Average Sunday Afternoon

by Pat Jourdan

  “She’s gone completely crazy. Freaked out. I’ve got to get out of here. Has she gone?”

  “Yes. I heard her run off down the street.”

  “She’s hysterical. Anyway, I’m going. Thanks for all this.” He stopped in the middle of the drama and looked at me. “Look after yourself. Get out of here too. Goodbye,” and he was off. I looked at the dressing table. All Meg’s bottles and tubes, creams and discarded makeup had been knocked over. Perfumes lay scattered, powder spilled. The wig looked like a small dead animal among the wreckage. Rearranging some of the mess and brushing up the broken glass from the hall, still in my nightdress, I wandered back to bed. At some time in the night, a taxi throbbed to a stop outside the window and Meg barged in. I must have gone back to sleep again, hearing nothing. No taxi departing, no milk bottles. At eight in the morning, however, there was the sound of a taxi again. Disorientated, I stole out to work, for a day of rest and routine. That evening back at the flat, Meg was not as bright as usual. Her face had grown lumpy and slack. As far as I knew, four or five days of drinking were showing now.

  “Pete’s left.”

  I could guess that. “He spends all Christmas with me, all the expense, and then he has the cheek to tell me he’s going back to his wife. She’s a hairdresser in Swords.”

  Families are for going back to after Christmas. Celebrate elsewhere. From bits and pieces she let fall, I gathered that she had encountered him as he had run down the hill and had trapped him inside a phonebox while he had phoned, terrified, for a taxi. Then she had wandered off into the night, hired herself a taxi, and yes, had brought the taxi-driver in and slept with him. This explained the strange sound of a taxi leaving from under my window in the morning. It was comforting to know I was not inventing things.

  Another day at work restored the balance. I was back to living in the normal world. New Year was coming soon. I would stay in and drink cocoa. Back to the flat with some groceries in my hand. A quiet evening, perhaps, time to write spare ex-Christmas, pre-New Year cards. Meg was sitting chain-smoking, with a garda. It was the same as the crabs episode, but Pete, of course, was missing. Since I had become a civil servant and had signed the Official Secrets Act, my life had gone rapidly downhill. I gave a bright smile and hoped for the best. Meg’s expression was hard to decipher. Disapproval again. But something smug, a trace of triumph this time.

  “Do sit down,” the young garda said. “You are... and you work at ...”He was actually writing this down in a notebook. I wanted to hug him and tell him of all the times I had seen this in films and never expected to see it in real life, and where could you buy those notebooks, or were they a special type, special Garda Siochana issue? Meg stopped in mid-cigarette.

  “There’s been a burglary,” she announced. I looked round the flat. Everything seemed to be in place. She had apparently seen a man climbing out of our back window, which looked out onto the Park. There was, however, at least a twenty foot drop into the basement area, unless he could have scaled a nearby pipe. In the middle of winter our window would not have been open.

  She said that money had gone from her purse and from one of the copper jugs on top of the kitchen cupboards. If I had no idea that she kept money up there, how would any passing burglar have guessed it?

  “And your friend matches the description given by Meg, here, “ said the garda patiently. Meg all but smirked. Well, I thought, she can’t sleep with him while he’s on duty, a bit different from taxi drivers. “What do you know about this person?” he went on.

  “Not much. I just met him at a party and brought him back for the night. We stayed upstairs.” (A far better flat to steal from. More valuable ornaments and electrical goodies and so on.)

  “And that is all you know? He was seen running away from here . . .”

  Meg had been walking up the main path by the bandstand and had apparently seen a tall blond man running down the pathway from our flat, going towards the Park. I did not mention Mountjoy. I did not mention his surname. I knew Steve had not been near the house, that all the evidence had been made up. There never had been money in the copper jug on top of the cupboard, and Meg certainly had no spare money in her purse after all that drinking. He had only come out of jail three? days ago; hardly likely to do something so obvious. The alarm-clock he had produced was still by my bedside as a memento.

  The young garda was kindly. I wanted the luxury of crying, but it was not allowed.

  “Just take more care in choosing your boyfriends,” he said calmly. “You should just be more careful. Look after yourself now.”

  I agreed. I phoned up my ex-landlord. “Any room. Even the one under the stairs, or that little one that used to be a cupboard. Just take me back soon.”

  “Funny you should ring up. I’ll be having a spare one in a fortnight. Hans is going back to Germany. It’s the larger room. Can you afford it? He laughed.

  “Yes. I’ve a good job now. Thank you, really. Just a fortnight to go!” Immediately I paid Meg an extra fiver while giving the month’s rent and my notice. As she put the money in her purse, a ten pound note peeped out. If she had been walking up the path and had seen a burglar climb out of our back window, then where had her purse been, except in her pocket? Meg never went out of the flat without at least a purse and keys (and usually with her large handbag.)Working at home, typing for some shady import and export company - mostly wines, but other items as well- meant that Meg had uncertain hours. I am sure I’d mentioned to Steve, that she worked from home, which was why she hardly worked at all over late December, most of the wine having been sold out. She had stayed in the flat and drunk the bargain remnants, only going off to the pub for entertainment in the evenings and additional whiskey.

  Years later, a daytrip to Dublin, the same pub and some of the same people.

  “Did you ever have any news of Meg?” I naively asked. The entire table of afternoon drinkers went silent, with awkward glances, until Marty told a joke, obviously to change the subject and the conversation took up again.

  “So you don’t know what happened to Meg at all?” I persisted, standing next to Des on the way out. He looked embarrassed, almost squirming.

  “Well, she’s ended up in prison, see? Mountjoy, ladies’ section” He looked directly into my eyes.

  “Just don’t ask what it was about, Ashling, just don’t ask. It’s one of those things we just don’t talk about She did someone out of a lot of money, a friend, that is, someone round here. Someone right here in this pub, in fact.”

  Tell Me About Yourself

  Yes, just sit down now, I’ll make us some tea at the adverts, or you could pop out to the back kitchen, you’d be quicker than me. Just look at that hairdo! You’d think they could have made her look half-decent at least. It’s not been cut properly at all. It’s not even level. You’d think they could get that right, they’ve got an entire makeup and wardrobe department, after all, probably bigger than this house. There’s a new vet in this one, he’s just moved into the district. The size of the car, would you credit it. I suppose he’s got to swoop down the by-ways in the snow. He’s already having an affair with her daughter but she doesn’t know it yet.

  His sweater reminds me, Mr Duggan across the road’s got one like that. He paints the front of that house every year, yes, every year. It’s a different colour each time. His wife’s disabled or something, never goes out, I’ve not seen her for years, it’s a sort of hobby for him. You can just see their house, that side of the bay window, have a look, over there, he’s got it all light blue at present,

  Heaven knows what colour he’ll choose next. The front door’s purple. I get up and draw the curtains in the morning and it’s like being in a different street. Up the ladder he goes, as soon as the weather’s any good, about Easter-time, every year. He added hanging baskets last year. And then didn’t everyone else start copying him... They’re spreading all the way up the street from here to the main road.

  She’s just going into that shop
now to do some shoplifting – watch her now. She doesn’t use any of the clothes, just piles them in at the back of the wardrobe. It’s been going on now for a couple of weeks. You’d think her husband would have noticed, wouldn’t you. Mind you, he’s too busy down at the pub and chasing across to the garage to pay any attention. They never do any proper work in any of these programmes, they all just go from one place to another, nattering away. Of course, in real life, she’s a Lady Something. That’s probably real cashmere; she’s always beautifully dressed, probably brings in her own clothes, you can tell by the hang of them, they’re really cleverly cut.

  Did I tell you that Jimmy brought me round a hanging basket for Mother’s Day this year? He brought it round, said hello, and before I could even say thank you, or even that I wanted one, out comes the cordless drill – you can get them charged up these days, don’t even need a power point –anyway, he’s boring holes into the brickwork and I’m saying be careful there, it’s a very old building and you can’t get the bricks anymore, not these ones, they’ve got a type of sheen to them, like lacquer, keeps the rain off, well anyway he manages to do it all properly and up go the flowers in the basket.

  Quite pretty, really.

  Of course, Mr Duggan probably thought it was me, trying to copy him, but it was Jimmy’s idea. So I asked him if he could put a shelf up in the back room while he was about it, so to speak, just a little extra shelf , like, to put my library books on. So he did, and didn’t he go right through the wall into the kitchen, right through, you could see from the back room into the kitchen. He’d spoilt all the wallpaper, it was ripped to pieces and the dust was everywhere. Reminds me – time for a cup of tea. Just freshen the pot, there, it’ll do.

  Those two are always meeting in the shop. They seem to buy only one thing at a time, have you noticed, not a proper corner-shop carry-on at all. You watch now, he’ll just get one packet of biscuits and she’ll just buy washing-up liquid. If I carried on like that, I’d be going up and down Plattsville Road all day, like a jack-in-the-box, you wouldn’t get a day’s worth of shopping done before the shops closed if you only went for one thing at a time like that. I suppose he’ll be buying soap-powder tomorrow and she’ll be getting shampoo. They’re sort of having an affair. They might have had an affair a year or so ago, I can’t really remember, you can’t keep up with it all. They’ve all had affairs with each other by now, they’re running short of people.

  Did you find the chocolate biscuits?

  Now, he used to be in The Bill. It’ll be on in a minute. He’s put a bit of weight on. No, you wouldn’t recognise him if you haven’t been watching regularly. Of course, I forgot, you don’t have a television. You say you gave it away? That was a strange thing to do. What made you do that? So, you go out a lot, I suppose it’s different if you’re young.

  That opening bit of Coronation street is just like the back alley, now you mention it. It’s changed a lot. Those aluminium swingbins in the yards that the binmen used, to pull the bins out, well, the burglars were all climbing in through them, so the hatches all had to be nailed shut and boarded up.Very handy they were, just at waist height. They didn’t even have to climb, even kids could do it without any effort. You’d go out to bring in your washing from the clothesline and there’d be a strangeman standing in the yard. Yes, no one could use the bins for rubbish at all. We all had to put our plastic bags out in the alley.

  And the mess! Oh, it wasn’t the dogs and cats, though they got the blame, no, - they came afterwards. It was a man and his wife, they arrived by car, even, I used to watch them. They used to go along, slitting the bags open and ripping out anything good. And the things people used to throw away! Complete school uniforms that their kids have grown out of, I suppose. Too lazy to take them down to the Oxfam Shop. Ghetto blasters, leather jackets, lovely coats, tennis rackets, books – and hen bits of furniture started to appear. There were three sofas out along the wall at one time, up by Mrs Clancy’s, you wouldn’t believe it. Oh, they were there for weeks, dogs used to come and sleep on them any time of day, especially if it was sunny. But somehow a gang of cats took over, must have been a fight or perhaps the dogs found a better alley with more food and left this one to the cats, wildcats they were, double the size of an ordinary one, well any way it was all right in the day, but at night the cats were all congregating and fighting and yowling. Kept all the street awake, they did.

  It’s a very carrying sound, cats yowling. I could still hear it clearly in the front bedroom even with the doors closed. Of course, the sofas began to stink, they became a health-hazard. The environment people had to come and take them away. Probably polished off the cats too at the same time. They made some attempt to summons people for dumping the stuff, but they couldn’t find anyone. Students, landlords, tenants, they’re all untraceable. Mrs Clancy had the lot all outside her back-yard, poor woman, she’s got terrible asthma as well, it would affect her terribly in the hot weather, all those sofas giving off such a strong smell.

  Now, I can’t understand them when they all talk like that. It’s supposed to be Cockney, but it’s all just talking out of the side of their mouth. Her mother left a couple of months ago, she went off to America to become a chat-show hostess or something. You never hear of them again, they go off and it’s all over the papers. All big plans. Now, him, behind the counter there, he’s been in it since it all started. Years and years he’s been in it. Hardly ever opens his mouth. And the Sunday papers did a series of articles on soap-stars’ homes, and him, yes, there he is, he had the best house of the lot of them. A gigantic Tudor mansion in the same part of the country as The Beatles and The RollingStones used to live – Berkshire, wasn’t it? And to look at him, you’d not even notice him on a bus. Not a very good actor either, really, he’s just playing at being himself. They all do, they can’t do other accents or any real acting. That Suzy went off into panto or something and she’s never been heard of since. Want too much, they do, all at once.

  Like Mrs Greenway across the road, well, she came up with the idea of extending their house, they wanted a utility room, I ask you! and a shower and a toilet, it’d take up all the backyard. Well, they got it built all right, took ages it did. And the noise and kerfuffle all the summer long, it was dreadful. Then the neighbours both sides complained that the extension was blocking out all the light from their back kitchens and her and her husband, a right creep, had to have it all taken down again. Must have cost a packet.

  Then it seems that he and she fell out, mind you I couldn’t blame them, and of course there was the trouble with the neighbours as well. They left last year, moved out, and the house has been empty ever since. Never seen any For Sale notice either. Must have lost a lot of money, all that. Strange it’s still empty. Let’s hope we don’t get any squatters, that’s all we need! There was a housefull of them round the corner, motorbikes going all night.

  You can switch over if you like. There’s not much happening here. How they manage to support a family from that stall I don’t know. There’s hardly any stock and he’s always leaving it to be looked after by that woman on the next stall, mind you she’s an absolute nitwit as well. They must have to pay rent for those places, or take out licences, it’d have to be legal, wouldn’t it, and yet they’re off in the cafe or the pub all the time, chat, chat. I bet he doesn’t need a big float of cash – you hardly ever see him with a customer, much less have to give anyone any change. We were always stuck for change when I worked in the cake-shop up Allerton Road. Him, he just tweaks the dresses about a bit, pulls the arms of the cardigans and he’s off to the pub.

  They say that they drink cold tea on stage, don’t they, instead of proper drink, in plays. I wonder if that’s what’s keeping them going in The Rover’s Return or The Queen Vic? Or is it real alcohol? Would they need a real pub licence then, do you think, to keep it legit, I wonder.

  Oh, I didn’t tell you that Mrs Bach at the end house died last week, she was well into her eighties. She was one of the
last people in the road still speaking Welsh, used to be a lot of people round here spoke it, there’s still that Welsh Presbyterian Chapel at the end, down past the bus-stop. She had a lovely house, kept it sparkling. Lots of brass ornaments. Of course, there’s been so many burglaries down this street that there’s not a single silver ornament left or even a brass one. All those modern electrical things like video recorders and that lot, all of them, well you can buy them all over again after the insurance pay out, and then they steal the new ones again, but you can’t replace things with a sentimental value, no, they’ve gone forever.

  This lad’s not going to make a confession. He’s going to hold out. You can see they’re handling him wrongly, got his back up. The police go about it all the wrong way. It’s no wonder we don’t get our ornaments back.

  Oh yes, they’ve all got promoted since you’ve stopped watching. She’s in C.I.D. these days, she can wear her own clothes too. He keeps his helmet on all the time now, you can see round the edges, he’s going bald. That Nick that left and went off into Heartbeat, he’d have his own police station by now if it was real life. And that guy, I suppose you’d call him a character actor, he’s been on so many times, it makes me sick, and he always plays the villain. A bit sad, really, he might want to do something else. He’s got a suspicious-looking face, that’s all.

  Now, this couple have been having an affair in real life, he left his wife for her, it was all over the papers, but it seems to have hit a bit of trouble. He might be going back to his wife. Bit difficult if he’s got to prosecute his girlfriend in this episode. Imagine your heart is breaking over some chap and he’s sending you off to prison as well. His wife in real life is in that other show, the murders out in the country village. She’s always striding about in jodhpurs and going to barbecues. I suppose they’re never at home together at the same time, that’s the trouble. I wonder who brings up the children for them, foreigners, those au pairs and so on. I hope their kids don’t read the Sunday papers, it’s the only way they’d find out where their parents were these days.