It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  Right at that time I was knelt down in front of the hearth, scrabbling inside the ash pan, trying to find my gold wedding ring – I’ve changed my mind. Thinking about it, theatrical gestures are all very well and good – where’s the point if nobody else knows about it. However, I did find it eventually (albeit a little scratched), otherwise none the worse for his little adventure.

  So much for sentiment I suppose.

  Something else for the old knick-knack jar I expect.

  Mind you, I don’t know why men bother, you can generally tell if you’re married or not by how downtrodden and miserable you look.

  Meantime, I’ve been having second thoughts about that poem I wrote, Bitter Ending. (Big mistake – capital M). Our marriage is worth much more than that. We were as Tristan and Isolde, destined by fate to be together, always, spending our twilight years in happy harmony, living in a pink pebble-dash chalet bungalow over-looking Filey Bay. Alas – whereas now, all I see before me is darkness and a lonely future, fishing for sprats off the end of the pier – talking to myself.

  Instead I’m sending her another one, e.g:

  Send out for Mr. Strawberry

  Send out for Mr. Strawberry

  Entertainer for the kids.

  Have him blow some raspberries,

  Dance about in silly wigs

  I’ll have him paint my face for me,

  I’d make a first class clown.

  The part I play so easily,

  I’m known all over town.

  Her perfume on the pillowcase,

  Her hair’s still in the comb.

  I close my eyes and see her face,

  No message on the phone.

  ‘Well, bye’ she said – ‘we’ve had a laugh.’

  Took her things like she’d no time to lose.

  All I have left is a photograph,

  And the heel off one of her shoes.

  I’m hoping to exchange it for Bitter Ending, I’m dropping it off on my way to work. without her knowing. What I’m really hoping is, Cyn seeing the error of her ways, kind’ve truce, a reconciliation, – dump the home-wrecker I’m meaning before it’s too late.

  ***

  Monday 6th October.

  John Bunyan 1628-1688.

  He that is down needs fear no fall.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  6:30pm. Home early, his lordship has commanded a Poetry Society meeting (at v.short notice). This is what he’s like – expecting everyone just to drop everything as usual. Thelma declined – she’s too busy she said in a hoity-toity kind of voice (I wish I’d never even mentioned it). Oh, please yourself I thought.

  ***

  Workwise-okay I suppose. Just after lunch we got invaded by a disorderly crowd of aged citizens from Norah’s Nursing home, (why do deaf people always have to shout?) What with wheel-chairs and Zimmer-frames, then everyone needing to use the facilities at the same time, pushing and shoving. Everybody yelling like a load of loonies – up to me I’d ban the lot of them, sine die.

  Finally I’d to come away – it was starting to work me up.

  Instead, I left it in Thelma’s capable hands. I made a hasty retreat down to the basement with my newspaper. (I must’ve dozed off). Next thing you know it’s turned four o’clock. There’s Thelma with a nice cup of tea and a big wedge of homemade blackberry pie – bless her.

  Ms. Walker’s been in the news again, the latest is she’s absconded to Gretna Green, her and young Arthur Tasker (the tattooed skinhead) the caretakers youngest lad – an under-taking of marriage over the Smithy’s Anvil no less. So, we’ll see, really speaking, I’d’ve thought she’s under a big enough cloud as it is. That time she ran off with those ruffians from the fairground – they found her living with seven dwarfs in a trailer-park north of Scotch-Corner.

  Old Docket’s beside himself (so much for her nine p.m. curfew I thought) – dicey to say the least. Not surprisingly her guardian has given her the ultimate Scarborough warning, next time he’s threatened to completely disown her.

  About the Poetry Society meeting – okay I suppose. New poems of note (no doubt there were the odd one or two). Unfortunately I missed quite a bit of it. More Mondeo trouble I’m meaning, I ended up rather late. Don’t ask, she’s over-heating. I saw Gabriel B.T. give me a look as I came in. Well, it’s hardly my fault is it – I did apologise.

  Gabriel was just about to make an announcement it turns out. ‘May I have your complete undivided attention everyone’ says he. Everything went quiet – just for a second I caught his eye (Alison? God, I hoped not – my stomach churned like a cement-mixer). He waited, his face went serious, then relaxed into a kind of sardonic smile, ‘A poetry competition ladies and gentlemen’ our worthy chairman announced. There was an audible gasp from the whole audience. He was enjoying the attention, he nodded at his cronies seated around the table. He cleared his throat, he said ‘I wish to announce that forthwith we are to have our very own poetry competition’ he repeated. He paused to let it sink in. ‘Which’ he went on ‘shall henceforth be known as the Middlemoor and District open poetry prize.’

  He took a big drink from his glass.

  Next thing whole room erupted with loud spontaneous applause. He nodded around, there’s nothing he liked better than to be centre-stage (why hadn’t anybody thought of it before?) – a few cheered. ‘Thank you, thank you’ he said.

  Bulls-eye, what a brilliant idea everybody thought.

  Somebody unveiled a large silver twin-handled ornate cup. There was a big gasp. Gabriel held it aloft for all to see (more applause). ‘Also, a trophy – a worthy winners cup, open to all’ he proudly announced. He turned it slowly around to show the whole audience, he pointed ‘ “The-Middlesmoor-and-District-Poetry-Prize’ he sang out with a didactic flourish of his pencil. Mind you I had to agree, a fine trophy to say the least, indeed it wouldn’t’ve looked out of place at a major league football final.

  Gabriel meantime was in his element, preening for all his worth.

  Not that it pleased everybody, in fact one or two people thought he’d overstepped the mark. ‘I thought we’d elected a committee for that kind of thing’ I heard someone remark. Others agreed, and voiced their opinion. ‘Trust his lordship, bit ostentatious to say the least.’ ‘One thing for sure, I didn’t vote for him’ the first man persisted. Even so, we’re always crying out for new blood. Anything that attracted new members is a definite winner, full marks say I.

  He waited for silence.

  Next thing you know he’s stood up on a chair, waving a piece of paper. ‘Now, regarding the rules’ he bellowed. ‘Quite straight forward, one poem, repeat – one poem only from each bonafide member of the Poetry Society.’ He paused ‘Ha ha’ (somebody had reminded him). ‘Hah, yes, indeed. Anything at all, blank verse, or rhyming, of course’ he added. Everybody laughed, again his face went serious. ‘Also, also that each piece shall not exceed more than fourty lines’ his gaze swept around the whole room ‘Repeat, fourty lines in total length, and also that each individual entry must in fact be totally anonymous’ he paused ‘Consequently’ he continued ‘it therefore follows, in that case a pseudonym is required. Tom, Dick or indeed, Harry (there he stopped himself just in time) ‘or women, of course. Indeed, most certainly. We must not forget the ladies, must we’ he laughed easily.

  Everyone clapped, then started talking excitedly among themselves. Finally he stepped down, he bethought himself ‘Oh yes, adjudicators, I was forgetting. I repeat, three, quite independent judges to be announced at a later date – sealed envelopes please to Caroline Sneggs. Thank you everybody.’

  Gabriel drained off his glass, then retook his seat, smiling around to loud applause. All of a sudden his hand goes up, he’d just thought of something else. What now I thought. This is the trouble, once he gets the floor it’d take a bazooka to shift him. ‘Oh, by the way. That’s if you will allow me. However, on this auspicious occasion I would also like to donate a further cash prize of a thousand pounds out
of my own pocket.’ Everyone cheered. He waited, savouring the moment – (I was expecting to hear trumpets) then he says ‘The fortunate winner to donate it to his or indeed her favourite charity’ he concluded, he sat down for the last time. Again there was loud applause from the whole audience.

  Show off or not, even so it was a nice gesture most people thought. There’s always the odd one or two.

  ‘Trust old money-bags’ the man behind me piped up, the woman next to him was quick to agree ‘You watch, we’ll never hear the last of it’ she hissed. Others nodded and shook their heads.

  After that we all broke off for refreshments (no Alison, of course). That meant we had Betty Duff in charge of things. Don’t get me wrong, I mean old Betty’s lovely in her own way. Whereas I’d not go as far as calling her bawdy exactly. Personally speaking, she is a bit inclined to be rather loud for my own particular taste. Also, she’s prone to come out with the odd innuendo at times (“You’re like me, you like a big one don’t you Colin?”) So, okay you might get a larger wedge of home-made chocolate cake I daresay – all the same for what it’s worth I can quite easily forgo that, also that almighty big boomy, “HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH!” ear-piercing, cackling laugh of hers come to that. Not only does it totally destroy the ambience generally, it also has the knock-on effect of starting up Gabriel’s dogs off barking too.

  Time for the last item on the agenda, for what’s called ‘Open Forum,’ usually ten minutes or so of juvenile nonsense and general silliness. Or, it could even stretch for half an hour, it depends – a waste of time totally if you ask me.

  First chance I get I usually try to sneak off.

  First off, some idiot suggested yet another bus outing down to Stratford Apon-Avon to visit Shakespeare’s birthplace and Ann Hathaway’s olde-worlde thatched cottage.

  God, not again I’m thinking. I looked at my watch, I’m yawning already.

  Gabriel nodded, then looked at his hands (no doubt he’d be thinking the same as everybody else). ‘Committee’ he murmured. After that he invited ‘questions from the floor.’ No surprises there, mostly it was concerning the just announced poetry competition. The first question came from Ted Dyke, from the Parks and Public Gardens Department. He stood up twisting his cloth-cap, he wanted to know a bit more in depth information regarding the money-end of the prize. ‘Er. Mr. Chairman’ says he ‘er. Um. This, um prize-money you have so generously forked-out, out of your own pocket. However, my question is a bit more basic I suppose – will it attract income-tax?’

  Nobody listens – it’s for charity.

  Gabriel stared, then shrugged. ‘Not in your case, Teddy old chap.’ Everybody laughed. Some people, right. It might, that’s if you happened to win it you daft twat I almost said – no doubt, also the Guinness Book of Records too in your particular case I shouldn’t wonder. He’s no chance, it takes him all his time to string a sentence – let alone writing the bugger down.

  Then somebody called out ‘If it’s a pen-name, how will you know who’s won it?’ No answer (what a tosser). He fielded the next question that no-one could hear. Betty Duff giggled, then covered her mouth with both hands. Then Ted Dyke again. ‘Mr. Chairman, about this wonderful silver trophy, are we allowed to keep it?’ he wondered. Gabriel nodded, affirmative. ‘Indeed – good question Teddy, the fortunate chosen winner will in fact hold it in his or her possession for one calendar year only’ he stated. Like I said, he’s no-chance. He should stick to what he does best if you ask me, namely growing prize-dahlias and chasing Betty Duff round his allotment I thought. He sat down.

  I looked at my watch for the second time.

  Finally Betty Duff herself stood up, she touched at her hair, then giggled ‘Will it be in the local paper with a picture?’ she enquired.

  Again everybody laughed. She sat down, then giggled some more.

  Soon after that the meeting broke up. Gabriel stood over by the door, grasping hands with the chosen few, saying his goodnights. Everybody congratulating him – no doubt feeling really pleased with himself I expect. Then when he saw me, he says ‘Off already?’ I’d hung back, hoping I might’ve got away with it. He said ‘A few of us are having a bit of a night-cap’ he gave me a wink.

  Most people had already left.

  ‘Maybe some other time – I’m having an early night’ I said.

  Think what you like I thought. He leaned closer ‘Aw, too bad’ he lied. Don’t worry I know him of old, he’d be after the latest gossip no doubt. He put one hand on my shoulder, then he said ‘Oh, by the bye I happened to run into Cynthia. They all came into the Golf Club a couple of nights back, the whole crowd of them. American’s I believe. She looked positively glowing. In fact I told her so – hope you don’t mind?’ He was waiting for me (I tried to step around him). He laughed, ‘My words they certainly know how to enjoy themselves don’t they?’ he added.

  What’s it to him anyway?

  ‘I’m surprised I didn’t see you.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t – I’d something else on, that’s why.’

  Mind you, I’d all on not to swipe him one I’ll tell you.

  We both heard it at the same time, you could hear dogs barking in the far distance. His face crumpled. I put my hand to my ear. ‘Oh dear’ I said ‘going by the sounds of it I rather think you’re dogs are on the loose.’ I tutted. ‘Some idiot must’ve left the gates open I expect.’

  ‘Oh noooooooo!’ he wailed, charging out into the darkness.

  Serves him right I thought. No doubt thanks to him I knew I was in for yet another tossy-turny night.

  ***

  Tuesday 7th October.

  Oh how I’m longing for my ain folk.

  (Old Scottish song).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. What’s wrong with people? I’ve had a really horrible day (as if I haven’t enough to worry about). On top of everything else nobodies speaking to me. What happened is (some person UNKNOWN) has inadvertently blown-up the communal electric kettle at work. Oh, big deal I thought. Trust Thelma, making things worse, then she’s going around telling all and sundry it’s my fault. Only, now she’s saying I’ve forgot to put any water in it – WHY ME!?

  You should see some of the looks I got – talk about daggers.

  It just shows, mind you that’s the trouble with people, if they can’t have a cup of tea on the hour, they go all to pieces – it’s big sulks all round. Later on, Shiraleen Kelps came round with a tea-cup, making up a collection to buy a new kettle. In point of fact I put in a pound coin myself (albeit v.reluctantly I might add). I only hope that it isn’t misconstrued in any way whatsoever as an admission of guilt, that’s all.

  Some good news at least, more on the positive side of things. Ms. Walker’s returned safely back to the fold. Luckily, still unmarried, with love-bites on her neck. So, that’s something I suppose. Old Docket’s over the proverbial moon, he’s ecstatic. Just to show his gratitude he’s sent a box of After Eight mints to each and every member of staff, also a card wishing everybody a Merry Xmas and a v.prosperous New Year (bit premature or what?) There you go – I think his mind’s going.

  After that the festivities continued unabated, they all had a big party. Everyone drinking endless cups of tea (christening the new shiny kettle) dunking half-coated chocolate digestive biscuits. Everybody swapping jokes, laughing like drains. LEAVING ME OUT I MIGHT ADD.

  Miserable sods. ‘Where’s mine?’ I said.

  ***

  Wednesday 8th October.

  Charles Kingsley 1819-1875.

  ‘When all the world was young lad, and all the trees were green.’

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one).

  8:00pm. Manky post to say the least (one miserly letter). Well, call it that. Do I want a jolly postman?

  ‘Why not own your very own Happy Postie, ten inches high and always a cheery greeting – you’ll smile at his cheeky workworn boots and cocky tilted cap. Owning a pewter postman – he’s bound to bring a pot of good luck t
o your domicile.’

  Oh, superb (what’s a domicile?) Oh sure – which jolly postman’s this? Ours is a right miserable sod in no mistake – and he always leaves the bloody gate open.

  Another long, v.dull, v.boring day at work – it wouldn’t be so bad if I could look forward to a bit of stimulating conversation. Mother’s big news of the day appears to be confined to the wheelie-bin going walkies yet again. She’s even suggesting we start keeping it inside the house. I broke off eating my supper ‘You’ll be the laughing-stock of the whole street mother’ I said. Finally, just to appease her I even tried phoning-up Councillor Kyte, his wife answered (no surprises there of course), it’s like trying to speak to the sodding Pope. It turns out he’s at a party conference in Blackpool. No, I thought it won’t be that when he’s wanting my vote will it.

  ***

  Some chance trying to get on with my own life – (I mean I do try). Mind you this is a small town, you’re bound to run into people I suppose. What happened I’m waiting at the Bridgend traffic-lights, minding my own business. All of a sudden, next thing you know. Who pulls up in the next lane but Cynthia & Co, her and her red-headed new boyfriend, no less. You should’ve seen them, preening away for all their worth, driving around in their fancy chrome-laden pickup truck, the pair of them waving like loonies, both wearing these yucky, bright red T-shirts, that said “WE-ARE-AN-ITEM!” (Oh pleeeeze). Talk about rubbing it in, right. You’d’ve thought two people living in sin they’d want to keep it under your hat – I know I would.

  Don’t you worry I looked right ahead.

  They shot off like a bat out of hell. Though, if you really want to know what pissed me off even more (apart from the corny way they both looked at each other, so lovey-dovey I’m meaning). What made it even worse is seeing both my kids riding in the back, sitting on top of a brand-new queen-sized mattress. What would you have thought (this is in broad daylight don’t forget). That’ll be Cynthia no doubt – just like she’s always wanted, getting her own way as usual I expect. MINE’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH I SUPPOSE.