HANNAH BAGNALL

Joe had a radio. He held his radio to his ear as he walked around the town and when he was on the bus. When the signal was bad, he pressed the side of his face more firmly into the radio and he would squint and wave the aerial around. The aerial was always extended to its limit. The voices that came from the radio sounded as if they were speaking into a paper bag with air escaping around their edges and the music that it played rustled. Joe smiled. His fingernails were dirty and his t-shirt didn’t cover the stomach that hung over his trousers. His t-shirt was always loose around the neck and tight around the waist. In the winter, he wore a big cardigan that did not look warm and loafers with no socks. Joe didn’t sing along to his radio. He didn’t even hum. Nor did he tap his feet or bob his head. He was never seen clicking his fingers. Joe just smiled.

If Joe got on the bus and the only seat left was next to you, he would stand in the aisle, holding on to one of the poles. If the bus stopped suddenly or went round a corner fast, Joe would sometimes lose his footing and he would swing on the pole and sometimes you would notice that his trousers had slipped down too far but his radio would still be held tightly to his ear. Sometimes, on the bus, you would want to read your book or sit quietly and Joe’s radio would be irritating and you’d glare and sigh and shove your book back in your bag and other times you wouldn’t mind it or would even be glad of it and you would notice someone else being irritated by it and you would think it was a shame for them and you’d forget that you could ever be irritated by Joe’s radio.