It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  She handed me a poem she’d wrote one time (a true story by all accounts) all about her affair with the guy that lived next door – it’s what broke up her marriage apparently.

  She walked off to look out at the view while I read it:

  The Affair

  So, we sit here knee to knee, like two strangers sipping tea,

  Through the window we watched my husband mow the lawns.

  As he trundles to and fro, so content in sunlight’s glow,

  Should we tell him grass grows greener at the Thorns?

  It’s so often on my tongue, what to say – how it begun, We are told to love thy neighbour after all.

  Not the first time I am sure, nor the fact you live next door.

  Though, then as now we are divided by a wall.

  Yet, I’m so tired of deceit, stolen moments – where to meet

  Overt glances, due apportionment of blame.

  Jolly foursomes for dinner – tell your wife she looks much thinner,

  All these politeness’s, they drive me half insane.

  God, where’s it going to end. We were happier as friends,

  Is this the after-taste of honey to affairs?

  Let’s agree the times not right, and above all be polite,

  Please excuse me, I think I’ll join my husband for some air.

  She came over. I handed it back ‘That’s a good poem in my opinion’ I said. She shrugged, then gave me a thin smile ‘It’s a bit too close to home’ she whispered. I nodded. Mind you if I’m truthful I wouldn’t’ve put Thelma Clegg in the having a wild affair category by a mile. She picked up her bag ‘Time we were making a move.’ I followed her inside.

  ***

  Later on we were having our afternoon tea-break. She told me the whole story. So then it turns out she’d had this longish on and off kind’ve entanglement with the Italian guy. Marco, who lived next door, a textile engineer from Milan (making tufted carpets). ‘They export it all the way back to Italy, isn’t that strange?’ Thelma informed me. What really finished it, he’d been made redundant. He’d no other option but to kind’ve upsticks and go back to Italy, wife bambinos (four!) everything.

  We went into silence. ‘I’m sorry to hear that Thelma’ I said. Wow, you think you know people, right.

  You have to say something I suppose.

  Mind you some women are pretty hopeless. One fiery glance, a mouthful of strong white teeth and it’s over with. Kismet, it’s as if they can’t help themselves, next thing you know their having a torrid affair with somebody. There again, who can blame her. Eric I’m meaning. Let’s face it there’s usually a good reason when a wife goes off searching for fresh pastures. Mind you, nothing surprises me these days.

  She turned, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘You’re lucky Colin’ she snivelled ‘you’ve a good strong marriage – you don’t know how lucky you are.’ I handed her a Kleenex. I nodded – she’s right, what else can you say.

  Suddenly, then she said in a small voice, ‘I’ve been thinking of going back to Eric – that’s if he’ll have me.’ (It took me aback a bit I’ll tell you). ‘Steady on’ I said ‘’back to Eric you mean?’ She nodded. She blew her nose, ‘He’s a good man is Eric, you know where you are with a man like Eric.’

  That’s true I thought. ‘Well that’s up to you Thelma, of course.’ How pathetic is that.

  Again, we went into our own thoughts.

  Then it came to me where I’d seen him before onetime. Last Whitsuntide Sunday, they were holding a kind’ve open forum down at our local Horticultural Society, he was on the panel. I passed him up a question (at least I think it was him). Right at that time I was a bit unhappy about my Pasque flower. ‘Hah, the old Pulsatilla Vulgaris eh? he says at once. Oh, he certainly knows his onions I will say that. (I remember how impressed I was at the time.) Anyway, the upshot is he ended up highly recommending this special spray, you’d to wear rubber-gloves and a mask, also these special goggles now, I come to think (not that it did any good) not long after the bugger died on me. It just shows, they don’t know everything.

  Too many cats, that’s my theory of things.

  Finally I said (somebody had to say something). ‘You know Thel, there’s more to life than propagating giant-sized bloody cabbages.’ Next thing if she didn’t burst into floods of tears. It just shows – where’s all that come from I thought. That’s how it got left.

  ***

  Sunday 30th August.

  Padric Colum 1871-1962.

  O, to have a little house!

  To own the hearth and the stool and all …

  DeLacey Street. (Post-nil).

  7:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). I’m a bit excited already – Cyn’s homecoming I’m meaning. It’d even crossed my mind, maybe organizing some kind of a surprise welcome home party. It’s more a question how far to go. Cyn I’m meaning, (you never know what kind of a mood she’s in.) I even got as far as trying to sort out a few flags and bunting up in the loft above the garage – I was okay until I put my foot through the floor. Omens or what. Sod it – why risk it I thought.

  Meanwhile I’ve been making doubly sure everything is in spick and span order. It’s all a matter of being well organized. I’ve been through the whole house, top to bottom (2hrs 17 mins I make it) – it just shows.

  Sundays, it’s a real killer sometimes. There’s a big sign outside Tony’s tavern. ‘DUMPLING DAY ALL DAY – WHY NOT TREAT THE WHOLE FAMILY.’ Somehow or other I just couldn’t face it. Sundays, it’s always full to the brim with all these jolly families, having a really good time – I’d stick out like a proverbial sore-thumb.

  Finally I ended up calling in at my mother’s. If I’m truthful it was as much a calculated plan as much as anything else. I’d’ve given anything for a good old-fashioned Sunday roast with all the trimmings. Too late was the cry. She was just on her way out, wearing her best Sunday coat ready for church. She laughed, buttoning up her coat ‘Nay lad, you’ve just missed it.’ Auntie Agnes came through from the kitchen still drying her hands. ‘Do you like my new hat?’ I nodded. ‘Hello Auntie’ I said. She checked herself in the hallway mirror (she must’ve heard me). ‘She makes a lovely roast-dinner does your mother’ she enthused.

  Tell me about it – it smelt wonderful.

  Next thing she proceeded to list everything they’d had on her fingers, ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, buttered mash, roast potatoes, carrots and green beans, with rich onion gravy. They both laughed. I nodded. ‘Yes, I know’ I said (I could feel my stomach growling). She patted her mid-rift. ‘I don’t know where I put it all’ she laughed, then added. ‘Then we had jam-rolly-poly and custard – I’d to undo my belt.’ Again they both laughed.

  Mother said ‘I nearly phoned you, didn’t I Agnes?’ they both nodded like donkeys. ‘Anyway, then we both decided you’d be over at the pub as usual.’ She gave me a look.

  We all said our good-byes, half-way up the garden path mother called me back (food I wondered?) No such luck – then it turns out she’d knitted me some multi-coloured fingerless gloves, it’s a good way of using up her ‘ball-ends’ she explained. They watched me try them on.

  We all hooked-up, I walked them round as far as the Sisterhood Hall, they were going for a special talk, something pertaining to ‘Blessing the poor mariners.’

  ‘We’re a long way from the sea mother’ I commented. She frowned, ‘Don’t be so sarky – you won’t be saying that next time you’re sitting down to a nice piece of fresh haddock’ she chided.

  Chance would be a fine thing I thought.

  ***

  Finally (hurrah, hurrah –) I’ve solved the mystery of that annoying squeak on the Mondeo. What happened. More to pass the time I decided to valet the car. Lo and behold, so then I’m delving away, next thing, out comes this little plastic duck from behind the seat (squeak, squeak) isn’t that strange. So much for Fat Frank’s deluxe car valet service I thought. What started it, by chance I found some feathers, brown hen feathers I’m meaning. Do
n’t ask, I dread to think. Only, now what’s bothering me, previous owners for one thing. Okay, I mean you tell me – lurking suspicions arise. Now I’m asking myself, am I in fact driving around in a second-hand car once owned by a chicken-farmer, or what?

  Fair enough, even so – no crime in itself I suppose.

  What it all boils down to is Fat Frank an honourable man? This Doctor of Theology story, (e.g.) this so-called spinster lady, okay. Let’s get that out of the way for a start, this previous owner, supposed to be living out her final days in peaceful retirement in a quiet corner of St Anne’son-sea. This recluse (agoraphobic, who hardly dares move it off her own driveway). Is that a true story I wonder?

  That being the case, next question is, that 2,654 miles now showing on the clock – is that bonafide I ask myself? True or false, it still begs the same basic question – is it in fact a one-owner car or what? Children most certainly, hence the little mischievous, aforementioned plastic duck, it is a toy after all. Not Lucy’s that’s for sure – not covered with sticky red jam and long ginger hairs at least. Lucy would run a mile.

  God, how awful. Horrible – I’ve just had a sudden thought. (Please God don’t let it turnout to be some scruffy sod from the housing estate). I can just imagine it, one of those no-hopers, life on the dole couples, that have Dec and Cat, and a red monkey swinging in the effing windscreen, with three mongrel dogs in the back. Some ginger-haired lout with a close-crop I’ll bet, with fat hairy arms and lurid tattoos who says, ‘pal’ and farts for a laugh – six dopey faced kids who look exactly the same, with heads like potatoes I’ll bet.

  ***

  No Writers Block magazine either, I’ve been looking forward to it (it’s my high-light of the whole week). No doubt it’ll be that geeky new paper lad I expect, him with the funny eye. He called round the other night trundling our wheelie-bin. Almost midnight (it sounded like thunder). Anyway, so then he’s telling me some fancy tale or other all about having found it over in the park in the middle of the football-pitch. SO HE SAID.

  Oh sure, pull the other one – ‘The football pitch?’ I exclaimed.

  On your bike I thought. ‘Wheelie-bins don’t walk’ I said.

  Don’t you worry, I’m onto his little game. I handed him forty-pence (it’s all I had on me at the time). He sped off on his skateboard, like a thief in the night, disappearing into the darkness. Then when I looked, instead he’s trying to foist me off with one of these trashy, downmarket, soft-porn WHAT WOMEN WANT magazines, filed to the brim with grinning idiots, hunky-types strutting around wearing thongs and suchlike, showing off their improbable-sized private-parts. ‘Oy!’ I called out after him ‘you want to keep your mind on your job my lad.’ Too late he was off.

  No, I thought you’re more interested gawping up at Avril’s bedroom window, hoping to catch her in her night attire I’ll bet. One thing for sure, it’s definitely not Cynthia’s (well, one likes to think not at least) then again who knows. Earlier on – quite inadvertently I happened to come across a rather well-thumbed copy of ‘Impotency: What does it mean?’ it was secreted away, hidden in the bottom of the laundry basket. So what does that tell you, no doubt she’s borrowed it from Avril next door is my guess.

  Mind you, as to why she’d require such vacuous rubbish I don’t know, it strikes me she’s more than her fair share of the real thing, that’s if you ask me.

  ***

  After that I just kind of cruised around in the Mondeo (not having to listen to that stupid squeak, it was wonderful). Then, just on impulse I thought I’d call in at Fox’s Garage, just to tell him there was no hard feelings. He was busy working under a car ‘Sorry Frankie’ I said. I was offering him my hand of friendship kind’ve – he refused to come out. I stuck my head under, ‘Can I pass you anything?’ I offered. He grunted, then carried on banging away with a big hammer.

  What’s wrong with people? Somehow or other it’s as if all the trust between us has dwindled to nothing. What’s happened to the old-fashioned gentlemen’s agreement – the old spit on the hand. Once upon a time it really meant something. Mind you, not that I’d fancy that, not from him anyway.

  Nobody can ever say I didn’t try.

  Then on my way home I called in at the Asian Chippy – I thought I’d treat myself to a Christmas-dinner special and a box of After Eight mints. After that I put my feet up for an hour, listening to Chopin, reading Dostoyevsks Idiot (it’s on my fiction list). I’m striving to improve my level of intellectual thought. Finally, after an hour I had to kick it into touch, it was starting to work me up. One thing for sure – at least he got the title right.

  ***

  Later on the sun came out, (as things turned out it was the best part of the whole day). This is what decided me to go over to the park. I’m really glad I did – it was a real tonic in fact. Lots of people had the same idea. Families mostly, having picnics and what have you, playing ball games, out enjoying themselves. Somehow or other it made you feel part of something. Heckmondwike Silver Band struck up, playing ‘Songs from the shows.’ I found myself a seat in front of the Victorian bandstand. This is when I happened to bump into Thelma from work – I went over. She was with Max, taking a turn around the lake. I offered to join them. Trust it to rain, halfway round there was a sudden cloud-burst, soon turning into quite a heavy shower, it looked pretty set in. We’d taken cover under a tree. That being the case I invited her over to DeLacey Street for a cup of tea. Good idea. Thelma wasn’t to ask twice, ‘Oh, that would be nice’ she agreed at once.

  We had tea and After Eight mints out in the conservatory. Thelma perched rather awkwardly right on the very edge of the Put-u-up bed, sipping her tea (not the brightest idea I thought later). Not to mention the array of strategically placed buckets, catching the various drips. My fault I know, I just wanted to keep her out of the living-room.

  What happened next is pure farce – what possessed me to try to kiss her I really don’t know. As things turned out we both ended up in an untidy sprawl of arms and legs, in turn making the bed collapse at one end (I think it was the surprise as much as anything else). Thelma sprang up from the camp-bed as if it was red-hot, straightening her clothing. Max growled, pulling at my sleeve and refused to let go. Somehow or other it rather spoilt everything – needless to say she didn’t stop long.

  Not thinking, in my panic I showed her through to the living-room. Natch, rightaway her eyes were drawn to the music-hall wall. You feel really stupid. For some unknown reason the bastard still refuses to cover up (you can still make out the outlines of the poem I wrote that time). Not that I need’ve worried on that score. Thelma being Thelma, all she did is stare (she’s a poet herself don’t forget). She shrugged, then said ‘Um.’ She just carried right on talking.

  All too soon it was time for her to go. So, then it turns out she’d promised to cook Eric’s supper – (this is what got me). No doubt she’d see I wasn’t best pleased. That didn’t go down too well either. ‘Well, that’s up to you, of course’ I said frostily (I hadn’t realised they were already both back in touch). ‘I expect you’ll be doing his bloody ironing too I suppose’ I added.

  Too late I’d already said it.

  She was already over by the door. ‘For your information Eric’s a marvellous ironer if you must know. He can turn his hand to most things, he can sew a button on faster than you can tie up your shoes,’ she informed me in a hoity-toity voice.

  I followed her out.

  Too late, she’d already turned the wrong way, instead she walked through into the kitchen – course, she has to see the over-flow display of wet washing dripping everywhere hasn’t she. I lifted up the temporary clothesline I’d rigged up to let her through. ‘It’s been a poor drying day’ I said. She ducked neatly under the line, then stopped dead – I followed her gaze. She shrugged, her head shook sadly ‘What a man, you’ve mixed darks in with whites.’ I took her point, some looked a bit grey I have to admit. Her eyes lingered on the sagging line of wet underpants. ‘When in doub
t – leave it out’ she lectured me, then added ‘I thought everybody knew that Colin Quirke’ she tutted.

  I stared. ‘Well, strange though it might seem some of us don’t MISS CLEVER Cloggs.’ I don’t know what stopped me, I’d all on not to say something I’ll tell you. Then when I looked she was struggling to open the back door. You never know these days. ‘It’s locked’ I said ‘if you’ll be good enough to wait a moment I’ll go fetch a key.’ No wonder she looked. All that meant, we’d to traipse all the way around the house to pick up Max. He is waiting patiently sat inside the front porch – I’d had to tie him up because of Brian playing up. Nobody felt like talking much you could tell. I walked her down the driveway as far as the side gate. Lo and behold, just to crown everything, who should we bump into next but old Mr. and Mrs. Heap from over the road, out on their evening stroll. That’s all I need. I nodded. ‘Oh, good evening ‘I’m just showing this young lady the way home’ I said. Then as an afterthought, I added ‘We’re thinking of setting on a cleaning-lady.’ They both stared. I saw Thelma look. We continued walking in complete silence as far as the main gates of the park. I nodded. ‘Watch that road Thelma, it’s like a bloody madhouse round here’ I warned her. I sighed, I watched her go.

  Somehow or other it’s all gone wrong.

  Tuesday 2nd September.

  Writers Block (Tip of the month).

  Always write about what you know

  (Huh?)

  DeLacey Street. (Post-two).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). More Mondeo trouble (maybe I spoke too soon). Fraidy so, only now, the latest is she’s started this persistent knocking noise, anything over 40m.p.h. kind’ve wuckle, wuckle wuckling – it’s really strange. It’s a bit worrying, that’s to say the least. Meantime I’ve been free-wheeling down every incline, just in case. Right at the minute, just as a precaution she’s back in dock over at Fox’s Garage. Fat Frank’s checking her out. He isn’t too happy about it (it’s hardly my fault is it?) ‘Leave it to me Mr. Kirk’ he almost snarled, he grabbed the car-keys, he stomped off without a word, or so much as a by your leave.