It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  That Mrs. Hardy book for a start, very dreary I thought. There again, so was Hardy come to that, he was a right old misery-guts in no mistake (he was too mean to have proper plumbing installed). Lord knows, his first wife had more than enough to put up with, what the second Mrs. Hardy must’ve been thinking about I don’t know (certainly nothing in the sexual department of things) – I could’ve saved him the trek, dry as a nuns gusset I thought.

  However, even so friend or not (albeit reluctantly) I found myself obliged to make him stump up the usual on the spot fine. He glared, ‘Sorry boss’ I said ‘my hands are tied, you can’t have rules for one and not another can you?’ Also, I’d spotted a bit of a split spine too – there again, without proper proof (etc etc). I decided to let it go on this occasion. I took pity on him.

  ‘Tell nobody – keep it under your hat’ I said.

  Mind you, you can’t please everybody.

  Okay, I quite agree it does seem rather petty I suppose, consequently Gabriel went off in a bit of a huff. Even so, imagine him snatching the receipt out of my hand. Him a J.P. at that.

  ***

  10:30pm. I’ve been trying to catch-up with my homework from old Herbie Tribe, I must confess it’s all a bit half-hearted to say the least. Not to let it all go to my head, of course. Nonetheless, now that my prospects of finally getting myself published have changed – it does move the goal-posts somewhat. Also, if I’m truthful, some of his remarks could be easily construed as a bit diggy. Indeed, his ‘good lady wife’ might well have to whistle for her teeth in future. In fact the more I think about it, all things considered, I really ought to be churning out the real thing.

  However, I’ve decided to give it one hour and that’s it.

  1: DEATH and its consequences – I need to see the full picture.

  2: VANITY, let’s take a pro-footballer. WHAT MAKES THEM TICK?

  3: LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN, be curious, first meetings – the young woman strap-hanging on the morning tube (observe the world all around you). What is she thinking?

  Dunno (stop staring at my tits I expect). How do I know?

  Love of a good woman? Oh sure – who am I the sodding memory-man? (off-hand I don’t know any). Right at the minute I’m co-habiting with a short-tempered harridan, crossed with a friggin cleaning-machine. Then he’s telling me I need more passion (‘passion, passion, metaphorically speaking the words should melt your pen!’)

  Poem: (about you know who) Cynthia, who else – it’s as far as I’ve got:

  Your shirt’s in the wash, and that’s where’s its stopping,

  There’s no dinner either, I haven’t been shopping.

  12:30am. Look at the time (two hours already) – I’m supposed to be having an early night. Curiously enough earlier on my mind seemed positively bursting, filled to the brim with new ideas, pencils sharpened – wit likewise. Then when I look, I’m surrounded by screwed-up balls of paper – an archipelago of discarded false starts (which, at first I’d thought brilliant.) It looks like a origami starter-class – my waste-paper basket is overflowing!

  Progress so far: ‘VANITY,’ okay, so far so good. This is the one about the football star:

  Rules of the game

  Amanda Jane. Amanda Jane, isn’t that a nice name,

  We met in the car park right after the game.

  She thinks I’m a hero. I scored three in a row.

  Chances are I’ll score tonight – that’s if I go.

  Smug bastard – then I got to thinking about the girl.

  Kevin Keat. Kevin Keat – boy what a creep.

  He was out in the car park. I’d had a flat with my jeep.

  Said he played football, or some boring game,

  If he thinks I’d turn-up he’s got half a brain.

  2:00am. Death – this a real toughy – this is my sixth attempt. I really hate poems all about death:

  MEMORIUM

  I know when you die you’re saying goodbye,

  But that doesn’t mean it’s forever.

  Nah, too morbid. Okay, one last shot – then I’m turning in.

  Did you hear about Fred? My God, don’t say he’s dead?

  Nooooooo! What crap, it’s rotten – I knew I was going to have trouble with this one. Okay, this is my one final attempt:

  Did you hear about Fred, the old bugger’s dead she said.

  (Huh?)

  O.K. – same scene, cold winters day, wind wind, rain rain. Instead I’m going straight into stanza two:

  MEMORIUM

  Both dressed the same, they stood out in the rain,

  Two mourners and a black dog … (dog?)

  What dog – you think? (that your best shot) – you sure about that?

  Looking down at the bloke,

  Not a word had he spoke.

  Just laid there, stiff as a log.

  Nah, rubbish (think think). Okay, this is the final, final last attempt:

  The vicar rubbed his red chapped hands,

  He clutched his bible black.

  Where’s this bloody vicar sprung from all of a sudden? God, I give up – what is it with you and funerals anyway?

  No, wait a sec, leave him in, also the dog, it might just work:

  Both dressed the same, they stood out in the rain,

  Two mourners and a black dog.

  Not wanting a riot, the vicar stood quiet. (Huh?)

  That’s it, it’s hopeless – I’m going to bed.

  ***

  Saturday 8th August. Sarah Douding 1843-1923.

  Love, that might have been saved by a single friendly word.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Something came over me at work, a kind’ve epiphany, it’s hard to explain – it’s really strange. It reminded me about when everything exploded, that time when I wrote that poem all over the living-room wall.

  What happened one minute I’m at work, just doing normal type things – all of a sudden a kind’ve wave comes over me. Next thing I know I’m telling Thelma to hold the fort till I get back. All the time I’m using this disembodied voice, it’s really weird. ‘There’s something I have to do rightaway. I have to go somewhere – it’s really important’ I said.

  Next thing you know I’m outside in the fresh-air enjoying the sunshine. I just walked out. I’m marching nonchalantly down the middle of the High Street, swinging my arms, people are waving, ignoring the honking cars, heading right for the park. Omens galore – right out of nowhere we had this sudden shower of rain. Then when I looked there’s this wonderful rainbow, arching right over the lake in a big bow, next thing you know the sun comes out making everything golden – it’s really magical.

  Somehow rainbows have always been lucky for me.

  Everything is so peaceful and quiet. I’m over by the lake under the willow-tree sitting on my favourite seat warmed by the sun, watching the ducks. All I can think about is Cynthia, the way we are with each other – I’m trying to think of a solution. That’s when I got my great idea, about maybe writing a poem – a kind’ve olive-branch. Why hadn’t I thought of it before, it was worth a try at least.

  The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. All I know is it had to be something really meaningful, right from the heart.

  After a couple of false starts, two hours or so later I think I’ve found it:

  Where lives love …

  Would you sit forever sighing,

  When all around you LOVE is dying.

  Seeing all things through lovelorn eyes,

  Where lives love lives compromise.

  Compromise need not mean loss of face,

  To admit a wrong holds no disgrace.

  Nor always, who is right and who is wrong,

  What joy, to find weak you thought strong.

  The strength of love’s the weakest link,

  Don’t care too much what others think.

  Now’s not the time for foolish pride,

  Prides poor company when LOVE has died.

&n
bsp; Rightaway, I headed for DeLacey Street. There was no time to lose – next thing is to deliver it personally. What happened next is bizarre that’s to say the least. First thing I see the garden, somebodies been mowing the lawn (it smelt really wonderful after the rain). No wonder I stared – I’ll say, the whole garden I’m meaning, everything’s neatly trimmed, flower-beds hoed – not a weed in sight. Also the herbaceous borders. It’s like magic – miracles more like. I’m amazed.

  Mind you that’s rainbows for you.

  Somebodies been awfully busy that’s for sure. Cynthia, who else?

  Jamie too by the look of things, still busily sweeping out the garage. I stared (there’s a first in no mistake). He grinned, then waved through a big cloud of dust. ‘Hi Dad, had a good day?’

  I waved, then nodded. I’m still trying to take it all in.

  Even more suprises in store. What next I’m starting to wonder, I hadn’t long to wait. Cyn’s actually speaking to me. She gave me a wave from the top window, followed by a warm smile ‘Hey. Hi there – you’re home early. How’s your day?’ she chirped.

  ‘Well, fine thanks’ I called out a bit unsurely.

  Her being nice, it really threw me I’ll tell you. My hand tightened around the poem I’d wrote, deep inside my pocket – still unread. Next thing Lucy came running across from the house, filled with excitement. She jumped into my arms, dying to tell me all her news. I threw her high into the air, whizzing her around and around. She screamed with delight. Cyn called her, it was time for her bath ‘Lucy Quirke, I’ve been looking for you everywhere’ she chided, Lucy hesitated. ‘Now if you don’t mind young lady’ Cynthia insisted, she shook her head. Lucy was torn, reluctantly she set off across the lawn at a slow trot, halfway she turned ‘We’ve-got-a-secret’ she chanted in a sing-song voice. Her mother scowled, ‘Lucy Quirke, I said now, please.’ Lucy shrugged, then picked up a half-hearted kind’ve jog. ‘We’ve-got-a-secret, we’ve got a secret’ she sang out, repeating it until she vanished into the house.

  There’s even more, roasting smells coming from the kitchen – don’t tell me Cynthia was actually cooking a meal – also my slippers by the door. Brian was a bit surprised too you could tell, sliding his whole length against the heat of the oven, squeezing through my legs. ‘Scram – beat it pussy-cat’ I growled.

  I was starting to get selfish already.

  Cyn was upstairs in the top bathroom seeing to Lucy. Her voice came friendly and warm, curling over the banister-rail, ‘Hiiiiiiii! Dinners just about ready – time for you to freshen-up, okay’ she called out.

  ‘Sounds fine to me.’

  I looked at Brian (he looked as surprised as me) he blinked his yellow eyes, as if to say “Who’s is that honey-sweet voice?” Don’t worry, I know how he feels.

  ‘How did your day go by the way?’ she called out.

  All this niceness – it was going to take a bit of getting used to. I cleared my throat. ‘Oh, y’know … Fine … just fine (do I tell her or what?) You know libraries, pretty normal I guess.’ No-way, best to lie your head off – it’s a lot safer too.

  Oh sure, I could just imagine it. ‘Oh, by the way, something kind’ve came over me at work (‘Really, how come’). It’s hard to explain – it’s really strange. What happened is the sun was shining. Next thing you know I’m outside in the fresh-air, the birds are singing in the trees. I’m heading right for the park – it’s as if I can’t help myself.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you’ – Cyn’s head appeared over the banister-rail, still drying her hands (going by what came next maybe it’s just as well). ‘Avril thought she’d seen you over in the park – isn’t that funny.’ She laughed, ‘No, not Colin’ I said ‘Colin’s at work, he’s at the Library.’

  We both laughed.

  Then the curtain went back, earlier on in the park. People staring, young mothers with prams, giving me worried looks – gathering their kids. Everybody keeping their distance. Who’s the odd-ball skipping around inbetween the flower-beds, smelling all the flowers (what’s happened to the big bunch of flowers I’d gathered to give to Cynthia?) Again, Cynthia’s voice from above ‘No, I was just saying’ she leaned over ‘that wall downstairs in the living-room. I was just telling Lucy, it’s looking a whole lot better, now you’ve painted it over. Oh, much better by far’ she trilled.

  Huh? (you think?) ‘Oh, right – me too’ I lied.

  Frankly, I doubted it – worse if anything. It needed more paint for one thing. Only, now it was like looking through a flimsy curtain, you could still see the words. It reminded me of when you’re a kid at the Christmas panto, one of those giant-sized song-sheets for the community sing-song they always have right at the end. Fine by me, if that’s how she sees it – who’s going to argue.

  Once started, (after that it gets easier) – I got a bit bolder. I said ‘Um, not bad – maybe I might just give it that final coat y’know’ then added ‘What do you think Cynthia my love?’

  Cynthia agreed ‘Oh lovely – good idea’ she sang out.

  Things could only get better, then later I’m upstairs having a shave in the en-suite bathroom. I caught my refelection in the mirror – I hadn’t seen that look for yonks – happy I’m meaning. My eyes fixed on the big double-bed through the open door into the master bedroom. Happy days (‘This isn’t a bed it’s a country’) heh heh. I winked at my reflection, then grinned my lopsided grin. Who knows this could be the turning-point. Maybe if I played my cards right, it could even end up I’m cordially invited back into the sacred matrimonial bed.

  ***

  3:00am. (CONSERVATORY). Looks as if I’m back sleeping downstairs on the Put-u-up bed. Cynthia, who else – how could something so good turnout so disastrously bad in such a short time?

  This is what I can’t understand, everything seemed to be going okay. Just like old times, just the two of us, kids tucked-up in bed. We’d both enjoyed a long leisurely meal and a couple of glasses of wine – I felt really happy for once. Then later I took my coffee through into the other room, I flopped into my favourite armchair. Distantly I could hear her clearing away in the kitchen, water gurgling down the sink, clinking of plates – couldn’t that have waited for once? Next thing the radio goes on. Too loud by a mile (‘Gimmee, gimmee, gimmee, a man after midnight’). I shook out my newspaper. Too good to last of course.

  This is when it all started to unravel.

  Even so, all these domestic noises, funnily enough in a convoluted kind of way it all sounded kind’ve comforting somehow. I’d half expected Cynthia to join me. What did it, next thing I hear the vacuum-cleaner goes on. I could hear it wailing away in the far distance, and getting closer.

  It was starting to get to me already.

  She worked her way through into the hallway. All of a sudden it stopped. Cyn’s voice startled me (I must’ve dozed off). Something about a holiday, taking the kids (I missed the first bit) – that implied without me. Holiday? What holiday? That’s out of the proverbial blue I thought. I waited, there’s bound to be more than that. Instead the hoover goes on yet again. That’s all I need, she worked her way through into the living-room heralded by the banshee-like wail of the machine. She turned it off, giving me a tight smile, then she said ‘Give us both a bit of space. Okay with you?’ We exchanged looks, then added ‘I just thought it might be a good idea – kids will enjoy it at least.’ Finally, the old nitty-gritty.

  She’d already decided you could tell.

  All this niceness, I might’ve known. Trust me to fall for it, it’s the oldest trick in the book. Fine by me, the way things have been lately, maybe she’s right. Even so you’d’ve thought it’d’ve merited a bit more than a casual-like mention, right. There again I’m only the husband, either way I hadn’t much chance to say anything. Next thing the machine goes on yet again, its raucous din cancelling out any further discussion. Suddenly it stopped, somehow or other she’d gotten involved with the cable, then the plug got stuck ‘Fucking thin
g!’ she cried crossly, flinging it down in a temper, (she’d caught her knuckle). We watched the plug bouncing over the carpet, cable snaking after it. It hit the skirting-board leaving a mark.

  Cyn sucked sulkily at her reddened knuckle. She gave me a look – I could sense her mood (nor did it help matters any having to face that stupid ‘music-hall’ wall either.) I went over to fetch the plug, I eased it smoothly in its socket. We exchanged looks.

  Somehow or other she looked kind’ve different – maybe her hair, it was a lot lighter for one thing (I quite liked it). I’d noticed it earlier – very similar to Avril’s next door come to think.

  I should’ve mentioned it.

  Something else too, she was wearing a nose-stud (Jesus, how can you miss that?) She saw me looking. She glared, her eyes glinted (always on the defensive) instinctively her hand went up to cover her nose, ‘Well, I didn’t expect you to approve’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Hey, I really like it, it’s a big improvement’ I said.

  Wrong. I was only making things worse.

  We went into silence. I changed the subject.

  ‘Anyway, about the vacation, you were telling me. Good idea’ I said ‘where exactly did you have in mind?’ Her foot rested on the starter-button ready to make one final charge. ‘Orlando’ Cyn said quietly, her face softened. Anything’s better than arguing. She seemed calmer ‘It’s in Florida’ she informed me superfluously. We both nodded (‘Oh, not moved it then?’) I was sorely tempted to say. After all we were only there the year before, everybody – all four of us as a family. I hated it immensely. So then I just said ‘Oh, right. How, er – how long did you have in mind?’

  Instead of answering she began straightening-up pictures. I waited, finally I said ‘A week, two weeks … a year maybe?’