It’s a cold early morning in Roath Park. Malcolm stands, eyes closed, rhythmically swaying in time with his waving white gloved hands at the intersection of four gravel paths. 
A man stops to watch. Oi mate – orchestra done a runner?
Abruptly, eyes open, Malcolm replies. Just rehearsing.
What? Keeping warm.
No, Malcolm laughs. Just conducting Rossini’s ‘William Tell’ overture.
You pissed?
Sober as a beak. I hear them, well enough in me head. 
The man shakes his head as he walks off.

Later, in the empty Snug bar of the Royal Oak, Malcolm raps the bar counter and calls, Anyone home? 
The man who’d spoken to Malcolm enters. 
Hello, we met earlier. I’m Malcolm. You’re new here.
Yes, I’m Warren. New landlord.
Got any rabbits? Malcolm asks.
Just sausage rolls. What can I get you?

Warren puts a pint of ‘mixed’ on the bar. Can I ask you about earlier?
Yeah, sure.
Could you really hear the orchestra?
I always do.
What started you off conducting?
Luck. Played the sax in an army band; after I’d really listened to a piece of music I knew it by ear. I got a go at conducting rehearsals; loved it. Back here in Cardiff, as an old soldier, I blagged a job as a traffic controller for the council. Me pitch was mostly at the junction of four roads: Cardiff, Newport, Cathays and Western Avenue; accidents all the time. No traffic lights back then. I had a nice uniform, bit like a copper’s. I stood on a little raised black and white raised-up wooden box with a hinged door. I wore white gloves to conduct the traffic; I thought I were a real conductor like me namesake, Malcolm Sargent, on the telly; folks liked it; I got sort of famous. It was heaven.
Is it only Rossini you do? Warren asks.
Rossini when it’s quiet. Bizet’s ‘Carmen’ when it’s frantic. Memory is shot. Those overtures are all I can remember.
Why didn’t you go to the Welsh school of music?
Them days, they didn’t take riff raff.
Why keep practising?
In case there’s a power cut – joke; but you never know. Sentimental I am. I loved them years. I knew me regulars; waved like friends; did it for years until the council installed traffic lights. They offered us a job as one of the new traffic wardens. That didn’t work; me face was too well known. Some drivers liked me and some hated me guts for making ‘em wait. I was too embarrassed to give me friends tickets and too scared of the men’s threats to give ‘em parking tickets neither. Didn’t make me quota; got the sack. Broke me heart. Malcolm looks at his watch – Mr Lollipop Man can’t be late. He pulls on his white coat and picks up his ‘stop’ sign.
Surely, you’re, too old for that. 
Nar. I lied; last chance to conduct cars and the kids laugh at our antics. Mr Lollipop but not a dad to anyone.

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More
© Phil Cosker 2025
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