The Mug - Part 1
This is a serialised short story featuring Mick Smith and his wife Sandy and Mick's old tea mug that causes an argument...
The kitchen needed a lick of paint. Cupboard doors needed fixing. The damn windows needed cleaning. But more than all of that, the kettle needed to hurry the hell up.
It stood there, a bright, shiny thing. Gurgling away, not a care in the world. While Mick Smith stood there waiting. His mug standing by. With two teaspoons of coffee, two of sugar and a splash of milk. A proper brew.
Sandy, Mick’s wife walked into the kitchen.
—I’ll have one.
—Right you are.
Mick fetched her mug, the one with flowers on it. Threw in a tea bag. Sandy would go and watch her programmes. But she stopped at the door.
—Why are you still using that grotty old mug?
—It’s my favourite one.
—I bought you a new one.
—I know. There’s nowt wrong with this one.
—Bollocks, Mick! Have you seen the colour of it?
—That’s ageing.
—Brown and sort of grubby yellow? I’d say it’s something more than that.
She pointed inside the mug.
—I reckon that ring, there, it’s from 2022.
—I’ll use me new one tomorrow.
—No, you won’t! You said that last week.
—Why does it bother you so much?
—I don’t want you getting poisoned. Sorry for bloody caring!
—Pfft! That’s right daft. You can’t get poisoned off your own mug!
—You can off that bugger. It’s only fit for the bin.
—Aww, don’t bloody bin it. I love that mug. I’ll wash it better.
—You could put that fucking thing in an industrial washer and it would still be brown and yellow.
Mick finished making her tea. Hoping it would end the mug debate. She took the tea. But stayed put. He finished his own brew. Then tried to work out what to talk about. That didn’t involve his mug.
—How’s it going at work, love?
—Shite.
—How come?
—You know why? Bloody Diane Greaves. Makes my life a misery.
—You ought to have a word.
—Tried that. Nice as pie. Tells me there’s no problem.
—Right.
—Bitch.
—You could move on? Get a new job?
–Why should I have to?
Fair one. Mick thought that as well. Sandy sighed.
—I’ve got an idea. She smiled.
—I’ll make her a brew. In that mug! She won’t know until she’s drank the brew.
—You’re not taking me mug to the office.
—Well, it ain’t staying here polluting the bloody kitchen.
Mick said nothing. The bin or the office. Death or Diane Greaves. A shite choice. Five years he’d been drinking out of that bugger. Maybe longer.
Sandy finished her brew. Rinsed her mug. Held it up like a trophy.
—See? Non-nuclear.
She put it away in the cupboard. Then pointed at his mug.
—Leave that out. I’ll take it in the morning.
—No! You’re not taking me mug!
—I am. Or in goes in the bin.
—Er, you’re bloody not.
—What’s wrong with you, Mick? You’re acting like a child. Over a mug.
—You know me, Sandy. I’m a simple man. I like the few things I’ve got in life. Me mug being one of ‘em.
—it’s about control with you, isn’t it?
—Wha’?
—You heard.
—I heard. I’ve no bloody idea what you mean.
—It’s your way, or nothing. I’m sick of it!
—Are we talking about my mug now, or something else?
—What d’yer think, Mick?
She stomped out to watch her programmes. Mick washed his mug. Trying hard to remove the stains. They stayed. He sniffed it.
—Smells clean, he muttered. He thought about hiding it.
—Bloody childish, I ain’t doing that, he muttered.
He went out to the shed. He had tidying up to do. He took his mug with him. It wasn’t about the mug. Not any more. No way could he let her take it away. He didn’t ask for a lot. He didn’t have a lot. But the mug?
That belonged to him.
Mick got up early. Headed straight to the kitchen and got the kettle boiling. Sandy would be down soon enough. He set the brews up. He made his in a guest mug.
Sandy arrived in the kitchen. She said nothing at first. They moved around each other in a strained pirouette. Like a couple post-tension.
—See you’ve gone with a different mug.
—Yeah.
—Where’s yer old one? Did yer bin it?
—Nope. Fucking told ya. I’m not, NOT binning it.
—Whatever. Child. Aren’t yer gonna let me take it to work and poison Diane with it?
—NO.
He walked out into the hallway. Stuck his work boots on, called ‘see ya later’ and headed out for his bus. The mug safe in his backpack. No way would he let Sandy take it. Not a chance.
The No.9 pulled in, he jumped on, swiping his pass. And saw her. Michelle Kent, a lass who worked at the Working Men’s club he went to. She patted the seat next to her. So he sat down.
—Alright, Mick?
—Yeah, good. You?
—alright, mate. Work yer know how it is.
—Yeah, long bloody shift today.
—Have ya? That sucks.
—Yer missis alright?
—Yeah.
—Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good.
—Ah, it’s fine—
—None of my business, mate. But if yer want some female intuition.
—I could use some.
—Go for it.
He told her about his mug. And how Sandy seemed obsessed with it. He tried to explain why he had strong feelings about it. She nodded and listened with her head tilted over a bit. When he stopped speaking, she stared out of the bus window for a while.
—Well, mate. It ain’t about the mug. That’s for sure.
—That’s what I thought.
—What’ve yer done?
—Fuck knows. Nothing. I go to work. I go to the club on Thursdays. That’s it.
—Hmm.
—‘Ave yer tried talking to her about it?
—Well, I told her she ain’t chucking me mug out.
Michelle chortled.
—Mate, it’s sod all to do with the mug. I promise yer that.
—What d’yer think it is?
—I dunno. But it ain’t the mug. Here’s me stop, see ya later. Talk to her.
—Yeah, I will. Cheers, Michelle.
He stared out the bus window. None the wiser.
Part 2 coming soon...