It Always Rains on Sundays

  Mother’s dyed her hair again,

  She’s shortened all her skirts.

  She’s only got herself to blame,

  She knows it never works.

  Who can blame her – all of a sudden there’s this complete stranger waiting outside the school gate – scary too, right. (‘Anybody seen mummy? – I’ve lost my …’) ‘Oh, sure, no problem, don’t cry little girl. She’s right over there sweetie-pie, the lady with the purple-plume honey, the woman with the ridiculously short skirt.’

  No wonder they get dizzy – same goes for dramatic changes of hair colour too. Let’s face it, pelmet-length skirts on mothers of a certain age, it’s a definite no-no. Don’t worry, I’m with you 100 per cent on that one Luce. (verse three):

  By choice my chosen family

  Would have me and just my dog.

  A tree-house in some big old tree,

  And a pond to keep my frog.

  Holy smoke, now she’s wanting to live up in a friggin tree for chrissakes – she disowns the pair of us. Oh God, that’s terrible. It breaks your heart (bad enough she has to go outside the family). How bad is that? It just shows (she’s a sensitive kid). Oh Lucy, believe me – I know just where you’re coming from honey. So, who’s she put the finger on, Cynthia who else (it stands out a mile). Hard to imagine, right, turning against her own family, this small defenceless little girl… this poor orphan kid. Don’t worry, Daddies coming sweetheart – hold in there honey-bunny, okay.

  3:15am. Looks as if I’m in for an all-nighter. Oh, by the way Lucy, baby. Look, sorry, about the dog, okay. Only, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought. Take my word Skippy, having a dog around the place – we’ve already been there, it would not help the currant domestic situation one iota – sorry chief. No-way. Daddy did not promise you anything – remember Tommy the tortoise? We dug up half the street, he could be anywhere. Sorry to be such a grunge sweetie. Let’s face it honey-bunny, we bicker and bawl at each other – a lot. Take my word – dogs really hate that.

  Daddy loves you high as the sky, he’d do anything to make you happy – I know what would happen:

  “Somebody walk Bruce.”

  “I walked him yesterday.”

  “No, that was me – it’s your turn.”

  “It’s raining, I’m not going out in the rain.”

  “It rained yesterday too – all day.”

  “Daddy, he won’t walk Bruce.”

  “Did anybody remember to feed the dog?”

  “Uh uh. I fed him yesterday.”

  “QUIET! That goes for both of you, okay.”

  “He’s making me go outside in the rain.”

  “Daddy, walk Bruce. Oh, did you remember to feed him?”

  Let’s face it, these kind of people, they aren’t fit to cohabit with humans, never mind animals. Who needs an unhappy dog around the place, on top of everything else, right. Bruce goes, sorry, end of (Bruce is a stupid name for a dog anyway) – scrub the dog I say. Though, if I’m truthful. What I’m really hoping is. Some day, in the faraway future, when Lucy is all grown-up kind’ve. She’ll come up to me, she’ll give me a really big hug, she’ll say “You know what father – you were right all along. One thing for sure, you’re a good man, you always did your level best to keep us together as one united family. GOD BLESS YOU FATHER.”

  Don’t worry, (I know it’s hard) – try not to hate your mother too much (basically she’s a decent woman) – well some I guess … There’s still time Cynthia. DUMP HIM BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE!

  4:30am. Look at the time – I’ve been cruising around in the Mondeo. Next thing you know I’m over at DeLacey Street. I can’t help it, it’s hard to explain, it’s as if being pulled by some kind of invisible magnetic force.

  Everything bathed in silvery moonlight, so peaceful … gazing up at the night sky, filled with myriads of tiny stars … thinking of happier days, in times of yore kind of thing.

  That’s another thing, I miss the garden too.

  God, I only wish you’d’ve seen it, it makes you weep.

  My pride and joy once upon a time, some idiots been having a go at cutting the grass (it’s a bit hit and miss to say the least). They don’t have a bloody clue some people – diagonal cuts, both ways this time of year. Thought everybody knows that. That’ll be the home-wrecker I’ll bet, what a dickhead, right.

  This is when I noticed the old Victorian garden seats been painted too – puce (that’s a god-awful colour I think). Same looney that did the grass I expect. What’s wrong with normal garden-green that’s what I say?

  Do all Americans have trouble with CO-LOR I wonder?

  Something else that saddened me too, then, just when I’m leaving, in my head-lights I spotted a line of washing hanging out on the line (all night I’m saying). Cynthia I’m meaning. She’s letting herself go more than ever I think.

  6:00am. Poem: (sadly, this is obviously the product of a tormented mind!) – no doubt having to face up to grim reality, the realization of a bleak and lonely future:

  SEMI-DETACHED

  Odd to wait at this front door,

  I have to stand and knock.

  But then I had a key before,

  And now she’s changed the lock.

  She likes to keep me waiting

  Like some salesman at the door.

  Her small way of stating

  I don’t live here anymore.

  Looks like the park’s out for the children,

  I’d hoped it wouldn’t rain.

  Can’t fall back on ‘good old Nan,’

  They made that very plain.

  At least she keeps the garden neat,

  There’s a freshly painted garden seat.

  Oh, and the washing on the line,

  And two men’s shirts not mine.

  ***

  Saturday 18th October. Cardinal Newman 1801-1890.

  Lead kindly light, amid encircling gloom.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Work-wise, a pretty uneventful day all in all. (I wish I could say the same for Cynthia.) First thing, she’s on the phone haranguing my poor old mother, bless her. Unfortunately, she caught both barrels at once (as luck would have it I was in the bathroom, otherwise engaged). By the time I got downstairs my poor mother’s in shock, she’s shaking like a leaf. I sat her down on a chair, ‘God, help us, she’s of’t solicitors’ she gasped out. Luckily, this is when my first-aider course kicked in. Rightaway, I made her some strong coffee and toast (I’d pushed the toaster down twice, hoping the smoke might distract her).

  Don’t you worry, she might frighten an old lady, but not me. ‘Oh, is she indeed, we’ll see about that – leave this to me mother’ I said. Trust Cynthia (up-ing the dramatics as usual I thought). It turns out, it all stemmed from my impromptu nocturnal visit the previous night. There again, as to why exactly she was gawping out of her bedroom window at that time of night? Maybe we won’t ask eh? More to the point, why she had to get the police involved I don’t know – it ends up there’s three police-cars, they’re blocking off the whole cul-de-sac, not to mention a van-load of Alsatian dogs running amok.

  Fancy, telling somebody she has a lunatic son too – making out I’m some kind of a mad prowler. What a story-teller. “I was in mortal fear for my life” now she’s saying – and her with that great red-headed lummox in the house. Mother’s face was drip white – you could tell it’d upset her. Finally I’d to run round and fetch Auntie Agnes to sit with her before I could go into work.

  Somehow it still bothered me. Then all the time I’m driving to work my mind was in overdrive. Who could blame me – no wonder I was worried. Once Cynthia gets her teeth into something she’s like a dog with a rag.

  Onetime someone just happened to step on her big toe at work – pure accident. Anybody else, they’d’ve let it go, forget it kind’ve. Not Cynthia, she took it right to the very top, litigation, the full monty – anybody who’d listen. Finally it ended up in the small claims Industrial Tribunal,
they awarded her seven hundred pounds, plus costs, a month off work – not to mention a new pair of shoes.

  However forewarned is forearmed as they say. That’s why, just on the off-chance at lunchtime I called round to have a bit of an informal chat with an old school-buddy of mine, a solicitor friend, Austin Bland over in the High Street.

  Good idea, why didn’t I think of it before. What are friends for, right? One thing for sure I knew I could count on him no matter what.

  Luckily for me I’d timed it just right, he was sitting at his desk with his feet up, trying to snatch a quick bite to eat inbetween appointments. Mind you, that in itself is a good sign I always think. Busy people – they are always in demand am I right?

  ‘Hi there!’ I said. Austin looked up as if he was going to smile, then changed his mind. He frowned, then stared at his newspaper. ‘Go away’ he mumbled – always the joker did I say.

  Maybe I’d spoken too soon.

  Unfortunately, as things turned out, old Austin was right in the middle of one of his well-known heavy colds. (Mind you, he’s overweight by a ton, that doesn’t help any either I suppose.) That’s all I need. I waited, hoping he could feel me staring down right at his head.

  Finally he looked up, ‘Ullo. Molin. Mud tpee na’ (huh?) ‘Uk. Am rada dizzy’ he growled. “Go away I’m busy” I think he said.

  Suddenly he sneezed into his hand, groping around for another hanky.

  My heart sank, now I was here I wasn’t too sure. Somehow or other it isn’t how I’d imagined it. What I needed right now is somebody really bright with a razor-sharp mind, preferably with some good sagey advice. Not some shiny-suited fat oaf with dandruff, stuffing bagels into his mouth at thirty second intervals.

  However, needs must. I raked over a chair. ‘Five minutes top’ I said a bit over-brightly. He cleared his nose with a Kleenex. I waited.

  Finally he said ‘Mooding mouse I dear?’ he mumbled. I stared (“Mooding mouse?”) Oh, ‘moving house.’ I get it. Ha ha. Ha ha – good joke, that’s something I suppose. This is what he’s like.

  Talking was going to be difficult, that’s to say the least.

  Humour him I thought. ‘You are funny Austin, remind me to laugh.’ More to the point, he knows already. God, is nothing sacred.

  Why be surprised, it’s a small town – news travels fast.

  Heavy cold or not it hadn’t affected his appetite – he chewed on regardless, steadily working his way through the contents of his lunch-box the size of an average garden hut. Let’s face it, this man didn’t inspire anybody. Too parochial by far, more suited to ‘sign on the cross’ conveyancing ‘a true bungalow’ more likely. Give him a knotty problem such as mine, e.g. – a v.highly sensitive marital situation, requiring tipy-toe, on the spot quick-fire judgement, he’d be scratching his head I’ll bet.

  Too late I was already here, I might as well make the best of a bad job (germ bugs or nay) not to mention six flights of stone steps and both wheels on double-yellows.

  I pulled my chair forward.

  So then, in plain layman terms I started to tell him about my side of things. I outlined my case (an open and closed case for the plaintive as I saw it). That said I didn’t dive in too deeply at first, not at this stage at least. Indeed, very early days as yet to be fanning out all my cards I’d’ve thought. Even now (looking on the brighter side of things) chances are it may yet all come to nought. Don’t you worry, as far as taking Cynthia back, and all will be forgiven. That’s quite another story, we’d cross that particular bridge when we came to it. One thing for sure it’d have to be on my terms at least. Now that I had his undivided attention I wasted no time. After that it virtually poured out. I had things to say and eager to tell it. I told him everything. ‘Boy, I could really tell you stories about that woman, things you’d hardly believe – oh, you bet.’

  He stared. ‘Now Austin, how am I placed exactly?’

  His hand went up to stop me, ‘Duck, tor poo bake, porry.’ Something about being too late as far as I can make out (between us we’d invented a whole new language) – what day did he speak English I wondered?

  Once I got started, it’s as if I couldn’t find the brake. In broadish terms I tried to explain the precarious state of our marriage (hopefully impartially – I’m not a vindictive man, it isn’t part of my nature). That, nutshell-wise, things were pretty desperate, in fact unless things didn’t dramatically improve, e.g. DUMP THE HOME-WRECKER pronto, in which case we were heading for mighty big rocks, putting it bluntly, unless somebody chucked me a rope, chances are that our betrothal alliance was just about ready to go arse over tit.

  Having somebody on my side for a change – I felt better already.

  I waited (he was just mopping-up after a rather forceful sneeze). He said ‘Dike do ded – on door darse imb abraid.’ (‘Like you said – on your arse I’m afraid’). At least I was getting some straight answers that’s something.

  Maybe I should come back at another time.

  Meantime he’d run out of nose-fodder, in a frantic search he started to pull out drawers. He sat up holding an empty box, he looked close to tears. Don’t worry he had my fullest sympathy, I’m not much fun with a cold myself. Even so, to say he’s supposed to be a professional man he was far too preoccupied with his stupid nose if you ask me. Finally he had to give it up as a bad job.

  Taking pity on him I tossed over a couple of tissues.

  ‘Pants kid!’ (‘thanks kid’) he gasped. He cleared his nose – it sounded like coal from a scuttle. He gave me a watery smile. ‘Oh, bats etta’ he said. He shook his head ‘I ot to be in ded wit a dot doorta ottle’ (‘in bed with a hot water bottle’ I think). Maybe I was starting to get the hang of it.

  Poor bastard, he was dying right there in front of me.

  I picked up from where I’d left off. ‘You have not even heard the half of it my friend, not even by a country mile’ I said.

  Again, his hand came up ‘Door dife … (‘your wife’). He paused, his voice came in disjointed gasps. ‘Door dife Tintia (this is when he dropped his big bombshell). ‘She was in here first thing this morning.’ He nodded slowly, giving it time to sink in. Curiously enough this time his voice came loud and clear. ‘Only, she gave me the common courtesy of making a proper appointment with my secretary’ he added, blinking his wet bovine eyes behind his round glasses.

  No wonder I stared. What a bitch, right. All the lawyers in town she has to choose him – of all people. Come to think it’s just the under-handed sneaky trick she would do – just to get at me. I could feel my anger already (who can blame me). I wouldn’t mind Austin’s my friend not hers, we go right back to school-days – in actual fact Cynthia despises the fellow, always has. She says he leers at her, she mentioned it a couple of times, maybe I should tell him?

  It showed on my face I expect. He shrugged, then pushed back his glasses ‘Book, Mowin – my dads are dies’ (“Look, Colin – my hands are tied”) – as far as I can make out.

  It would’ve been far easier passing notes.

  We exchanged looks. He blew his nose – surprisingly enough he could be really bright (without a cold that is). He cleared his throat, his face went serious, he said ‘No doubt you are already aware I can’t act for both of you.’ Tell me some news I thought. Suddenly he sneezed, he searched his pockets. He dived into another drawer, he came out holding a fresh box of hankies, his face jubilant. His hands worked frantically, tearing it open, he cleared his blocked nose. He smiled ‘God that’s better’ he declared ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy, please go – go away, dares a bud dap.’

  ‘But you knew I’d be giving you a call’ I said.

  He sat down, cracking his knuckles. He shrugged ‘Well, I am on the phone’ he muttered somewhat smugly. His face brightened ‘Look, I have an idea – what about one of the partners?’ he suggested. ‘Mrs. Tabbs is free I believe – you’re lucky, she’s just come back from maternity leave.’ He beamed ‘Great idea – she’s a real cracker-b
arrel, especially when it comes to matrimonial matters.’

  No wonder I stared – is he serious?

  Oh sure. I could just imagine the scene in some far distant courtroom. Mother’s stick with mother’s, am I right – no thanks buster. Oh sure, visitation rights – forget it, (seeing my kids for one thing). Once every leap year more like. I wouldn’t even be in with a shout. Not to mention her taking me for every penny I haven’t got. ‘Another fucking woman? Are you kidding, no thanks. Quirke verses Mother fucking Earth more like’ I yelled.

  Suddenly we were interrupted, a stern-faced, smartly dressed woman strode in from the adjoining office. She glared (Mrs. Tabbs presumably), she leaned over Austin’s desk to switch off the intercom, then left without speaking. She closed the connecting door with a thud.

  I shrugged. Austin absentmindedly tore a big chunk out of another bagel, staring after her mid-chew – our eyes kind’ve bumped.

  He wanted me to leave you could tell. He went over to the window staring down into the street, searching his pockets for another hankie, without success. ‘Mowin pie dads par died’ (“my hands are tied”). He repeated it twice. Instead I tried talking to him, man to man. ‘I thought you were my friend – we were at school together’ I said in a wheedling voice.

  He spoke to the glass ‘Mowin, how benny bore timbs, pie dads are died.’ I said. ‘Maybe you heard, I’m back at home living with my mother – you know Stoney Bank Street by any chance?’ He nodded, come to think of it he should do, he’d been there often enough when we were kids.’ Then added ‘It’s right next to the railway viaduct, trains keep you awake – I have to read the timetable before I go to bed.’

  He swallowed the last of his bagel, then nodded.

  ‘Aussie, look at me’ I said. ‘I’m almost fourty years old, with a dicky hip. Right now I’m sleeping in a really scrunchy back bedroom with Dumbo the Elephant curtains and flaky paint and a flaky mother. I’m living out my final days with a dotty Salvationist. I’m living on the edge of a knife, hymns galore. You can hear everything – trains keep you awake. Can you imagine that? (actually he could, his mother and mine both attended the same church) – his is even worse than mine.