It Always Rains on Sundays

  Oh what a burden it is to be born poor! Thinking about it, the way things are going I’m seriously thinking about staying in bed forever, out of harms way. Times like this an anchorite existence appeals mightily I’ll tell you. Really speaking, a simple poet such as myself, my requirements are pretty frugal, a hunk of bread and a lump of cheese – maybe the odd flagon of wine. Who knows, even on my meagre savings I could last out quite a spell I’ll bet: ‘

  Where’s old Quirky these days?’ Dunno mate, you tell me – ain’t seen him in yonks. Nobodies set eyes on him for the past twenty years, that’s at least (mind you he was a miserable sod anyway). Maybe you heard, his wife ran off with a red-headed American line-dancer by all accounts. ‘Don’t say?’ it’s a true story. Why would I lie, red hair too, did I say – Cherokee Indian I do believe. ‘That so?’ Last I heard he hadn’t a friend in the whole world. ‘Well, well. That a fact?’

  Not that you get much peace round here anyway. Thelma I’m meaning, she keeps phoning me up, every hour just about. ‘Tell them I’m sick’ I said. Next thing I hear is my mother’s voice, listening in as usual ‘There’s nowt wrong with him, I’ll tell you. He’s playing the old soldier more like – ligging in bed all day, the big lummox.’

  I called her back. ‘Thelma, it’s me’ – I blurted it all out, ‘Bad news I’m afraid. Cyn’s got a boyfriend. She’s admitted everything, it’s all over between us – I’m a total wreck.’

  No doubt she’d’ve guessed something’s amiss.

  There was a long pause – she’s like me, she’d be in shock I expect. I’m not surprised. ‘Oh dear’ she said, she repeated it three times in a row ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ ‘Talk about devious – I’ll say. Her and Avril, they planned the whole thing between them.’ I ended up telling her everything. ‘Oh, wait till you see him, he’s a picture. He’s got this big mop of bright red hair, it’s unbelievable. This is what I can’t understand (this is when my voice went funny). Cyn really hates red hair. Ask anybody you like. He’s an American, she met up with him over in Florida in the middle of a hurricane, she confessed everything’ I said, ending in a squeak.

  I had to hang-up in order to compose myself.

  She called me right back, ‘Listen, I forgot to ask, when are you coming back in to work?’ Good question I thought. ‘Who knows – I might not be coming back ever again.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t say that Colin. Life must go on no matter what.’

  ‘For some people maybe. Good-bye Thelma.’

  Bless her I thought to myself – at least somebody cares.

  ***

  Tuesday 30th September.

  Robert Herrick 1591-1674.

  A sweet disorder in her dress kindles in clothes a wantoness.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-three).

  8:30pm. Home late (I’ve been tying up a few loose-ends at work). LIAR – that’s a whopper for a start. What happened, somehow or other, I’d convinced myself old Docket was working late too. Then it turns out the silly old fool had left his office light on by mistake. It just shows – I might’ve been there yet but for Dec Tasker the caretaker wanting to lock up.

  You feel really stupid.

  Meantime I’ve been giving things some deep thought. I’m striving to resume some kind of semblance of a normal routine, I have to move on. For a start I’ve come to the conclusion, better to give DeLacey Street a wide berth in future – it’s the only way. Easier said than done. This is the trouble, this is a small town, chances are you’re bound to run into people sooner or later. Take this morning for instance, I’m in my car, on my way to work. I’m waiting at the Bridgend traffic-lights. So then I’m just minding my own business. All of a sudden, next thing, I’m deluged with this really loud, so-called music – blasting my head off almost. Then, when I look who should pull up in the next lane but Cyn and Avril, the pair of them waving like loonies. You should’ve seen them, both wearing these matching polka-dot bikini-tops. Showing off for all their worth, driving around in this newly imported chrome-laden, dazzling white Dodge Ram pickup truck.

  Who are we Thelma and Louise? (it was on the tip of my tongue).

  Well, I know what I think (courtesy of Clyde the Wallet no doubt). Don’t you worry I just stared right ahead. They roared off in a raucous blast from the twin exhausts, still honking the horn. They disappeared into the misty distance.

  Letters (one): More rejections, fraidy so, Ravens Nest, that’s flown back to the nest yet again – returned from Yorkshire Vista, e.g. ‘Welcome to Yorkshire – where folks are grand!’ Typical I thought, they didn’t even have the common courtesy to return the photo studies I sent, featuring the renowned Cow & Calf rocks on top of Ilkley Moor – it’s no joke holding on to a tripod in the teeth of a Yorkshire gale I’ll tell you.

  Letter (two): Oh, superb – that’s all I need. Somebody trying to sell me a new bed. Wonderful. ‘Are you a sleeper or are you a TOSSER?’ it says. Let’s face it I’ve been a bit of a tosser all my sodding life. (“Would that be a single sir, or are we a double?”) No comment.

  Letter (three): From old Herbie Tribe down in Cambridge no less. (‘When are you coming to see me?’ he says.) Don’t worry I’d love to – I really envy him in a way, this is where I’ve missed out. Sunday afternoons (I can just imagine it) punting on the Cam with a pretty girl in tow, mixing with intellectuals and what have you, conversing with like-minded people. Socialising with bright young ladies with aquiline noses and posh accents:

  ‘Barry! Hi Barry – good hols? That’s the ticket

  ‘Hi there Margot. Long time no see – I love your tan.’

  ‘Well, hul-low Lucinda, seen old Gerry by any chance?’

  ‘He’s the cleverest man in London don’t you know.’

  ‘Don’t doubt it, don’t doubt it old sport.’

  ‘Oh, I say, tried the herring? Awfully good.’

  Maybe that’s it, I need a new image (I wonder if I’d suit a beard?) I think I might dig out my Harris Tweed with the leather-patches (bit datey these days I expect). How about a pronounced limp, that might be interesting. Maybe not – food for thought at least.

  ***

  Sunday 5th October.

  A small man in a tall hat looks even shorter. (Anon).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Another long (v.long, v.boring) – v.wet Sunday. I’d been looking forward to spending the day with the kids. No-chance, they’ve all gone to Blackpool for a long weekend with the Dancing Queen and the red-haired Yankee gigolo. I’d clean forgot it’s the quarter-finals of the line-dancing tournament.

  Lunchtime, I went over to Tony’s Tavern (I thought I’d cheer myself up) – a couple of pints with the lads kind of thing. Then it turns out they’d all gone to the big away game over in Manchester, the place is empty. Even worse – warm beer. Mind you Tony couldn’t’ve cared less. ‘Well’ he lisped petulantly ‘somebody has to have the first pint.’ He wandered off, singing, ‘Baby you can drive my car, baby I’ll make you a star.’ They must have the longest friggin pipes this side of the friggin Urals.

  Still hoping for some convivial company I went into the Dark Bar. You could hardly move, everyone engrossed, watching the big game, eyes fixed on the giant-sized TV screen. Next thing this big cheer goes up. Somebody must’ve scored (that’s until it was disallowed). They’re going crazy, everybody yelling, arguing amongst themselves – getting to blows almost.

  That did it for me. I’d to come out in the end – somehow I felt really threatened.

  At least it’d stopped raining. Instead I ended up going over to the park, hoping to find a bit of peace and quiet. Some hopes, that didn’t last long either, winos I’m meaning. Everywhere you look, sculking around, drinking cheap bottles of wine – all this yelling – I could sense the danger already.

  Next thing they’re fighting in lumps (I was right). Somebody called the police. Finally, I ended up back at Stoney Bank Street. Full circle in fact – meantime I’d been into town to by myself a new TV for
my room. Mother glared, rightly guessing I was carrying a six-pack under my coat (I told her it was a turnip, I was holding it for a friend). After that I settled down to watch D.V.Ds. Each in turn I watched, The Lion King. The Wizard of Oz. Dumbo the Elephant and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Finally I had to turn it off – all that violence (not to mention this mad trumpet-player in the back). It was starting to work me up more than ever.

  Mother despairs, she called me down for my dinner – I told her I wasn’t hungry. According to her I’m every bit as bad as my father, if not worse – I’ve the makings of a useless drunken sot – not even worth so much as a tin shilling.

  Finally I took myself off for a long walk along the canal towpath, clear my head kind’ve. Good idea, after all that fresh-air, by the time I got back I was ravenous. Too late was the cry, much to my disgust, in the meantime my mother’s given my much looked forward to Sunday-roast dinner away to the neighbourhood tramp. There he is large as life (Mark Twain – the old guy with the eye-patch). No wonder I stared. Why be surprised, I’d seen him earlier on, hawking firewood door to door out of an old pram. He’s sitting in my chair with a big grin on his face, picking at his rotten teeth. What’s it all coming to when even your own mother turns against you.

  No doubt she’d see I wasn’t best pleased.

  2:00am. Can’t sleep – bad dreams I’m meaning. Cynthia who else – I’ve woke up in a cold sweat. I keep having this strange, reoccurring dream. What happened is I’m inside this tent. Cynthia’s trying to get in but she can’t find the opening – how weird is that? I ended up entangled in the curtains. You can tell how bad it was, next thing my mother’s hammering on the door (I must’ve yelled). I said it was the cat.

  Mother stared. ‘What cat – we haven’t got a cat?’

  Meantime I’ve had more time to think. Things build-up, right now I’m really angry. I can’t help it, it’s the darker side of my nature I expect. Right now I’m angry.

  Poem: (my final goodbye to Cynthia). Boy O boy, I can’t wait – even the title:

  Bitter Ending

  Mother, clear the small back room,

  Make up my old blue bed.

  I need a place of peace and gloom,

  Someplace to lay my head.

  I’m coming out of quarantine,

  She treats me like a dog.

  Our marriage has become obscene,

  We have no dialogue.

  Our loveless lives mock all demands

  What married life should be.

  Marooned on separate islands

  Between miles of storm-tossed sea.

  That two once loved is hard to grasp,

  God knows I’ve surely tried.

  No consequence, it’s in the past,

  The truth is love has died.

  Let her shout, let her rave,

  Let her think me unbending.

  Let me leap into my grave,

  Let this be the ending.

  This is a real killer in no mistake – serves her right. This is going to destroy her totally. Wonderful (right on the bloody nail I’d say). ‘Let this be the ending,’ then there’s the ‘rave’ and the ‘grave.’ Finally, the ‘leaping into the grave.’ It must go at once, there’s no time to lose – this very night. POSTHASTE WAS THE CRY!

  4:45am. Mission accomplished – signed, sealed and personally delivered by the shakiest hand that ever stabbed a pen into an inkpot I can report: (e.g.)

  Out through the sky-light, off witches leap

  Slide down the drainpipe and away down the street.

  Dead of night, no time better – and off I did trot. Whatever it takes, five miles, ten miles – following the cats-eyes, stealthily moving from shadow to shadow, avoiding the drunks and singing night-time wanderers, sharing the small hours with bobbies and burglars …

  God, I felt better already, smooth as clockwork.

  Tell a lie – just one small incident on my way back. What happened, there’s this police-car over the road, he stopped. O – o I thought, here comes trouble. He slid down his window ‘Having a little walk are we?’ he calls out. So, where’s the crime I thought to myself. I went over, ‘Yes, that’s correct officer’ I told him politely ‘That’s not a crime, surely? I’m a librarian’ I said.

  He pointed (I could see him looking). ‘Not at all sir’ says he ‘you do realise you’re wearing your dressing-gown and house-slippers I suppose?’ I looked down – he was right. You feel really stupid. He laughed ‘Wee Willie Winkie are we?’ he asides with a smirk, then added ‘Bit cold don’t you think?’

  Oh droll, how very droll I thought.

  However, he’s civil enough, you can’t fault him on that. This is when he invited me inside the police-car. Fine by me, it’s very interesting – up until then I’d never actually been inside a police-car in my whole life. Even more so when you’ve got someone like this affable police-sergeant explaining all the gadgetry and what have you.

  It just shows you haven’t always to go by the uniform have you.

  Nice bloke. Fair to say we both got on grand, it turns out we’ve a lot in common, pretty soon I’m telling him everything. All about my own troubles, also about my urgent errand (I avoided using the word poetry as such). Instead I said ‘letter.’ Really speaking, sometimes, I find if you start spouting about poetry most people seem to have a tendency to look at you rather oddly in my experience. However, I made sure to tell him how vitally important it was to draw a line under the sordid episode once and for all.

  Then it turns out by a strange coincidence he’d got enough of his own matrimonial troubles. Indeed, he’d recently been through the trauma of a rather messy divorce himself. It just shows, isn’t it a small world. He was full of sympathy in fact. He slid down his window and lit-up a cigarette (considerate that I thought). He shook his head, then blew out smoke. He leaned closer ‘It looks as if you and me are both in the same boat brother’ he empathised.

  God, not another I thought.

  ‘Oh, don’t say that. Thankfully we’ve not come to the divorce stage, not as yet at least’ I half-laughed. (If I’m truthful, already I’m wondering if maybe I’ve acted a bit too hastily.) I’m starting to have second thoughts already.

  He nodded, then kind’ve half-smiled to himself. ‘People do strange things sometimes’ he ruminated thoughtfully, flicking his ash through the opening. ‘I hate all women’ he said.

  This is the trouble. ‘She’s easily led is Cynthia I’m afraid.’

  He gave me a funny look. He flicked out his tab-end, then closed the window. After that we started back – wasn’t that nice, him offering to give me a lift home I’m meaning. He was a fast driver. Somehow or other I got the distinct impression he was rather angry, it got pretty scary at times I’ll tell you. ‘Women’, he growled in a gravelly voice, he smashed a big fist, hard, one into the other (for what seemed a long moment he lifted both hands off the steering-wheel). I stared – the car took a worrying sharp veer towards an on-coming milk-float. He grabbed the wheel just in the nick of time. His eyes lit up ‘Bitch. Sometimes I wish I had strangled the bitch. She made me life HELL’ he snarled. ‘Oh dear’ I said.

  He stared right ahead. ‘She made my life hell’ he repeated angrily, his eyes flashing. His foot hit the pedal, we shot forward, tyres squealing into the next sharp bend. Finally, much to my relief he pulled up sharply underneath the dripping railway viaduct at the end of Stoney Bank Street.

  I climbed out of the car, it felt good to stand on terra-firma I’ll tell you.

  We both stared out at the steep cobbled-stone street, under the orangey-glow from it’s one solitary lamp, dotted with wheelie-bins. His eye-brows lifted, he seemed surprised (I don’t blame him). ‘You live here?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s only temporary’ I assured him at once. Then found myself adding ‘I own a really nice detached house and a half-acre garden with fine lawns’ I said.

  He nodded, then shrugged – it could’ve meant anything.

  ‘Wel
l, thanks for the lift officer.’

  His face stayed impassive. ‘Kids?’

  I nodded ‘Mm, two, one of each. I’m very fortunate I know’ I told him, retying my dressing-gown, ‘Jamie, he’s eleven, he’s the eldest. Then there’s little Lucy, she’s the baby. Everybody calls her a little princess. I usually carry a photo – I only wish you could see her, she’s six – or so I’m informed.’

  He nodded ‘Sounds great – me too, used to more like.’ His eyes danced crazily, his voice went really bitter ‘That’s when she lets me see them, the miserable cow.’ He laughed without humour ‘The bitch moved house without even telling me – these days mine have to carry a picture, that’s just so they’ll know me. You’ll come to it brother’ he warned me darkly.

  ‘Gosh’ I exclaimed. I swallowed. ‘That’s really awful.’

  He looked at his watch, then started the car. So, then I said ‘Hopefully not in my case at least – Cynthia isn’t like that.’ All the same it’d started me thinking, mind you it doesn’t take much. He nodded – I waved him off.

  ***

  Stoney Bank Street.

  William Shakespeare 1564-1616.

  Hark, hark the lark at heavens gate sings.

  6:15am. Mother was full of praise for once. She stood in the doorway, still wearing her dressing-gown, her arms akimbo ‘By Jove – you’re up bright and early Sunny Jim’ she exclaimed (there’s a first I thought). ‘That’s more like it, it’s nice to see you with a bit of a spark for a change. That’s the way, crack on, get that fire going’ she chirped.

  I hadn’t the heart telling her I haven’t been to bed yet.

  God knows why she gets up at that unearthly hour, creeping about the place (she made me jump a mile) it’d made her day you could tell. She’d a busy day ahead, it turns out she’d volunteered to wash the surplices for the Platonic Brethren Male Voice Choir (60 voices!) She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, singing Jerusalem.