After that a change of scene, recalling the party last Christmas, childish games, the pair of us ending-up hiding inside the broom-closet. Her closeness, her fragrant perfume, feeling the warmth of her body next to me in the dusty darkness … taut nipples, pushing hard against her thin cotton blouse … that one long lingering kiss … ‘DOES SHE ASK FOR ME?’ I shouted loudly.
God (had I said it or thought it?) – hopefully not.
‘My shout I think!’ Gabriel cried loudly, right into my ear. I stared. ‘So, Friday hopefully’ he went on (I missed the first bit). I followed his gaze, still on the girl … she reached for two fresh glasses, I studied the rising curve of her breasts. ‘That’s if the old girls up to it, of course’ he added (Alison would love that ‘old girl’ bit). I nodded (he’d be meaning the next P.S. meeting I expect). ‘Oh right, of course’ I agreed at once, a bit too quickly.
Again, my mind wondered. Life’s so bloody unfair at times – pure unadulterated jealousy I know. SO WHAT? Why him? Hard to imagine that’s all, her adorable sweet face next to that pony-tailed oaf – he snores like a hog. Alison told me that for a fact. She’s everything a man could ever wish for, adjectives galore, beauty, vivacious, intelligent (very), also she’s an excellent cook – she even writes poetry for chrissakes. So, how come she ends up shacking-up with that prat. WHY HIM?
No prizes. Answer = ‘because he happens to be effing rich’ came a voice.
Gabriel’s voice charged into my thoughts. ‘Right, what’ll it be squire – same again, eh?’ I stared at my almost full glass (is he mad?) Not another drink already? This is bloody stupid, I hadn’t planned on a drinking competition. I shook my head – NO!
Why so angry all of a sudden (too many drinks too fast – what else?)
Most people drink to get happy, only with me it seems to work the other way around – I get belligerent. His arm settled heavily on my shoulder, he grinned. ‘Same again, eh?’ his face was too near, I could feel his warm breath – his eyes were like saucers.
He gripped my arm. I stared, ‘Well, not for me’ I said. He pointed to his glass. Karol (with a kicking K) poured him another drink. ‘Bastard of a day’ he suddenly said ‘mind you some days are like that. What say you Colin?’
I nodded. ‘Oh listen, poor you – call that work’ I thought. He’d mentioned it earlier. Some kind of stock sale he’d been to further up North. ‘You should try being stuck in that bloody Library all day pal’ I almost said.
He nudged my elbow making me spill my drink down my coat. (Oh, terrific, my suit had just come back from the cleaners) – I could’ve swiped him one – clumsy sod. Instead I looked at my watch, I effected a tight smile. ‘Time I was off, work tomorrow.’ Gabriel nodded. ‘Well, for some of us at least’ I added. We both laughed.
Inbetween he’d been telling a long rambling joke he’d overheard to the already smiling Karol, he leaned in closer, squeezing her hand, he whispered something into her ear – she was laughing even before he got to the punch-line.
‘See you later’ I said on my way out.
They both exploded with laughter.
***
12:30am. (CONSERVATORY). I’ve been catching up on my mail. Letter from old Herbie Tribe (my personal poetry tutor no less) e.g. “So, you want to be published in only three months!” Liar. Oh sure – seeing as how we’re already into our third year of correspondence – least said on that one I think. Right Herbie, so, what news from yonder side of the fells? Strewth, speak English man! “Onomatopoeia sound manifests itself into the physical presence of the normal, fleshing out the embryonic seed into tangible thought” (huh?) What’s that for chrissakes? – I wouldn’t mind he knows it doesn’t go in.
Either it rhymes or it don’t, right.
Let’s face it, I’m a bit of a lost cause (you’d think he’d know me by now). However, he likes some of it at least. Poems about the first world war I sent him – there’s a first. “Quite good in parts. I particularly liked your Tales you Loos narrative poem – ha ha. Let’s not try to be too clever with titles, eh Colin – it’s rarely appreciated, not in my experience at least. Again, I rather liked Gallipoli, however, I’m still not overly happy about the foot – always a bit waverly in your case. However, there’s rhyme enough, I like the way you get right to the throat of the action as it were.” (e.g.):
‘Who sir? Me sir? – ‘Yes, you sir.
Get over that top with your rifle!’
‘But I’ve just got back, you can tell by my pack.
All that gas, I’ve just had an eyeful.’
‘Yes, why not – do take care, humour is notoriously tricky even at best. Also, this “flaming-rope” business too. I mean, you tell me – was the gas yellow? See my drift? e.g.:
Yellowy gas rolled in like flames up a petroled rope,
Stinking mud, deep up to the thighs.
Everybody knew we hadn’t a hope,
Led like donkeys, expecting to die.
‘Look, I’m sorry if it all sounds a bit nit-picky old chum. You take my point – it always comes back to the same thing. More so if you want to get published.’
Yours sincerely
Herbert Tribe. Ph D.
P.S. Incidentally Colin, I’m still waiting for poetry exercises March/April/May etc etc. is there a problem? Also, I’m loath to have to mention it again – a small cheque would be very much appreciated (postage etc etc). Sadly, Winifred’s had the misfortune recently of breaking her top denture (wrestling with a rather hefty chunk of cinder toffee). Not that I’m expecting you to pay for it entirely. Alas, as no doubt you’re aware the wages of writing poetry pay very little these days I’m afraid. Any small contribution you can offer (for such a worthy cause) would be most welcome – frankly Winifred sans absentia her top teeth, it isn’t a sight I’d wish to have to get used to H.T.’
2:15am. Cynthia’s just rolled in from her night out – look at the time. I haven’t been to sleep yet – I’ve to be at work in six hours! She’ll push me too far, next thing you know I’ll be talking to the Samaritans through a wired-glass window you can bet.
***
Wednesday 5th August. Edward Fitzgerald 1809-1883.
Awake!
For the morning in the Bowl of Night,
Has flung the first stone that puts the
Stars to flight.
DeLacey Street. (Post-fourteen). FOURTEEN?
8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Dull day at work (very dull in fact). Massive post (4 letters) – plus ten holiday brochures! You tell me, no doubt that’ll be Cynthia I expect. Looks like Cynthia taken up jogging again. What happened is this morning I’m on my way to work. I’m in my car waiting at the traffic-lights opposite the park gates. There’s this drunky old bag-lady, she’s staggering all over the road. Well, it’s a bit much, kids on their way to school, young mothers with prams. Then, when I look, it’s Cynthia, headphones clamped over her ears, hood over her head, she looked totally knackered I’ll tell you. Luckily the lights changed, I made out I hadn’t seen her. Then did a sharp left.
Letters (one): ‘Might I be interested in having a stair-lift installed on deferred terms as seen on TV?’ No, but thanks all the same – as it happens most of my dwelling is of single-story construction, which by definition could make that rather tricky. However, after pondering it over somewhat (granted it’d be dead handy for inspecting the water-tank etc) sadly I shall have to decline your ‘Once in a life-time!’ generous offer. Might I suggest you contact Avril, our next door neighbour. She’s up and downstairs like a bloody yo-yo, it’d save her legs a bunch.
Letter (two): There’s a blow, they’ve returned my Hail ye men of Stalwart Courage poem, (200 lines!) No comment as such and with egg on the paper. Pity, I’d high hopes with that. No doubt that’ll be that Octavia Todd-Taylor I’ll warrant at Ivanhoe Press. Notts. That’s because I have the temerity to point out, how come his brother in-law just happened to turn-up in every single issue? Bit peevish that I thought – narcissism or what?
Letter (
three): Jeepers – another reminder from our mutual friend Dwayne the Drain (hand delivered!) Lucky I found it, stuffed inside our Lucky Pixie outside out back door. Cripes – looks as if he means business this time (sic).
‘About that blot dran-hol of yors kiddo I’m coming round with mi brover in-law Edgar so ya berra cof up or else. I’m warnin you now he’s a wet lifter his cartrids gon agen so no way he be in a good mood. Yo people ar al alik wen yor pips get bunged up yer all ova me but when it coms to coffin up wiv the gelt ya dun wanna no DON LET ME DOWN CASH WOD BE NICE’
Letter (four): Golly, just on the off-chance I sent a bunch of poems to Torchlight Publications (London). (‘Publishers of collections of poetry’ it says). From their sub-editor Quentin Pitt.
‘Dear Mr. Quirke, thank you for your letter, also for sending us some samples of your work. I write p.p. Edna Batte (Mrs) our Executive Editor, she is away at present adjudicating at the annual Ross-on-Wye Poetry Festival. Personally speaking from what I’ve seen so far I’m very impressed. I take it you are proposing a whole collection? THIS YOU MUST DO. However, any final decisions regarding publishing would in fact be hers alone, of course. Meantime I’ve been looking at my notes (they’re all nice), your poem SLAG for instance, here I’ve commented ‘original angle’ ‘evocative – in turn, airily philosophical, poignantly sad, ultimately drawing to its bitter conclusion as affairs of the heart meander their fickle course.
This stanza from the young and vulnerable girl of the title, abandoned and left all alone, forsaken by her louch and off-times abrasive lover:
So, keep my picture for your ‘Wall of Fame,’
A trophy along with the others –
You’re right, love with you was only a game,
I had sex with both of your brothers.
Indeed, and yet so very honest, without a scrap of ambiguity, every line as brittle as a ginger-snap – all the time, this inner-voice. YES I THOUGHT.
And here also (stanza sixteen) – a blazingly apt metaphor I thought.
You lied to me, you lied to me,
And now it’s all over.
You said you’d put the handbrake on,
And now you’ve run me over.
Oh, neat I thought – I like the way its left, just kind’ve hanging.
Ah yes, one small word Colin (I hope I can call you that?) Much less formal I always think – about dialect I’m meaning. Absolutely, I do agree – undoubtedly, an important part of our proud and ancient heritage. I do agree it’s our duty as trueborn Englishmen to preserve our native tongue – regional accents are US. Indeed (I myself hale from Milton Keyes, need I say more) e.g. ‘Owt’s betna nowt!’ or maybe ‘When our Willie fell int beck’ say. It could in fact cause some consternation in some quarters I daresay. Again, both good pieces in their own way. However, I’m thinking more of the international market – get my drift? I can only repeat that in my opinion yours is a unique, original voice. Meantime our production team can undertake a full evaluation and in depth appraisal of your work. No doubt we shall be back in touch shortly. I shall look forward to meeting you – send more poems!
With kindest regards
Yours sincerely
Quentin Pitt (sub-editor).
p.p. Edna Batte (Mrs.)
My god – I’m going to be published at long last.
Rightaway, I flew upstairs waving my letter. I can’t wait to tell Cynthia my good news – she’ll be over the moon I’ll bet. I’m dying to tell somebody at least.
She was just on her way down, lugging a big basket of laundry. ‘Fabulous news – just wait till I tell you’ I cried out unable to contain my excitement.
I grabbed hold of her,
‘Finally, it looks as if I’m going to be published, at long last’ I yelled. She couldn’t’ve cared less you could tell. She squeezed her way past ‘Oh lovely’ she said in a flat voice. Trust old cod-face to put the mockers on it.
Who else would be doing chores at that time of night.
She turned at the foot of the stairs. She was more bothered about the state of the bathroom, ‘That top bathroom is a total disgrace’ she proclaimed, pushing her hair off her face (v.sarcastic I thought). ‘It’s big enough to aim for surely to God’ then added, ‘Where do you stand, on the bannister-rail or what?’ All I can do is stare.
She pushed her way through into the utility-room.
***
Friday 7th August. Fame is the spur (book title).
DeLacey Street. (Post-one).
8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Nobodies home, no dinner either – the whole place is deserted. Brian’s fast asleep on the kitchen table, no doubt dreaming of food. He blinked, ‘Dream on baby’ I said. I found a piece of sixteen day, out of date meat pie in the fridge. I sat at the table listening to myself munch.
Cynthia came home with Jamie. It turns out they’d already eaten at McDonalds. Cyn was in the other room. I could see her through the serving-hatch, sprawled on the sofa with her legs up, staring vacantly at TV soaps, guzzling red wine. Let’s face it our mutual intelligence gap widens by the day, pretty soon it’ll be proportional to the Grand Canyon.
All of a sudden Jamie said ‘Where’s Lucy?’ Cyn rushed in, drink in hand. We all stared at the fridge-door – notes everywhere. Jamie’s said ‘S.O.S. HELP – she’s making me go swimming at the Sports Centre. I’ve already told her about my verruca!’ Then, under it, Cynthia’s note. ‘Don’t forget to pick up Lucy from school after her (sic) geetar lesson.’ My God, to think I’m living with a woman who can’t even spell guitar.
Friday night, I’d completely forgot.
By the time I get to Lucy’s school she’s traipsing round following the cleaning ladies. You should’ve seen the looks I got – talk about daggers, by this time my little princess is yowling her head off. Finally, the only way I can calm her down is to call in at McDonalds. I ate THREE BIG MACS.
Letters (one only). Circular for home pregnancy testing. Oh sure, AND PIGS MIGHT FLY.
9:15pm. (CONSERVATORY). Cyn’s just been settling up with Dwayne the Drain (aka the so-called Drain Doctor). I’ve been watching them from the top bathroom window. Him and his brother in-law, BIG EDGAR – I’ll say (he’s built like a brick shithouse). You watch, we’ll never hear the last of it. Only now she’s making out I haven’t the guts to face him. ‘Oh right’ I said (it’s hardly my fault I was in urgent need of the bathroom is it) – anyway why should I pay him. ‘You’re the one that blocked it’ I yelled.
You should have seen them, counting their ill-gotten gains in full view of the whole rotten cul-de-sac, the pair of them angling down the driveway at a good rate of knots, making their getaway.
WHEN WILL IT ALL END?
One good thing at least. Thelma I’m meaning, when I showed her my good news letter, she was different again. She was over the moon, ‘Oh, that’s wonderful – well done Colin’ she exclaimed. ‘Wait till you tell everybody at the Poetry Society. I bet you can’t wait.’
I nodded. Then again, maybe not, early days as yet (small thinkers some of them). Gabriel B.T. for one, him especially – we’d never hear the last of it. One thing for sure, it’ll put a few noses out of joint that’s for sure. I’d been rather hoping Thelma might’ve come along to the next Poetry Society meeting (I’ve mentioned it a couple of times). She takes far too much on if you ask me, what with dog-walking twice a day. Only now the latest is she’s taken up learning to speak German – that’s on top of her Spanish-class (right at the minute she’s reading Octavia Paz I noticed), not to mention a home philosophy course at the Open University.
That’s how it got left – please yourself I thought.
‘Well, that’s up to you of course’ I said.
There again, I might well go on about the next P.S. meeting – it’s been postponed yet again. I’d been looking forward to it all week, Biggar-Titte, who else. What gets me, it’s the way he does things. He just happened to call in at the Library to pick up a theatre brochure. ‘Oh Colin’ he says, casual as you l
ike – ‘by the way old chap. I’ve had to cancel tonight’s meeting. Something’s come up. I’m popping over to Ireland for a couple of days, sorry and all that.’ He saw me look, he winked ‘There’s a couple of fillies I want to take a closer look at’ then did that stupid smirk he always does.
How I kept my temper I don’t know.
He wasn’t sorry one bit you could tell. Though, what made it even worse, then he’s telling me he’s already phoned round, putting everyone into the picture kind’ve. Well, nobodies told me that’s for sure – no, I’m not big league enough I expect. Pompous oaf. Luckily, then I remembered about my good news letter from London, about getting published (it was right on the tip of my tongue), say little I thought. Don’t you worry, they’ll all be all over me then you can bet. No doubt he’d see I wasn’t best pleased, that’s to say the least.
As thing’s turned out, Mr. Gobby Gabriel B.T. had returned a veritable armful of books – nary even a thought about anybody else might want a read. More to the point (alas) I happened to notice they were rather late back – two by over a month!
This is what he’s like (typical I thought) – quite a list in fact: e.g. The New Quotable Woman. The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (I’ve a particular client been crying out for that publication for weeks). Also, The Cambridge Guide to English Literature. Scenes from a Anchorite Life by Anon, edited by Joclyn Warboys-Hogg Ph D, and finally The Second Mrs. Hardy (that would be the poet Hardy, of course) – not the famous fat movie-star of vintage black and white silent films.
No wonder he’s so self-opinionated – going by that little lot, his head must be positively deluged. Mind you, if I’m truthful I thought he was taking rather a lot on when I stamped them all out – even for Biggar-Tittes mighty brain-box.
It Always Rains on Sundays Page 7