It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  ‘All organised mother – I’ve a woman comes in.’

  I grinned.

  She nodded (she didn’t take me on), her sharp eyes twinkled, ‘Aye, I’ll bet you have’ she muttered, her mouth in a line. She’d no time for that kind of silliness even at the best of times.

  Her face went serious ‘I thought it was your turn for the children?’

  I nodded. ‘It is – the cars in dock again.’

  I shrugged. She pulled a face.

  Instead I changed the subject. ‘How’s the collecting going?’ I asked. I dropped two one pound coins into her collecting-tin. She made a face (always a sore point) she leaned closer ‘I’ve seen more copper and little bits of loose-change than enough I’ll tell you.’ She paused, then smiled ‘Still, every little helps, praise the lord.’

  Time to make a move. She’d wasted enough time as it is.

  She nodded, then touched my cheek. I watched her walk off, small shiny shoes, striding away and always with a purpose. She turned, the sun caught her glasses. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes, then that half-smile she always does ‘I’m making a proper dinner with Yorkshires, six o’clock sharp, think on.’ I nodded. She’d just thought of something ‘Think on, don’t forget to change that mucky shirt’ she mouthed. I waved.

  ***

  Monday 14th September.

  Emily Dickinson 1830-1866.

  …I stepped from plank to plank.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Jamie phoned me up at lunchtime. That’s a first I thought. My guess it’s just an excuse to use his new mobile-phone he’d had bought for his birthday more than anything else (trust me to forget my own son’s birthday). ‘I’ll strangle that bloody postman’ I lied. So then it turns out they’d all ended up at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. ‘Oh, Blackpool – how lovely’ I said. You watch, next thing it’ll be Cynthia on the phone – we’ll never hear the last of it.

  More bad news, old Jordan Poritt’s just died – like him or loath him he’ll be sadly missed (all the same he’s had a good innings I suppose). Mind you, I wouldn’t’ve known then but for Gabriel B.T, trust him to get to know before anybody else. What happened, he just happened to call in at the Library this afternoon, him and his spotty-faced best friend, ever so lah-de-dah Adrian Topham esquire who owns the local dye-works.

  Talk about overdressed – I’ll say (macaroni faggots the pair of them). No wonder everybody looked. This is Mr. Dye-works, todays ensemble consisted of a bright canary yellow cashmere cardi with matching yellow checked black-striped Rupert trousers (v.tight fitting), and lemony suede calf-boots. ‘Who’s the fruit in the periwig?’ I distinctly overheard Rosanne Rosemary Leek the new junior girl whisper over-loudly. I don’t mind admitting I’d all on not to laugh out loud I’ll tell you.

  There’s little to choose between the pair of them.

  Whereas our mutual friend, old rags and bones (‘Any old iron!’) Biggar-Titte, he favoured a vision in blue, e.g. royal blue canvas shirt and matching spotted silk cravat, also v.tight-arsed blue-jeans (me too, BLUE-JEANS – A MAN HIS AGE!) Finishing off his Elvis-tribute outfit with a pair of tassled blue suede shoes if you please – he looked a right plonka in no mistake. Then, both expecting everybody running round after them, wanting all this personal attention.

  No-chance. Don’t you worry, Mr. Dye-works was v.quickly disposed of I’ll tell you. Frankly I couldn’t make head nor tale. My head was shaking even before he’d finished. (Something pertaining to Arabian horses?) What am I some kind of animal expert – call a bloody vet I almost said. ‘Sorry brother, next please?’ I said.

  They both stared. Natch, trust old B.T. to make a meal of it, about ten hours later he virtually staggered out under a towering pile of hefty tomes, embracing the main thrust of American poets generally, e.g. Leigh Hunt. Homage to Frost. Longfellow and Pound (old Ezra!) et al. Greedy sod I thought to myself – the man’s almost knock-kneed. Sooooooo, no doubt we shall be pounded into submission with old, v.boring, Ezra bloody Pound at the next P.S. meeting I rather suspect.

  This is when he mentioned the sad news about old Mr. Poritt. It’s the way he tells people, casual as you like. He’s on his way out, then he says. ‘Oh, by the way, old Jordan Poritt’s finally popped his clogs so I hear.’ No wonder I stared. He turned, over by the door, so then in the next breath if he isn’t inviting me over to the Grange for dinner, ‘Oh yes, I almost forgot we’re having a bit of a bash up the Grange pilgrim.’ He paused ‘Saturday, bout nineish’ (he’d just caught his reflection in the glass door) he smoothed his eye-brows, then smiled at himself – the big tart. Don’t worry, anybody looks handsome in that door (I’ve been caught out myself quite a few times). ‘Dress casual, nothing fancy you understand.’ His smile widened, he’d just thought of a joke. ‘There again you usually do, don’t you Colin?’ he quipped, turning to his toothy companion.

  They both laughed like drains. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw.’

  Then he added ‘You and your good lady, of course.’

  That might be a bit awkward I thought (it must’ve shown on my face). He stared, ‘Nothing wrong I hope?’ I shook my head, then laughed ‘God no, we’re both tickety-boo as a matter of fact’ I said with alacrity. He beamed ‘Wonderful, we’re all eating Japanese, that okay with you – so, that’ll be fun won’t it?’ Not very I thought.

  ‘Chopsticks?’ I said. ‘I’ve only just got used to using a fork.’

  They both looked at each other. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw’ they both went.

  My mind raced trying to think up a good excuse. I could just imagine it, groping around in candle-light, gnawing fish eye-balls. What finally finished it, then he says. ‘All the girls are coming – so that’ll be nice won’t it?’ Not very I thought (eeeeek!) He meant Martha, Milly and Matilda, the joint off-spring from his various marriages. ‘Hah, Saturday, that’s a bit of a toughie. Maybe not squire. Cyn’s away, I clean forgot. No can do I’m afraid.’ Gabriel stared. ‘Um. She’s up in Edinburgh, it’s a refresher course on customer management.’

  Think what you like I thought.

  ‘Pity’ says he ‘you’ll be missing a hell of a good party.’

  ‘Um. I know – too bad.’ I nodded, I made a face at the wall, making silent farting noises. ‘Too bad’ I repeated ‘I know you wouldn’t want me turning-up without my dear wife – you know how inseparable we both are,’

  They laughed. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw’ they both went.

  Jordan’s funeral is scheduled for Friday.

  ***

  Wednesday 16th September.

  Writers Block

  (Tip of the month).

  Think of a tree with lots of branches. (Huh?)

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil). NIL!!!

  8:00pm. Workwise, v.dull and v.boring. still no contact with DeLacey Street. Cynthia I’m meaning – what’s it take to pick up a bloody phone. Let’s face it, people on death-row get more conversation than I do. NO POST EITHER.

  However, I think I might’ve solved my mail problem at least.

  At lunchtime I called into the main Post Office. However, this time I went around the back to have a quiet word with one of the sorters, Calvin Cartwright. Let’s face it, temporary or not without my mail I’m a goner for sure. Nice guy Calvin, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before – he’s an old mucker of mine, in fact, right up until fairly recently he was a staunch member of the Poetry Society. Indeed, something of a corner-stone as you might say – never missed a meeting. Like I said he was always highly esteemed in local poetry circles – you could generally count on him for a fine couplet or two, e.g:

  I don’t know what’s upset my little petal,

  If looks could get more wounding you’d be bathing them in Dettol.

  That was one of his come to think, an absolute gem I thought – it stuck in my mind for ages. Unfortunately he’s just going through the trauma of a rather messy divorce. Mind you, on reflection, even then you could detect fine cracks in the marriage I
suppose – that and eating over at the pub (nasty business all round from what I gather) – knocked him for a six. It turns out his wife’s taken him for every cent, lampshades the lot. Consequently, sadly he’s gone a bit wild. Some do I’m afraid. What with all night clubbing, not to mention pole-dancers. Also, rumour has it he’s well into debt with various and sundry, so-called ‘chat-up lines,’ dubious personal columns and so-forth, you name it. Got in with the wrong crowd I expect. He’s gone right down to rock-bottom in most people’s estimation of things – it’s a crying shame I’ll tell you. Mind you I blame the internet – it’s a lot to answer for in my view.

  Luckily were both men of the world. I waited, watching him work. Finally I said ‘You know how it is Calvin – it’s only a stopgap, it’s only a very temporary arrangement of things, of course.’ Calvin nodded thoughtfully. He sucked on a Polo-mint and said little, meantime he carried on without a pause skimming envelopes into various slots without a pause, taciturn to say the least, his flat murmured, ‘Oh aye?’ covered everything.

  ‘Storm in a tea-cup if I’m being truthful’ I said.

  He nodded, then sighed. He popped another Polo-mint in his mouth. ‘Well, I’m right sorry to hear that Colin. I always thought you two were nailed on – it just shows’ he lisped. He tapped the side of his nose with a brown-stained forefinger, then gave me a broad wink. ‘Leave it with me Colin’ he said. He reached up to a wooden beam just above his head, in yellow chalk, across it he wrote squeakily: ‘RE. QUIRKY – VIA STONEY BANK STREET’ He gave me the thumbs up, then offered me a Polo-mint.

  I shook my head, ‘No thank you’ I said.

  This is the trouble with some people. Just because we’ve had a bit of a tiff so to speak. They think you’re all in the same boat as them (albeit swimming alongside maybe). Even so I hardly think we’ve come to the old nod and a wink stage of things, not yet hopefully. Next thing you know they’re making out you’re having a divorce.

  Still in the same frame of mind, first chance I got I called up the phone company to check out the DeLacey Street phone not working. You feel really stupid, they have you on hold for yonks (listening to Handel’s Chorus). Finally, I demanded to speak to the supervisor. Nice guy, supreme in fact – it turns out we both used to be in the same Freemasons (not that it made a pennyworth of difference). ‘How strange, most people have their own mobile-phone these days’ he repeated.

  This is what I’m up against, ‘Not everybody pal’ I told him smartly.

  Finally, I even tried pleading ‘Look, I’m in limbo Leslie, it’s my only lifeline – I must have communication with the outside world. Right now I’m living on pure adrenaline and handfuls of Disprins.’ Too late he’d hung up – I ended up talking to a machine.

  However, some good news at least.

  Next thing I’m summoned up to old Docket’s office, pronto. Ms. Walker’s voice, screeching from the top landing ‘You’re wanted rightaway, it’s urgent!’ No wonder everyone looked. Rightaway, my stomach flipped right over (it’s that voice of hers). What now I thought – bad time-keeping for one thing. Why be surprised, I’ve hardly slept – four hours a night that’s at most.

  Trust me, thinking the worst. It turns out I’m wrong (I couldn’t be wronger in fact). Instead, he couldn’t’ve been nicer, he’s Mr. Charming itself. ‘Hah, Colin. Come in, come in old chap – grab a pew’ says he, smiling broadly, flashing his new dentures. He pushed out a chair using his foot, then went over to his coffee-percolator. He turned ‘Cup of coffee, right?’ then added ‘This is proper coffee, not that pappy stuff out of the bloody machine.’ We both laughed.

  It just shows – no doubt he’d be feeling a bit guilty I expect. What happened is the day before I’d walked into his office. Okay, I forgot – I should’ve knocked. LOUDLY. Next thing, surprise, surprise, who’s kneeling down right there in front of him? Only Ms. Prim and proper (I’m so shy, don’t even look at me) Evaline Walker, his P.A. that’s who – put it this way, she ain’t picking up pencils that’s for sure.

  It just shows – you think you know people, right.

  No wonder the guy’s all over me, he can’t do enough.

  He took a bottle of whisky and two glasses out of the bottom drawer of his desk (he thinks I don’t know), pretty soon I’m drinking my third glass of genuine malt whisky. I’m starting to change my mind about him. He’s got this nifty piece of furniture in there that also doubles as a pool-table (he plays a not too bad a game of pool I think). After that we got really pally. Next thing you know I’m telling him everything. Mostly about me and Cynthia, about how things are – about my hanging by a thread marriage. Also about my kids too, how I never hardly ever get to see them anymore. Sometimes it’s good just to talk to somebody.

  He’s a really good listener too.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Tell me about it’ he said.

  So, then he’s telling me all about his own troubles (this is his third marriage). It turns out, him and his wife hardly speak to each other – they even have separate sides of the house. It’s only the dog that keeps them together.

  Smallish world, right? We clinked glasses.

  10:30pm. Finally, I’ve managed to speak to Cynthia over the phone. ‘How come you can’t even pick up the phone?’ I said. Talk about cool, either that or she’s drunk. ‘About what?’ she crooned in her usual flat, either way kind of voice. ‘Okay, about me seeing the kids for one thing.’

  ‘You know how it is – I’ve been very busy.’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know anything – nobody ever answers the phone.’

  Don’t worry this time I didn’t even give her an inch.

  That’s something else that bothered me – all this hurly-burly going on in the back. All the time I’m trying to talk, people talking and laughing. All this loud music I’m meaning, it’s as if there’s some kind of party going on.

  This is what I said.

  There was a long pause. ‘Oh that’ her voice stayed casual. ‘Oh that’ she repeated ‘a couple of friends round having a drink. So where’s the problem?’

  ‘I just wondered that’s all.’

  ‘Look, will this take long – I have friends here, okay.’

  Amazing. First time we speak in over a week, she’s itching to get back to all her goofy friends. She can’t wait to hang up. She’s working me up already, I can feel my stutter coming on already. So then I said the first thing that came into my head ‘Well, I – I – I, you know what. I haven’t been sleeping too good, y’know.’ I’d just remembered I’d forgotten to fetch my special pillow. ‘My Hungarian Goose-down pillow – the one with the lavender.’

  ‘Aw, too bad’ she lied. This lady couldn’t’ve cared less if you ask me.

  ‘Sleep is important.’

  Another pause, this time longer, then she said ‘You’ve phoned me up just to talk about your friggin pillow? You’ve called me a dozen times, that’s at least.’

  ‘Uh huh – it helps me sleep. Like I said, sleep is important.’ All of a sudden then it hit me, about my special pillow. ‘I thought maybe I’d come right over. That, o-o-okay w-with you?’

  Her voice exploded in my ear ‘DON’T BOTHER I’LL POST IT’ she yelled down the phone.

  ***

  1:30am. Stoney Bank Street. I’ve just got back from DeLacey Street. Some party, right – it’s worse than I thought – the whole place is lit up like a Christmas-tree (who’s paying for that little lot I thought). Music blasting away – oh, those poor neighbours I thought. Even my own driveway, fancy pickups and 4x4s with personalised plates churning up the grass. They’re blocking the whole cul-de-sac. You could hardly move.

  Okay, ask anybody you like, killjoy I am not. Cynthia is perfectly entitled to indulge herself, having her own little get-togethers I’m sure. However, I don’t ever re-call having that kind of shindig – wild partying I’m meaning. Not on a week-day night – not with work to go to the next day that’s for sure. However, I’d come thus far (call it a hunch). I decided to
investigate a bit further.

  Easier said, (parking my car for one thing). Luckily I found just the spot, well out of sight, by commandeering Mr. Tupperwell’s driveway up on the top crescent (not that he’d mind). Unfortunately the old fellow is back in dock with a dicky-hip. (I must remember to send him a card). Look at me I thought – Trust it to start raining. Here I am, a respectable citizen, wet through to the skin, pitch-black, sneaking round my poorly neighbours front garden in dead of night, pushing my way through privet hedges – spying on my own house he added.

  Let’s face it, I’m not cut out for subterfuge.

  However, soon all is rewarded. All of a sudden the front door is thrown wide open, next thing these two hooligan types, drunks we’ll call them – louts. I can describe them no other, fooling around, whooping loudly, next thing they both fall down the steps, sprawling into the shrubberies.

  It gets even worse, then to my horror, one of them, the tattooed one of the pair (the one without a shirt). Much to my utter dismay he proceeds to urinate all over my Saffron Odyssey prize-roses. There he is for all the world to see, arcing like a good un. Then, his mate – even worse (as if) he’s throwing-up all over the bloody shop – ruined my pom-pom dahlias, that goes without saying, of course.

  Grand I thought – I’d to turn away.

  Don’t worry, by then I’d seen more than enough. Time to go. Deep in thought I steered the Mondeo back in the direction of Stoney Bank Street, listening to the steady, thump, thump of the wiper-blades. Meantime my mind was busy with all kinds of things. Cyn mostly – this time she’d pushed me just that little bit too far. What next I wonder? What about my children, are they witness to this kind of behaviour I wondered? One thing for sure, I was more determined than ever to have a face to face confrontation, and sooner rather than later.