a Gucci umbrella held between them,
“You look like you’re bleedin’ love!” says one of them. I look down at my red t-shirt, and the large drops of water make the red even darker like I’ve just escaped a psycho killer in a slasher movie. I smile as they pass by giggling and flicking their hair like manes; one brown, one pink.
Rosie told me to meet her at the clock on Queen Street, just like we used to back when the food hall was still open in Capitol. Every Wednesday afternoon would see us sipping coffee at The Continental clutching Poppy Z or Phillip Larkin, eyeliner and attitude, dark, dyed hair and bright smiles. I’m running now, trying to get there before her. Scruffy pigeons fling themselves out of my way casting accusatory glares at me with their reptilian eyes, suddenly I can smell hotdogs and the whiff of engine and for a second, I’m back at the fair.
I can see Rosie ahead of me, she has no coat either and she’s wearing her wine-coloured velour top, the one she knows I like because it makes her look sexy. She knows because I make her wear it so often. I try a last burst of speed to reach her and fall headlong into a rivulet caused by the wonky overflow channel in the slabs on Queen Street. I look up into her concerned face, pale skin glowing in the half-light, one eye tracing a mascara line down her cheek, and smile.
“Oh my God, are you alright?” she asks helping me up. I look down at my clothes expecting to see my new black combats ripped to shreds, no rips but I am soaked through, my t-shirt sticks to my body, bloodbath red with the rainwater.
“I’m okay.” I reply shivering slightly, “Can we go to a warm pub?” Rosie laughs easily, the shock on her face at seeing me fall slowly being replaced with smiles at the funniness of the situation.
“C’mon you.” She says putting her arm around me, “I’ve got something to show you.”
“What?” I ask dripping with every step,
“You’ll see.” She says, still silently shaking with laughter at me.
We head down Queen Street, me protesting that I need to stop and Rosie urging me on and telling my we’re going to be late. Nearly every person that sees me stifles a laugh or points and cheers, if I was a different kind of person I would be enjoying the attention, but I’m not. I blush redder than my t-shirt and cringe whenever someone jeers at me.
“Ignore ‘em love,” she says, but I can’t. I feel like a hen weekend drunk, an A-level celebrant, Brynaman park with a flagon of ‘Bow.
Rosie and me have only started seeing each other again after nearly two years, this is kind of a renaissance in our friendship, a brand new reel. I’ve missed having her near me and plan to tell her later when I’m drunk, when the words will come out smoothly, not garbled as I know they would do now. I’m expecting to get drunk tonight, hopefully sit by a radiator, and talk shit with my best friend. We stop outside Rummers and Rosie hugs me,
“You’ll be dry soon.” She says and we step inside, I’m dreading the stares and cheers but manage to keep my composure as we make our way to the nearest radiator. I cling my arms around it grateful for the warmth as Rosie goes to the bar to get our drinks. I re-arrange myself so that my back is touching the rad, my eyes close in happiness.
“You’re not sleepin’ are you?” asks Rosie and I open my eyes with a start.
“Just gettin’ warm.” I assure her, and then see the girl standing with her. She looks shyly down at me on my seat and smiles, her eyes widen then close as she moves her gaze away from me.
“This is Heledd. Heledd, Geraint. Geraint, Heledd.” Rosie introduces us.
“Hi Heledd,” I say shaking her hand, a few drops fall from my arm and onto the small table. I notice one drip into my pint, imagine Cardiff pollution slowly spreading into the beer.
Heledd and Rosie sit down and we all reach for our beers. Heledd’s big eyes glance up at Rosie who smiles back,
“So Heledd,” I begin as brightly as is possible for a soaking wet shy person, “how do you know Rosie.”
“Oh, we met when Tarina was DJing at the Kings. I gave Rosie a badge.” They both laugh. Seeing Rosie happy makes me smile and I laugh too.
“Cool, can I see it?” I ask Rosie. She nods yes and reaches for her bag. Pinned to the strap of her way too hippy bag is the badge, it is small and white and has a few words printed in black. It looks punky. I lean closer and read it: FUN 4 U. I smile and raise an eyebrow. Rosie avoids my gaze, so I content myself with waiting until Heledd needs to go for a pee.
“Do you know Tarina?” Heledd asks me, and I explain that I work with her boyfriend Kahu. We talk about Heledd’s job in the University’s Archaeology department, and she promises to take me on a guided tour. I tell her how excited I am at the prospect of this, she laughs at how eager I am. Our glasses chink and my top gets drier the more we laugh. I tell her how amazing it would be to hold an actual arrowhead from Mesolithic Wales.
“We don’t have many human remains though,” she tells me, “but plenty of animal ones.”
“Oh my God!” I exclaim a bit too loudly, I am starting to feel slightly drunk, “So you mean I could actually hold a sheep’s tooth or something, that actually grazed at an Iron Age farm?”
“No problem.” she tells me, seeming genuinely pleased that I am so chuffed to bits. I offer to get the next round in and I stand up, Heledd moves her skirt out of my way and her knuckles touch Rosie’s hand, which is reaching into her bag. I see the two of them exchange a quick peep at each other. Rosie keeps looking, but Heledd breaks eye contact first. I see this millisecond of action take minutes.
When I return from the bar Rosie and Heledd are laughing out loud, and it kind of saddens me, makes me feel excluded. Not by those two in particular, but like everybody in the pub is happy and content in their places with the people around them, and I’ve suddenly been thrown in and everyone is too polite to ask me to leave.
The rain has thankfully stopped by the time we leave Rummers, Rosie says she should be in bed already because of work in the morning, I tell her I’m jealous, I have to input eight-digit numbers all day on Monday. She laughs sympathetically. I like her. I like the way her greeny eyes clash with all the other colours she’s wearing, like she’s done it on purpose or something. We walk to the taxi rank to say goodbye to Heledd, the three of us holding hands in a short crocodile. I am feeling really drunk now, my head is doing that falling asleep thing. It falls and then jerks up, awake. I try to say ‘goodbye’ but my words all slur together.
“I think I’d better take you home.” says Rosie.
“Mm.” I agree, and together we make our way back down Queen Street, avoiding the puddles, back to my flat.
I drink the cup of tea that Rosie has made me thankfully. My head has stopped spinning and I can concentrate on asking her,
“So what’s going on with Heledd then Rosie?” Rosie tries unsuccessfully to hide a smile, and I swear she starts to blush. Rosie never blushes, you could march her down Newport Road naked and she’d still look serene.
“Rosie!” I exclaim, “Are you seeing her?” Rosie laughs out loud at this.
“Of course I’m not,” she says her eyebrows all crossed, “we’re just friends.”
“Oh, fair enough then…” I start saying but see her holding back more laughter, blinking to stop the smiling from starting again. “Rosie, tell me!” I shout at her, nearly dropping my tea in my lap.
“Well, we kissed the other night,” Rosie relents, “I was wondering how long it would take you to notice.”
“I did notice, but then I didn’t want to say anything just in case I was wrong. I thought I saw you two flirtin’.” Rosie tries her best to look bashful, but I already know different - I’ve seen her so stoned she couldn’t wipe the dribble off her lips, and just sat there giggling about it. “What about Australia?” I ask her, “Does Heledd know you’re leaving next week?”
“Hmm, yeah she does know. We haven’t spoken about it much.” Rosie’s eyes look at little too large, like they’re going to fill up until they spill on to her little nose and run down her face.
“C’mon babe,” I begin, moving over so I can hug her, “no need for tears.”
“I know.” Rosie sobs. I can hear the church bells bonging out a sad tune, and the last birds are squawking on their way to bed.
I’m looking at my ceiling, close up because I have a loft bed so I’m quite high up. I can hear the TV making squealing noises and there’s bacon in the air. I clamber sloppily out of bed, down my metal ladder and into the living room. Rosie is up already and she’s making me breakfast, I can hear her singing in the kitchen over the cartoons on the television. She comes out of the kitchen wearing my yellow apron, cup of tea in one hand and a plate of croissants in the other.
“Morning chicken!” she says happily, “Come and ‘ave some breakfast.” I grimace and throw myself down on to the settee.
“Rosie, thanks.” is all I can manage to say. I feel crumpled and sticky.
“We’ve got croissants to start with, and bacon, egg and tomatoes on toast in a minute,” she says briskly, putting the croissants down in front of me with a mug of tea. It’s the ‘I Love Ammanford’ mug, I’m not sure if this is a good sign or not. The mug was a present from an ex-boyfriend from Ammanford. I can suddenly feel a stabbing pain in the right side of my head, in the temple. I realise I’m too hung over for omens so I have a sip of my tea instead.
“What time are you working today, love?” I call out to Rosie. She returns from the kitchen with our plates of food and says,
“I’m off today, I did tell you last night but you probably can’t remember can you?” I shake my head and then stop because it hurts so much.
“What are we up to today then?” I ask Rosie, trying my best to perk myself up. The sunlight sends rays through my net curtains, filtered by my cheeseplant, they make lovely shadows on the floor. I feel half inclined to dance over them, but know that I can’t make myself get up from my settee.
“I thought we might go to the museum. What do you think?” Rosie asks me. I am suddenly a lot better, the world has opened above my head again and the sun is helping to evaporate my headache.
It’s nearly two o’clock now, and I’m waiting for Rosie outside a phone box as she calls her Dad. I can hear them having a mini argument so I walk on a bit, motioning to Rosie that I will be over there. I’m looking over at the castle walls, trying to imagine laying siege to it, how difficult it would be to conquer. I read in one of my Mam’s history books about all the different ways invaders would try to get over castle walls, I’m thinking none would work on these walls: too high, too thick and probably too well guarded. I’ve never been inside Cardiff castle. I’ve lived here for nearly six months and I’ve never been inside. I was in a pub right opposite it last night and I didn’t even look over at it. All these years of visiting Cardiff for Christmas presents and tops that no one in Llanelli would own are swilling around me like floodwater. I go back to where Rosie is still on the phone, she hangs up as I walk over there.
“Grr!” she grunts, a tear in each eye, “He’s always like this whenever I go away. We argue like hell for the last week, and then I get a text message telling me how much he loves me and how proud he is of me.” I take her arm and draw her in to a half hug,
“Don’t worry babe, he’ll get used to it eventually.” We both smile, “But I bloody won’t!” Her smile widens and she suggests lunch, my stomach growls approval, “Let’s go and eat it in the castle grounds.” I suggest, so we make our way to the market to buy ham and tomato cobs. I imagine I’m a vampire looking at the various people in the market, wondering how they would taste. So many flavours for a Cardiff vampire to choose from: Welsh of course, Indian, Chinese, so many East Europeans, redheads, Aryan blondes, dark little Celts, Somali, Sikh, Swansea tastes. A boy couldn’t make his kind up which to choose first. I would probably go for a redhead, pale skin and blue/green eyes, golden hair dusted onto icing white skin. I suppress a shudder and pay for my cob and diet coke.
We walk arm in arm back through the market and on to the castle. Rosie shoots a look of disgust at the American tourists paying to get in through the gates,
“I’m not paying to share space with them.” She says turning her nose up, but only managing to make herself even more beautiful and elf-like. I laugh and agree, so we sit behind a planter filled with bloody flowers and I am reminded of my t-shirt last night. We sit down on our coats watching as people file on to the Cardiff sightseeing buses, we wave at the people on the top deck, they wave back happily and some Japanese businessmen take our photo. I feel like I’m in a film, just waiting for Barbara Windsor to pop out of a nearby bush, giggling. When she doesn’t appear, I offer to roll the fags, Rosie declines and mimes smoking a large cigar. I roll my eyes but still put my tin away.
We have to do some creative rearrangement so Rosie is hidden from people walking past on the pavement as she builds a joint.
“Why did you move to Cardiff?” she asks me, plucking some fragrant green leaves from a little baggie, the smell reminds me of rosemary.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, why Cardiff? Why not Swansea?” she asks me, I shrug my shoulders,
“It’s just the place you move to, isn’t it?” I say. The sky is so blue today, and the noises of the city have a happy cheerful tinge to them, even the exhaust fumes take on a pretty violet colour. “Of course, I moved to be nearer you too, honey.”
“I was waitin’ to hear that!” said Rosie, raising her eyebrows in a mock warning.”
“Why did you move here then?” I ask her as she lights up, the pale blue smoke makes me think of incense.
“Well, after Uni it was logical to stay here. I just had to keep remindin’ you to come and stay with me.” we stayed silent for a while, each thinking about nothing much in particular. “I was so fed up of Llanelli, the whole small-town thing. Cardiff is the Metropolis of Wales, like.” Rosie beamed as if she’d made an excellent discovery.
“It’s hardly a Metropolis though, is it?” I asked her, sunshine bleaching everything around us into washed-out colours. I recall Kahu saying something lovely the first night I met him about what he first thought of Cardiff when they moved here from New Zealand: he said it’s big enough to be a city, but small enough to feel like a town. I didn’t know what he meant at the time, but I get it now. I’m a smalltown boy like Kahu, and London scares me when I go there, but Cardiff has that town thing where old ladies who live next door to you call round with a parcel that they took off the postman for you that morning. I really love that.
Rosie and I finish our joint and head for home after a few more minutes, we both have to get some real sleep, and I know that she has overtime tomorrow helping out with the stocktaking. On the way back to Roath, we stop at every street corner to look at the street names on the corners of buildings. It’s a special font that I suspect was designed for Cardiff County Council, back when they were all put up, shiny and new and forever. I wish someone would turn that font into a downloadable one on the Internet, like they did with the London Underground one - I have it on my computer, it’s called Paddington. If I had the Cardiff font, I would use it exclusively: for all my letters, in work, on my website, or even to write my shopping lists.
I’ve been without Rosie for nearly a week and it’s killing me, no exaggeration, I really mean it. I haven’t been this serious in God knows how long, she’s taken my silliness away to Australia with her. I hope those Aussies are enjoying it.
I’m sitting in the Owain Glyndwr, on the same table Rosie and me used to sit at. Even the table looks less clean now that she’s gone, all of Cardiff has suddenly become messier and dirtier, nobody feels that they need to make an effort now that she isn’t hear to look at them or their tables. I’ve had one email and no phone call yet, I can’t take being here alone so I get up to leave, maybe get a video out tonight and a bottle of wine.
The Slug and Lettuce looks busy, brightly coloured people spilling out onto the street, wearing crisp-packet clothes and pints of frothy beer on their heads, it makes me laugh. By the time I get to the top of Queen Street a clown has followed me and walks behind me pulling the same fed-up frown as I’m wearing. He sticks the tips of his white-gloved hands into the corners of his down turned mouth, and makes a smile. His hand reaches into his coat and brings out a magically produced paper flower, which he presents with a flourish. I accept it, and the smile that it brings to my face, gratefully. Outside Boots, a tall skinny young man plays guitar and sings, his guitar playing is amazing but his voice is terrible. I throw a fifty pence piece into his already quite full guitar bag, and he works the words ‘thank you’ into the Charlatans song he’s singing. I smile at him and raise my hand.
What are you doing? I ask Cardiff, in my head obviously, I don’t want people thinking I’m touched. Are you trying to make me smile because you know I’m feeling sad? I’m at Sainsbury’s now and there’s a tiny man selling the Big Issue. I give him two pounds and tell him to keep the change, it is the guy’s last one after all and nobody else was in a hurry to buy it from him. He asks me if I’m sure and I tell him yes of course, I’m happy that such a little, easy gesture can make a person smile like he is now. I sigh, and I’m still sighing past the Mayor’s house on Richmond Road, she’ll be back in a year. Don’t worry Rosie, I’ll keep Cardiff warm for you.
First published in The Big Book of Cardiff, edited by Peter Finch, in 2005
