Daddy’s Gonna Float The Gypsum

Christopher Joyce
Jul 20, 2017 · 6 min read

‘Hello, what service do you require?’

‘All of them. Police, ambulance; there’s someone trapped in the car. Maybe a fire brigade. I dunno — send them all!’

I slammed down the phone after giving my directions and threw up in the phone box. I was amazed it was still working as the locals had turned it into a mini-library. Thank God I’d been able to get through. The stench of petrol filled the air mixing with the musty smell of autumn. They’d be here soon. Breathe, relax.

It had started out quite a normal sort of day. I’d had a delicious lunch at the Waterside restaurant in Flushing, opting, as always, for the catch of the day, as the fishing boat was moored alongside. The plan was then to go for a walk along Trefusis Point. We had a lot to talk about.

But Kelly was late. She was always bloody late. It drove me mad. After university, we’d moved down to Cornwall to run a small pub. It’d failed miserably in the recession of 2017, but if I’m honest, it would have failed anyway. We just didn’t want the same thing anymore. She still loved to listen to Justin Bieber; I had moved on to Seth Lakeman. She collected stones, for Christ’s sake. They were scattered all over the pokey little flat we rented in Falmouth We’d tried running a mobile coffee shop that toured the festivals, which just had just driven us even further apart. Being with Kelly twenty-four hours a day was not the answer to resolve our differences.

I checked my watch. 2:35, Where the hell was she? A black Labrador came sniffing at my feet, but was not too keen on the sliver of plaice left on the floor. I tried to attract the attention of the young waiter, but he was far too busy chatting up the barmaid. Well, he could go to hell. He laughed loudly at his own joke and I wanted to go over and punch him in the face there and then. I counted to ten. Breathe, relax. That’s what the anger management person had taught me. She was as useful as a chocolate teapot. Kelly loved her, of course. In fact, it was Kelly’s idea. Typical of her new found, hippy-dressing, cosmic-ordering sort of view on life. The grass was always greener for Kelly. Don’t worry about how we can afford the rent or pay for a service on the car, just write it on a piece of paper and bury it under the ‘special rock’ in the garden. That’d fix it.

The spotty chinned waiter cleaned the table next to mine. I thrust my hands into my pockets to stop myself from strangling him. That’s when I found the note. Another whinging apology from Kelly, no doubt. I opened it and read:

Daddy’s gonna float the gypsum.

What sort of bollocks was that? I turned it over and even held it up to the light, half expecting to see a message from Kelly written on the other side, but that was all it said. Daddy’s gonna float the gypsum. Was she playing stupid games? We’d arranged this meeting weeks ago. And after endless blocked text messages and unanswered calls, she’d agreed to stroll around the headland to talk things through. I could bet one of her trendy therapists had put her up to this. I could hear them whispering in her ear. Challenge him. Surprise him. They made me sick.

I didn’t have time for these stupid games. I had to get back to the garden centre. It’s not that I was the boss or anything, but since the break up I’d found some peace amongst the clematis and hydrangeas. I seemed to remember that gypsum was a plant food of some sort. It was supposed to improve acid soil. Was she trying to make a reference to my work? That would be typical. She never wanted me to be successful. Ever since I got a first at uni and she got a Desmond. She hated me referring to her 2:2 like that. Yes, she’d studied soil sciences. I could bet it’s something to do with that.

Or maybe it was an anagram? When we first met we’d spend hours in bed going through the puzzle page in the local paper. I rummaged through my backpack for a pencil. There were so many zipped pockets. Why was it always the last one you looked in? I checked my mobile phone in vain. Still no sign of life. I shoved the half eaten peppermints and loose change back into the bag and drew a circle on the piece of paper. I arranged the letters in a random order around the circle. It was just the sort of thing Kelly used to do. Oh God, I’d be worshipping bloody crystals next.

After ten minutes of scratching my head, I came up empty. Nothing. Not a Scooby. I stormed out of the restaurant and headed for the woods. It was only when I was halfway to the beach that I realised I was starving. Well, sod them. I’d grab a sandwich in the pub later.

I pulled up the collar of my down jacket as the ferry from Falmouth spewed out the last remaining emmets with their selfie sticks and iPads already in their hands. I strode on into Kilnquay Woods kicking up the beech mast and relaxing a little as the smell of pine needles and salty sea air filled my lungs. Before long, I was clambering along the rocks on the shore line towards the cave where Kelly and I had frolicked in better days. My shoulders relaxed and I undid my jacket. The beach always had this effect on me. I felt at home. I pulled out the scrap of paper from my jacket and read the message again.

Daddy’s gonna float the gypsum. Was it an old folk song? I vaguely remember a school trip to a gypsum mine in Redruth. Were there once shanty songs sung by full-bosomed lasses as they loaded the gypsum on to boats bound for distant lands? I doubted it.

The sun was dipping below the horizon when I left the shore. The views of Falmouth across the crystal clear water and the sight of kids searching the rock pools for crabs had lifted my spirits. I didn’t care what the note was supposed to mean. I had to admit that although she drove me mad at times, I still could not get her out of my head.

We’d been the golden couple at university. Kelly with her long blonde hair and swimmer’s physique. As captain of the rugby team, I got plenty of attention too. Some of the ladies didn’t like the tattoos but they all loved the muscles. I decided to stroll back into town and treat myself to a long cold pint of Gold Cyder at the Seven Stars. The pub was packed with regulars who ignored me as I strolled to the bar. I guess I was still not that popular in this village. Just the thought of that cold, golden liquid slipping down my throat cleared my mind and I felt the happiest I’d been in months. It was time to put the past behind us and start again.

That was when I heard the screech of brakes followed by the unmistakeable thud of metal crushing bones. I leapt to my feet knocking the table and half-finished cider on to the floor.

‘For God’s sake! Call an ambulance!’ I yelled at the top of my voice. Nobody moved. The red-headed barmaid continued to flirt with the young men at the bar. The family of four by the door carried on ignoring each other with their eyes glued to their mobile phones. The guys playing darts chalked up another score.

I ran out into the street alone. A woman’s body was crushed in the front seat of the mangled Fiesta. Just her legs with torn tights covered in blood were visible though the smashed windscreen. Another body was slumped beside her, a male in his late twenties, clearly dead at the scene. A young girl pushed her bike down the street as a lady in her later years nervously crossed the road, hugging an ugly pug to her chest.

For Christ’s sake, what was wrong with these people! I dashed to the phone box, hoping beyond hope that it was still working. It was piled high with books; there was a laminated note stuck to the wall.

This phone box was decommissioned in 2014. Please help yourself to these books dedicated to Kelly and Simon Edgerton, dear to this village. New books are added on a regular basis. This month:

Daddy’s Misbehaving (not suitable for children) J Stone

Gonna Make You Mine (young adult) Kay Littleham

Float Fishing for Pike. S B Carter

The Gypsum Mines in the UK Andy McNarble

Reedsy

Short stories inspired by writing prompts.

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Christopher Joyce

Written by

Reedsy

Reedsy

Short stories inspired by writing prompts.

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