It Always Rains on Sundays

Somehow or other, any allure that I might’ve had earlier on melted quickly away. We both saw the police-car sliding slowly past the end of the street. She stepped on her cigarette sending out sparks. ‘Oh fuck’ she muttered crossly. She hurried off, hands deep inside her coat pockets. I drove off under hurled abuse.

  Mother had fallen sound asleep in front of the TV (I switched it off before it melted into a puddle). Next thing I purposely made a lot of noise to wake her up – Sunday tomorrow. She’d be glad I did she needed to be up for the early service – I was doing her a favour.

  4:00am. Can’t sleep – at least I’ve got a poem out of it:

  WORKING

  She walked the wet street parading her beat,

  Struck her heels and strutted her wares.

  She strode off with flounce, hair on the bounce,

  Swinging her bag like she hadn’t a care.

  She stood under the light her face chalky white,

  Made more so by the red gash of her lips.

  Black mascara eyes, boots tight to the thighs,

  Tapped her foot and stuck out her hip.

  Under the sodium glow she watched the car slow,

  From old habit she made her eyes flutter.

  She opened the door like she’d done it before,

  Tossing her cigarette into the gutter.

  ***

  Sunday 12th October.

  Charles Kingsley 1819-1875.

  And every goose a swan, lad

  And every lass a queen …

  Stoney Bank Street.

  (Post-nil).

  Nice hot sunny day – wonderful in fact. I’ve spent the whole day with Thelma (not that it boded that well at first.) Let’s face it, I’m not cut out for espionage – all that conniving I’m meaning, not to mention improbable coincidences. All that, and who should we bump into but Arnold Calderdale & Co, a big party of them out in the middle of the moors, about half the Library service out on an archaeological field trip.

  Typical I thought.

  You might just as well put up a banner on top of the Townhall. Not that anybody said anything as such (the odd look maybe). We just stood aside, letting them all file through the turnstile, exchanging mundane comments regarding the changeable weather. No doubt, by the time we got back it’d be the talk of every public library in the whole West Riding of Yorkshire you can bet. Things could only get worse – bumping into Eric. Thelma’s husband for one.

  What happened is on our way back we called into Noddy Extra’s for fish and chips. We sat on a wall, next to a group of cyclists. Next thing, who should come trundling past but Eric driving his ancient Landrover, towing a big trailer-load of manure.

  Mind you I might never have known then if Thelma hadn’t mentioned it. ‘Oh look – there goes Eric’ she commented casually, dipping her hand into her chips, recrossing her legs.

  I nearly fell off the wall I’ll tell you. Trust Thelma, she thought it was funny ‘Don’t worry, he’d be too busy watching the road – he’s as blind as a bat without his glasses.’ Even so it still bothered me.

  Somehow or other it spoilt my whole day.

  ***

  Monday 13th October.

  William Blake 1757-1827.

  I shall not cease from mental flight.

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.

  Stoney Bank Street.

  (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Horrible day at work (sometimes I really wonder what I was put on this earth for), I really do. God, when will it all end? Cynthia hasn’t been in touch either, for a whole week! I drove past the house on my way home from work – the whole place looks deserted, curtains drawn, something’s amiss for sure – it’s really strange. I’m at my wits-end.

  No wonder I’m worried, as a last resort I’ve even phoned-up the local cop-shop (about ten hours later) somebody picked up the phone. Finally, this was a woman, say no more, right. ‘Oh, good evening’ I said ‘sorry to bother you, I know your busy. Only I’m trying to locate a missing family – yes, completely disappeared.’ Nobody could’ve cared less, I’ll tell you. ‘It happens’ she told me in a couldn’t be arsed kind of voice – ‘domestic’ she called it. She said to give it a few more days (she refused to give me her number). ‘You wouldn’t say that if it was Simon Cowell’ I said.

  Typical I thought – I mean I do try.

  Same at work, on top of everything else old Docket’s on the warpath again. Evaline Walker’s gone A.W.O.L. – yet again. It turns out she’s sloped off in the dead of night with the new Irish window-cleaner. Luckily, just by chance he was pulled over by the motorway police to have his tank dipped (it just shows, the fickleness of fate) – checking for red diesel apparently. Anyway, the upshot is they’ve confiscated his ladders. She’s been done on a lesser charge, for what they call ‘knowingly aiding and abetting a felony.’ So we’ll see.

  10:00pm. The mystery deepens – I’ve just been over to Delacey Street to check things out kind’ve. Everything’s in complete darkness, same goes for Avril’s next door. WHERE IS EVERYBODY?

  Poor old Brian out on the front step (he looked half-starved if you ask me). Nobody gives a shit, left to fend for himself I expect. Talk about looking lost and forlorn.

  ‘Looks like were both left out in the cold brother’ I said.

  He mewed once, as if to say ‘Oh, hello old chum. That old bitch, look at me, I’m frozen through. She’s left me outside all night – I’m freezing my balls off!’

  I offered him a Polo-mint. He flicked his tail, then shot through next doors privet-hedge. I heard a scream. Then, when I looked there’s Ms. Thrush standing on top of her lime-stone rockery, holding a lantern. Her face went tragic under the light ‘Are you alright Mr. Quirke?’ she enquired, one hand clutching at her robe (she put me in mind of Britannica). Trust her to be out at this time. ‘Everything’s pretty much hunky-dory’ I tried to reassure her.

  She stared, her face showed deep concern. Finally she would insist on giving me a card from the Crisis Centre. ‘Call me anytime. Day or night, twenty-four seven’ she said tremulously.

  Talk about Mother Teresa. ‘Thank you’ I said.

  God, the tales I could tell about her – why can’t people mind their own business. It wasn’t that the summer before last. That time she had four strapping Aussie back-packers camping out in her backyard for six weeks, drinking and carousing all night.

  1:30am. Latest report from over at DeLacey Street, everything is pretty much the same, that is apart from one thing, the only difference is, the curtains are tightly drawn. Everything in total darkness. WHAT DOES THAT TELL YOU?

  Well, I know what I think. More likely they’ve been in all the time, laughing at me behind the curtains I bet (kids farmed out for the night). No doubt having a romantic cosy night in I expect – just the two of them, candle-lit bathing. Peruvian pan-pipes playing softly in the background, no doubt followed by a light aphrodisiac, oyster and champagne supper I’ll bet …

  3:00am. I’ve pushed a note through the door. ‘Cynthia, call me A.S.A.P. – V.URGENT!!’ Also a P.S. in the form of a short barbed verse:

  Cyn. Cyn, where have you bin?

  I’ve been trying to call you all day.

  Expect you’re in bed with Kevin the Red,

  Where the skies are not cloudy all day.

  ***

  Tuesday 14th October.

  Oliver Goldsmith 1728-1784.

  The man recovered of the bite,

  The dog is was that died.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. More Mondeo trouble I fear. Don’t ask, she’s rattling away like a bag of empty tins. I’m surprised I landed home I’ll tell you. Then, on top of that I’ve had Cynthia on the warpath yet again (v.high horsey in fact). First thing this morning, her face was like thunder – shouting the odds – this is a public Library, don’t forget.. No wonder everybody looked. Next thing, who should walk past but old Docket & Co – I saw him look.

  Luckily, I kind’ve marshalled her away, beh
ind the Theological Studies display, I managed to calm her down.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so steamed-up,’ I said.

  Apparently, what’s upset her more than anything is that poem I wrote, I said ‘All I’m asking is you keep in touch.’ She glared ‘We’ve had a long weekend – so, where’s the problem?’ I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t seem a lot to ask. I am at the end of a phone after all.’

  Her face said it all, she held up the poem I’d sent her. ‘Anymore of your stupid poems, you’ll be at the end of a rope you daft twat’ she fumed, then added ‘What if the kids had seen it, or even Kevin for that matter?’

  Don’t tell me Red-top can read I thought.

  Aubrey Docket gave me a curt nod on his way back – I saw him look. I nodded (you wonder what she’s going to come out with next). Then when I look Cyn’s making weird faces at Ms. Walker.

  She turned. ‘We didn’t get back from the coast till after midnight. Next thing, I see there’s you, skulking around in the garden, like a thief in the night.’

  ‘It’s the children I’m worried about.’

  She gave me a withering look. ‘Then, on top of everything I’ve had that silly cow from next door on the phone every five minutes, telling me about Social Services. God knows what sort of a tale you’ve been telling her – the only way I could get rid of her is to make an appointment for next week.’

  Good idea. ‘Hey, counselling. Maybe we should’ve thought of it sooner.’

  She stared, ‘Don’t be a bigger prat than you can help, you prat. Don’t be surprised to hear from my solicitor’ she warned.

  Something lighter I thought. I changed the subject. ‘How did it go, did you win?’

  She shook her head ‘No-way, it was a complete fiasco. We’d’ve won hands down but for Avril, what with her covered in sticking-plaster, that and bumping into people. After that we’d all to wear disabled-stickers. Then people were saying we were only after the sympathy vote – you can’t win.’

  ‘Aw, too bad. That is bad luck’ I lied.

  Her voice softened ‘You don’t seem to understand Colin, line-dancing, it’s my whole life. Especially now with the semi-finals.’ ‘Good luck’ I said.

  She gave me one final warning ‘No more poems, or else.’ Then, just when she’s going, I remembered to tell her about the big football game coming up – it was meant to be a big surprise.

  She was over by the door, she scowled ‘No-way’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Too late, I’ve already bought the tickets.’

  ‘You’ll have to cancel, sorry’ she yelled loudly.

  Everybody turned to stare. I hadn’t intended it to turn into a big shouting match. (I could feel my temper rising by the second). ‘Just in case you’ve forgot – I am their father’ I cried out. She stared. ‘Pah – some father’ she jeered.

  ‘Don’t pah me madam. Like it or not, I’m still your husband – even if you are shaking-up.’

  Her face was like thunder. ‘Next time it’s the law’ she repeated. She stormed out, leaving both doors swinging wildly in her wake. Something made me look up. Aubrey Docket stared down from the first landing. His face was impassive, he didn’t look none too pleased you could tell.

  He crooked his finger telling me to come up.

  Thelma’s wrote me a lovely poem – it’s really cool. She must’ve slipped it into my briefcase at work (she’s trying to cheer me up I expect) – I shall treasure it forever:

  HAVING A THING

  When I think, all those years at the Library,

  Wasn’t life, well – so terribly dull.

  And now it’s precisely the contrary,

  Now it’s so terribly full!

  I’m having a thing with a colleague at work,

  It’s a secret between our two-selves.

  When we pass on the stairs, we raise eyebrows and smirk.

  Sometimes we kiss through a hole in the shelves.

  He’s a gem, he’s a treasure – he wears spotted bow ties,

  Small jokes, somehow he’s really fun.

  We go out on the roof and we shout at the skies,

  Now I’m sad when the day’s work is done.

  What we have, it isn’t what’s called an affair,

  It would spoil everything calling it that.

  For one thing he’s married, I’m more than aware.

  There again so am I come to that.

  It just shows – at least somebody likes me!

  ***

  Wednesday 15th October.

  ‘Who will wash my father’s shirt?’ (children’s rhyme).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-two).

  8:30pm. Home late! I’ve been giving Thelma a lift home. What happened, at lunchtime she went out and bought herself a new fancy standing-lamp for her front room. (not a thought about getting it home, of course). Personally speaking I think it’s bloody yuccy – I wouldn’t’ve given a tin shilling for it. Maybe that’s me, so much for impulse buying I thought. Mind you, anybody that can buy a five-foot tall Italianate nude statue of a pair of lovers – I’ll bet that raised a few eye-brows going home on the bus. So, what with picking Max up from the vets, then having to contend with two buses. However, she was very grateful you could tell.

  Talk about the back of beyond – I’ll say. Thelma’s place is further out than I thought, way out over the moors – what with a big excitable dog and a standing-lamp. It ended up, we’d to travel with both windows wide open. Max’s head out of one, the lamp out of the other.

  ‘You’re a real star’ she kept saying.

  ‘Don’t mench – it’s the least I can do’ I assured her.

  Finally we pulled up outside a huddle of ancient farm buildings. You could hear the wind sweeping across the bleak moorland hills, keening through the straggle of bent hawthorns.

  There was a man working at the far end of the garden (I assumed it must be Eric). God, he’s a size. He’s as big as a barn-door, indeed a man of fearsome build (where’s the other guy?) the small man with gardeners round shoulders I’d met that time? I waved. We unloaded the car.

  ‘Are you coming in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Nah, better be heading back’ I said.

  ‘Will you find your way back?’

  I laughed. ‘No prob’ I cried into the wind.

  Don’t you worry I didn’t hang about.

  Letters (postcard only): From Alison, presumably happily ensconced, living in the Mallorca sun. Some kind of commune in this crumbly old farmhouse. Inviting me over for a visit. Good idea – maybe I will.

  Letter (two): Big salvage bill from the local Council Authority. ‘FINAL WARNING!’ (this is the red one) – it’s about that old rust-bucket of a so-called car fat Frank loaned me, that time the Mondeo had to go in dock. PAH – DO YOUR WORST!!! I cry.

  11:00pm. Mother’s just had her ladies in for choir practice. They were just packing-up (chance for a gossip more like). “Oh, what a friend we have in Jesus”. I just caught the back-end when I rolled in from the pub. Everybody donning thick dark, same colour coats and dull hats over steel-grey tight perms.

  Mother held centre stage as per usual. Talking about yours truly – who else? ‘Say what you like’ I over-heard her say ‘they had a good, strong, happy marriage before that Wanker came onto the scene.’ It went quiet (she gets a bit mixed-up). No doubt she’d be meaning Kevin Ranker, Cynthia’s new boyfriend I expect. They all filed through, crowding into the hallway. ‘Well, I know one thing’ she continued ‘it’s making an old woman of me I can tell you’ (old woman, how old does she think she is?)

  There was a chorus of general approval.

  ‘Good evening ladies’ I said, edging my way through (trying to hide my six-pack under my coat). My head caught the birdcage. Billy squawked loudly in protest, mother’s eyes flashed. ‘Well, you look a bonnie sight in no mistake’ she spat out, her voice thick with disgust. No wonder everybody stared, shaking their heads, murmuring their disapproval. I nodded. I bid everyone goodnight. Some blood
y Christians I’m thinking.

  Message on my mobile from Lucy. ‘It’s me, Lucy. Daddy, what’s a pillock?’ she enquired (there was more). ‘Mummy’s got a new tattoo on her bottom, it’s a secret’ she added in a whispery voice. What would you have said?

  I finished off my last can of beer.

  2:15am. Can’t sleep – I’m having a really bad night. Lucy I’m meaning – I hardly see her. Only now Cyn’s making out I’m picking her up from school too early, the latest is she’s started sending the home-wrecker in his fancy pickup truck. Don’t worry, all I do is make sure I turn-up before him.

  Sometimes I go over at lunchtime, that way we catch up with all the latest news over the school-yard wall.

  Only, now I’m really worried what’s going to happen in the future. Sometimes kids get awfully confused. They have their own way of dealing with things. All the signs are there for sure (rejecting their own parents I’m meaning). Who can blame her, don’t be surprised, that’s all I’m saying.

  ‘Hey, wait a sec’ she’ll say – ‘I have a life too y’know.’

  Well speaking for myself Lucy baby. I just want you to know, I’m always here for you, no matter what, okay. Daddy loves you a whole mountain, he pretty much understands everything you are going through right now – just try to hang in there honey-bunny, right. I’m just hoping that one day, when you’re all grown-up you will understand. Poem (this is for Lucy):

  Oh god above who smiles on some,

  I hate my fam-i-ly.

  I’d like to choose another one,

  Take pity Lord on me.

  Jesus Christ (what did I tell you) – it’s even worse than I thought. What next I wonder? Boy, this is an eye-opener in no mistake. Only, now it turns out she doesn’t even like us (she’s pretty mixed-up you can tell) – she’s even talking about dumping the both of us. Sorry, but I have to blame Cynthia, after all she started the whole thing, am I right? And that’s only the first verse: (verse two):