2:30pm. I’ve been over to the pub. I thought it might take me out of myself – worse if anything. You could hardly move, it was full to the brim. Everyone staring at the giant-sized TV screen watching the big game, you could hardly move, everybody getting over excited. You should’ve heard them, yelling their heads off like a load of loonies – only really loud I’m meaning.
Finally I had to come out, it was starting to work me up. After that I was at a bit of a loose end. So, then I just kind’ve cruised around the neighbourhood in the Mondeo. Then, when I look I’m over at DeLacey Street – isn’t that strange? Where is everybody? The whole place looks deserted. That’s odd I thought, even the curtains are still drawn. I crouched down behind the gate, keeping well out of sight. Next thing you know, stupid Bob Bright comes creeping up on me ‘Oy!’ he yells – ‘what’s your game?’ (he made me jump a mile). Personally speaking I haven’t much time for the fellow. He’s the under-manager at the bank – it’s him that started the local Neighbourhood Watch, total waste of time if you ask me – where was he when my old garden-roller went walk-abouts that time?
Finally I’d to take my cap off – it’s the only way to convince the idiot I wasn’t some kind of mad prowler. Twerp. ‘Oh, it’s you Colin’ he said, lowering his walking-stick. He stalked off with his hand in his pocket.
He might be called Bright, he can’t be all that bright. Both living in the same cul-de-sac, you’d’ve thought he’d know me. So where’s the crime I should’ve said, a father is entitled to see his own kids, right. All of a sudden there’s this voice from over the hedge, ‘Coo-wee! Coo-wee!.’ Then, when I look, there’s Ms. Thrush, standing on top of her rockery. I waved. ‘My words, you’re quite a stranger these days Mr. Quirke’ she exclaimed, no doubt angling for a bit of juicy gossip – ‘I do hope everything’s alright?’
Not that she’d get anything out of me. ‘Fine and dandy’ I said, then added ‘I’m just checking-out the wasps-nest.’ Her hand clutched at her throat, ‘Oh dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t be too careful’ I said. She stared, then said ‘I’ve been awake most of the night. I happened to see them all piling into a taxi, very early. Jamie mentioned something about going to the airport.’
I nodded. ‘Um, I’m not surprised he’s mad about aeroplanes.’
‘You’re quite a stranger these days?’ she repeated.
‘I’ve been away in Helsinki attending a conference all about bats.’
She stared. I heard a scream, she dropped out of sight. Brian shot through a gap in the hedge. I offered him a polo-mint, he sniffed. Rightaway his back went up (he’s hissing at me). He disappeared as quickly as he came – it’s as if he didn’t even know me. ‘Boy, you soon forget brother’ I said aloud.
I sat on the tree-swing under the flowering cherry-tree, deep into my own thoughts. I started working on a poem, in my notebook I’ve put: ‘Lines composed in the sunny garden at DeLacey Street – in sad reflective thought.
AFTER THOUGHTS
I moved out of my flat last week,
She piled all my things in one big heap.
I’m really going to miss that FLAT
Can’t think how we’ll divide the CAT.
The best years of my life gone west,
Can’t stand me now, think’s I’m a pest.
She was my world, my life has sunk,
I loved that girl – might get drunk.
Note: I’ve had to use the word FLAT instead of HOUSE (house isn’t a good word) – not if you want it to rhyme with CAT.
Mind you, it’s a wonder I’ve managed to write anything (stupid Bob Bright I’m meaning). All the time I’m trying to think I can see him sneaking up on me through the shrubberies, trying his best to hide behind the ornamental rhubarb (palmate rheum) spying on me. Finally I yelled ‘Look, I fucking live here, okay?’
I drove back the way I’d came.
‘There’s a young lady to see you …!’
My mother’s voice yelling up from the kitchen (I must’ve dozed off). Still half-asleep I went over to the window. God, its Alison.
***
Christopher Marlowe 1564-1594.
Come with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove.
Alison looked beautiful. She was stood at the door, dressed for summer, wearing a strappy, flowery-print frock that showed off her tanned shoulders, also a wide-brimmed straw-hat with a scarlet ribbon that she held in her hand. Her eyes danced mischievously, it turns out she’d called in just on the off-chance to invite me out for a drive. She grinned. ‘I thought you might fancy it?’ she said larkily.
My mother looked across, then returned to her knitting.
I nodded. ‘You’re the third this week’ I said.
Not that I needed to be asked twice.
Leaving them to chat, I flew upstairs to freshen-up. I needn’t’ve worried, by the time I got back they were getting on grand the pair of them, both sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea out of my mother’s best china cups.
Outside, the sun shone out of an empty blue sky, a perfect day for a drive out into the country. Then, even more surprises in store, Gabriel’s snazzy, bright-red Jaguar sports-car waiting at the curb, gleaming in the sun – top down raring to go – at least she’d had the good sense to park it around the corner away from prying eyes.
We exchanged looks – for some reason I’m uneasy already.
Too late, suddenly we lurch forward. She was a fast driver I’d forgot, my back pressed into the leather upholstery, my hands gripped my seat as we swept up the rise, tyres drumming over the cobblestones, under the washing-lines. Finally making a sharp left at the top of the street, then heading out towards the open moors.
She was enjoying the danger you could tell. She grinned across, her long blonde hair flying in the wind (sexy I thought). I tried to smile. All I could think about, we’re tearing around at break neck speed through narrow lanes between dry-stone walls, in what appeared to be someone else’s very expensive car. I closed my eyes, we raced into yet another sharp bend – just missing a huddle of sheep with only inches to spare.
Finally we pulled up. I watched the needle pivot back over to sanity. I peered through a cloud of dust. Heartshead Moortop Inn it said. Oh great. That’s all I need (I’m uneasy already), Alison’s idea of someplace quiet and secluded – a strange choice to say the least – I knew it well. This is the trouble so did everybody else, including Gabriel B.T. (it’s his favourite watering-hole). Also it just happens to be directly opposite the swanky Country Golf Club, he’s the chairman. There’s us, pulling up in a flash car with personalised plates.
Oh neat I thought – not a wise move.
This is what I said ‘What about Gabriel’s car?’ I heard myself whine in a cry-baby voice. She stared, her long legs swung out of the car. She was halfway to the main doors already, she turned ‘Know what, I couldn’t give a fiddlers fuck’ she flung back.
Looking back, her reckless mood seemed to set the tone for everything. She was finally leaving him, this time for good. From now on Gabriel’s history – she really meant it you could tell. She’d arranged everything, she was meeting-up with friends in London the next day.
She hadn’t wanted to leave without saying goodbye.
Saturday night the place is heaving, you could hardly move. No wonder I’m nervous – who can blame me. All eyes seemed to be on us, I looked around furtively, hoping that I didn’t know anybody (fat chance). Alison grabbed my hand, she’d spied a just vacated table over by the window (Oh, hurrah I’m thinking). Right where people can see everything. Surprisingly enough, after a time I began to loosen up (booze probably). Not to mention a pretty woman’s company, I actually started to enjoy myself, pretty soon turning into one of those long leisurely meals, good food, lots of good wine, private jokes. Next thing, all of a sudden you’re a bit surprised you’ve emptied your second bottle.
Finally it’s time to leave – for once Alison agreed (driving is not a good idea) prudent
ly I ordered a taxi. The landlord shook his head ‘You’ll have a bit of a wait’ he informed me joyously in between pulling pints of frothy cold beer – ‘a couple of hours, that’s at least.’ I looked at the clock. We both shrugged.
That’s when Alison came up with the bright idea we’d go for a walk.
Thinking about it, that’s how it’d been all night, her taking the lead I’m meaning. She’d insisted on paying for everything, including some remarkably expensive wine (her treat, or somebody had at least). She’d used a gold-card, Gabriel’s presumably. We stumbled out into the summer night, one drunky couple, stumbling through long meadow-grass, billowing cranesbill and head-high willow herb, meandering down the field-side towards the already darkening, crow, caw-cawing woods down in the valley bottom.
Omens galore, (distantly I could hear rumbling thunder), ominous black clouds were gathering already, creeping over the blue-tented moortop, like spilt ink. Somehow it still bothered me, looking back, Gabriel’s car gleaming redly in the last rays of the sun. ‘Why don’t we park it around the back just in case?’ I wondered aloud. No answer. She squeezed my hand, reassuring me. After that it all gets a bit blurry (parts of it are still missing even now). It came on to rain, quite a thunderstorm in fact. We both made a run for it – I can recall taking shelter in this old barn.
2:30am. Can’t sleep, I’ve been trying to come up with a poem, something to kind’ve commemorate our last stolen moments together. Something really meaningful, maybe a sonnet …
All I’ve come up with so far is one v.feeble verse:
‘Ali’s alright – we’ve had a good night.
We did more than we planned, it got out of hand,
She wears little knickers with patterns,
Then we both messed around till it happened.’
Nah, maybe not – might have another stab at it later.
***
Sunday 14th September.
Reg Arkell 1882-1959.
There is a lady sweet and kind.
Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).
8:00pm. Rainy most of the day. What’s new (sunny-spells with intermittent showers of rain it says) – well, that’s a whopper for a start. More car trouble, talk about jinxed. What started it, I’d been giving her a quick once-over with the pressure-hose over at Fox’s Garage. Then to my horror, next thing I see is the bloody paints coming off – that’s in three different places at least. Fat Frank is as mystified as me. She’s having to go into the paint shop for a complete re-spray. ‘Don’t try to tell me that’s normal’ I said.
Meantime I’ve been trying to organise a lift to work with Dec Tasker the caretaker.
What makes it even worse it’s my day for the kids. I was looking forward to it (I’d planned everything). I phoned Cynthia, I explained my predicament, ‘No car’ I said. Even when you try to explain no-one ever believes you. ‘Typical,’ she yelled, ‘you’ve let them down yet again.’. It’d really made her day you could tell. Too late, she’d arranged to take them to the Hypermarket instead – no doubt spoiling them rotten with store-bought affection as usual I expect.
Do your worst I thought. You’d think she’d know by now, a fathers love is beyond rubies, it’s priceless – KIDS NEED THEIR FATHER, THAT’S WHY.
***
Talk about being bored. Finally there was a break in the clouds, it turned out nice and sunny. I ended up going over to the park, though if I’m truthful I thought I might’ve run into Thelma walking Max. Too late, then I remembered she’d gone over to visit her younger sister Pauline in Clitheroe. For a time I sat on a sun warmed seat under the weeping willow tree, watching the ducks. Then, just when I’m leaving the Salvation Army Silver Band suddenly struck up with a resounding march (Onward Christian Soldiers). Instead I made a bee-line towards the Victorian bandstand. Lots of people had the same idea. Sometimes it’s just nice to feel a part of things – I squeezed myself right on the end of the front row.
That’s when I saw my mother. I waved. She nodded, then carried on working her way towards me, rattling her collecting-tin. How smart she looked in her uniform I thought to myself. Isn’t it odd how things change, when I was just a kid that same dark serge uniform of hers, it’d caused all kinds of embarrassment – especially in front of all my mates. Things got so bad I’d even cross over the street. Whereas now, instead I felt rather proud of her in a way. She’d been something of a locally renowned trumpet-player at onetime, she’d given that up yonks ago. She’d tell anybody who cared to listen ‘My lips gone’ she’d say in a funny voice, pulling out her bottom lip.
No doubt whatsoever mother is a full-time, 100% devout Christian. Her whole family in fact, Salvationists for three generations – right from her being a young girl, her innate goodness astounds me at times. It amazes me how she manages to fit it all in. Meals on Wheels, you name it. Each and every Saturday, rain or shine, she stands on the same corner of the High Street outside the Post Office, shaking her collecting-tin – that’s not counting her occasional hospice all night vigils. Then, on top of that most afternoons she helps out at three charity shops.
It reminded me, this poem I wrote onetime:
The Angel of Almsthorpe
Meals on Wheels is a very good thing
Especially when you’ve got nothing in –
‘Oh, it’s Pam with the Van’ they chirp when I knock.
‘She’s like a shepherd on wheels looking after her flock.’
Some try to give money – as if I would.
Though when you’re doling out custard you’re bound to feel good.
My volunteer work, it’s only part-time
Three other half-days I sell flags for the blind.
Well, I got home last Friday, I’d been changing Mrs. Hodges bad leg.
No hubby, just a note on the table. Do you know what it said?
Well, it is personal, I’ll just give you the gist.
From my hubby of course, he’d made quite a list.
Among others, such as putting his keys through the door,
He’d run off with Nicola the divorcee next door.
This is a true story (why would I lie?) Father had indeed gone, he’d vamoosed for good. So, then it turns out he’d run off with another woman, a so-called friend of hers, with an ample bust and dyed hair who worked at the works canteen (aka my newly discovered, so-called Aunt Freda-Lumb is my guess). One cold winter’s day she came home to a cold empty house and a note left on the kitchen table. She never saw him again.
Mother being mother she just carried on regardless, having to bring up two growing lads on her own, managing the best way she could. From what bits I could gather it’d been going on for quite a time (ironically she’d left him within a year). After that it was hardly ever mentioned, ‘We just didn’t get on’ she’d tell people. Others were more direct, ‘I’m not surprised, he was drunk out of his head half the time’ I overheard Auntie Agnes exclaim in a harsh whisper onetime. Some years later he died alone in a Salvation hostel in Birmingham.
Nor was the irony lost of my mother I expect.
My older brother Alan came over for the funeral, he’d emigrated to Canada a few years earlier – with Andrea. Andrea Denshaw, my first love … God, I really loved her, or thought I did at the time:
‘From the machine-shop floor, you can just see the door
And escape, to greenfields and oblivion.
Andrea’s arms … Andrea’s knees … (etc etc).’
How long ago that all seems, a lifetime almost. Next thing you know she goes off with my own brother. That’s life I suppose, they seem happy enough, two kids, same as me. At least we still keep in touch, cards at Christmas. That’s something at least.
I sat back with the sun on my face, then closed my eyes … Memories, they came flooding back, vague remembrances. Looking down on him at the Co-op funeral parlour – he’s like a stranger. Mind you, what didn’t help any is that ludicrous quiff some idiot had bestowed on him I suppose.
Always a sad and morose
man in my mind:
A sadder man I’ve yet to meet,
His own dog chases him down the street.
Thinking back (somehow or other it’s as if he never really fitted in). He hated his job too, he’d worked at the same firm since leaving school at fifteen. Earnshaw Engineering & Co Ltd. 26 years on the same machine. Sometimes he’d come home from the pub maudlin drunk (basically I think family life scared him) – always making ends meet. He’d look down at his calloused hands (he’d lost two fingers in an accident in the machine-shop). He used the compensation money to buy an old Ford Zephyr car, so we all could go on trips over to the coast. One of his biggest disappointments in life is that I should want to follow him, into what he called, the same dead-end job as himself. ‘Don’t waste your life’ he’d tell me (Alan went into journalism). ‘Don’t wait until it’s too late, do it long enough, your brains taken over by the bloody machine’ he warned me – he said that a lot.
Things were different then I suppose. He was right, I didn’t stick it long – the mind deadening repetition was slowly but surely driving me potty, e.g:
‘Monday morning routine – a clock-watchers dream,
Machining millions of tubes to a thou.
Thinking, how life is a bitch, and how nice to be rich,
And how desperate the need for it now!’
Then when I looked up my mother’s right in front of me. Her head shook, she frowned, then tutted ‘That shirts a bit grubby – it is Sunday when all’s said and done’ she chided. She’s right, I’d forgot to get changed. ‘I’ve been under the car, she’s started losing oil’ I said. Her frown deepened, she didn’t approve of that either (there was plenty of time during the week for that kind of thing). She picked at my collar, then tutted ‘Tis Sunday you know’ she repeated ‘showing folk up – is that the best you can do?’
It Always Rains on Sundays Page 19