MORNING SERIAL

BACK in the good days the house was chaotic, a tangle of words and arguments, and conversations even, and even fun.

Like this very particular day, back then, in the house, in spring. It was her birthday, and Pigeon’s mam had put on such a beautiful dress, and, in the dress, she was spinning and spinning in the kitchen, so that the pretty flowers on the dress streaked through the air, and a dish was knocked off the draining board by the spinning flowers on the dress. And that day she just laughed, that day, and her laugh, it was easy, like a soft breeze. So pretty, Pigeon’s mam, like a ghost, but pretty.

Pigeon can remember that day. Pigeon can still remember, and he tells his mam about it, sitting on his bed in the shed in the falling night this Sunday. And she’s quiet, but she strokes his hair as he lies his head on her lap, as he talks. And her hands are soft as feathers, so that Pigeon doesn’t know if they’re there at all. Her hands are like fairies and so is she, so that she might disappear, fade, be taken somewhere else. Pigeon smiles at her, to keep her with him, and her hands stroking his hair feel a little more real, on the bed in the almost dark.

Pigeon keeps his mam there, and he’s important, holding her hand now on the bed, smiling at her, and telling her about his day. And she asks him no questions. And he talks on and on, although she looks as if she doesn’t understand, her grey look; the words evaporating away into the cloud of her eyes.

“At the bottom of the river there’s a load of junk, Mam,” he tells her in Welsh, painting a picture of what he’s seen, the rubbish, the tipped, thrownaway toys and belongings clogging the river at the bottom of the hill, the things people have thrown away, as if they want nothing now, as if they need nothing.

Does she understand? Is she interested in him?

There are never any questions, never any explanations, but, as he talks, Pigeon feels her hand grow heavier in his, so he keeps talking until she kisses his hair, and it’s time for bed.