It Always Rains on Sundays

  I could feel myself shrinking ‘No sir’ I said.

  He shood his head, ‘You’re in your own little world half the time’ he muttered distractedly, adding ‘Not unless you rolled it up and took it indoors out of the rain.’ I watched him redial. He paused, ‘I happened to call over at DeLacey Street. I was looking for you. Cynthia refused to open the door for some strange reason.’

  We exchanged looks ‘Well, she has been a bit moody of late.’

  He nodded ‘Happen so – she also said, according to her you don’t even live there, not anymore.’ He redialled, he looked up. ‘Do yourself a favour, sort yourself out lad.’

  He nodded, he turned to speak into the phone. ‘Harry? Aubrey Docket – fine thanks. Um, um, all sorted. I’ve just picked him up from the hospital. Doing some old girl a good turn by all accounts – bit of concussion by the sounds of it.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Um, left him a bit dopey that’s all. Yeah, me too. Look about the next meeting Harry?’

  I closed the door.

  ***

  Saturday 25th October.

  William Shakespeare 1564-1616.

  Hark, hark the lark at heaven’s gate sings.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one).

  11:00am. DAY OFF. Mondeo’s back in dock. She’s having a complete re-spray (that’s on top of over-heating). Don’t ask – that cars had more chuffing colours than Joseph’s best bloody overcoat.

  Fat Frank’s promised me it’ll be ready by noon.

  Meantime I’ve been trying to contact Cynthia to tell her I might be running a bit late. I’m supposed to be picking up the kids at one o’clock sharp. This is the trouble, all I get is stupid Red-top on the other end of the phone (who wants to talk to that idiot, right). Don’t you worry, I made it short and sweet, very cool in fact.

  ‘This is Mrs. Quirke’s HUSBAND on the phone’ I said. ‘I wish to converse with MY WIFE, that’s if she’s available?’

  You should’ve heard him. ‘Hey, howdy Col-lan, how y’all doin?’ he says. Making out as if were big friends or something (who says ‘howdy’ these days – not too many I’ll bet) – and so slow too ‘Nope, sor-ree. Y’all kinda just missed her I geese. She’d a whole bunch of stuff – we’re kinda busy working, fixing up the house’ says he.

  Bunch – what’s bunch? Are we talking bananas or what?

  If you can’t speak the language why bother picking up the effing phone that’s what I say. ‘Aw, too bad’ I said.

  Typical I thought, knowing her, no doubt, she’ll be down at the local farmers market, haggling over ham-bones, no doubt squeezing tom-maa-toes knowing her. Looking for last-minute bargains.

  ‘In that case, perhaps you will be good enough as to inform MY WIFE that her HUSBAND called. Please tell her that, owing to some unforeseen minor problem with the Mondeo, there’s a slight chance that I may be delayed.’ There was a long pause (I could hear cogs moving slowly into place). Then about three hours later, then he says ‘Huh? – is there a message?’

  ‘Tell her I’ll be a bit late, okay?’ I hung up.

  ***

  6:00pm. I THINK I’M STILL IN SHOCK. I’ve been dropping the kids off over at DeLacey Street – the whole place looks like a building site! I just sat inside my car trying to take it all in (it’s as if about half my house has disappeared overnight), workmen all over the place, cement-mixers, jack-hammers, people yelling – scaffolding climbing over the whole house. Nobody tells me anything.

  Cynthia must’ve seen the car. I watched her ambling over, munching a green apple. Taking her own sweet time as usual (attitude to the hilt you could tell). She was wearing her, ‘Hey, look at me I’m helping the workmen’s’ outfit e.g. over-sized Hi Vis top coat, checked-shirt, patched blue-jeans and bright yellow builders-boots. Finished off with a yellow plastic helmet. ‘THIS IS A HARD-HAT AREA’ it said.

  You bet, or it soon will be I thought.

  Cyn got in first. ‘Well, if it isn’t the jail-bird’ she said sarkily, not using a smile. Trust her to fetch that up, I’ve already explained what happened. So, then I said. ‘It was all a big mistake – we all ended up having a laugh.’

  ‘I’m surprised they let you out.’

  I cranked down my window. ‘What’s happening – you don’t mind me asking I hope?’

  This time she’d gone too far. I could feel my temper. Both kids shot off, whooping loudly, making a bee-line for the mountain-sized pile of yellow building sand, dumped smack-dab, right in the centre of what used to be my pride and joy croquet lawn.

  They were just about to off-load another giant-sized skip. (Like I said, I’m amazed) everything’s completely ruined, deep furrows, striping the grass. Don’t worry, this lady couldn’t’ve cared less. ‘Well?’ I said.

  I waited – I was waiting for answers.

  She half-turned, then shrugged. ‘Oh, that – we’re re-modelling the house. I thought I’d told you’ she took a big bite from her apple. I laughed coldly ‘Don’t mind me asking I hope?’ I said.

  Then it turns out, it’s all supposed to be a big surprise. Even the kids were in on it, come to think, they were both very secretive in the car, talking in whispers. Let’s face it (destroying my house). They don’t come much bigger than that, right.

  Meantime her attention swung back over to the kids, by now they are running amok, jumping into the pile of sand, yelling like a pair of hooligans, ‘Jamie Quirke!’ she shrilled – ‘You’ve got odd socks.’ Then added, ‘AND IF WE ARE GOING TO PLAY UP TO OUR NECKS IN THE SAND-PILE’ she yelled. Amazing (odd-socks?) They’re tearing down my house, she’s more bothered about odd-socks. ‘THAT GOES FOR BOTH OF YOU’ she hollered.

  Reluctantly they both trooped off under her cold stare to get changed. I watched the heavy truck trundle away, churning deep muddy furrows in its wake.

  Cyn picked up from where she’d left off, ‘Oh, lots of things. We’ve got big plans – including a hot-tub’ she enthused. She took another big bite out of her apple. No wonder I stared ‘A HOT-TUB?’ I yelled incredulously. I can hardly believe my own ears. Cynthia’s in her own little world half the time. She scrunched thoughtfully ‘Um, why not? Avril’s just had one put in over at the club – so why not I thought.’

  Right off the top of my head I could think of quite a few.

  Trust Avril to get one first, that figures. (Avril wants, Avril usually gets). Only, now the latest is mega-rich husband Clyde the Wallet had recently acquired the local Health club, they’ve fancied it up, now it’s called Peppermint Place, it’s turned out to be a very lucrative investment – it’s doing a bomb by all accounts.

  ‘Um, I’ve fancied one for yonks, they’re all the rage over in the States’ Cynthia chirped. This is all Red-tops idea I was willing to bet. Mind you, you have to smile, I said ‘You honestly think this is a good idea – you’ll be breaking ice come February I bet’ I snickered.

  Her face was a picture – you could tell nobody had even thought of that.

  She gave me a look (the one she always uses when she thinks she’s talking to an idiot). ‘That’s why they call it a HOT-TUB, it gets hot stupid.’

  What I wanted to know is who’s paying for it?

  Again, my eyes swept over the whole garden in disbelief (demolition site more like). What’s happened to my ten-foot, meticulously-trimmed topiary hedge. My pride and joy, row of falcons?

  ‘Who did the hedge, old Red-top I expect?’ Right now it looked more like the Twelve Apostles.

  She thinks everything is just one big joke. Her hand went to her mouth, she let out a raucous laugh, ending in a snort ‘No me’ she almost screamed. ‘We’ve got this new strimmer, it’s got a mind of its own’ she giggled, adding ‘Wait till it’s finished – you’ll be amazed.’

  You think? – why wait. I’m more than amazed already.

  All of a sudden there’s this big loud crash. We both turned at once. You could spot the Red-giant a mile off, he’s on top of a ladder, waving both arms like a looney. Just in time to witness the last se
ction of the conservatory collapsing into a dusty pile of broken ribs and shattered glass.

  Trust that dope to be involved I thought.

  Cynthia looked on with undisguised admiration, looking very ‘my guyish’. I said ‘Does that looney have any idea what he’s doing by any chance?’ Bulls-eye, her eyes narrowed (Cyn really hates it when people call him names). ‘That, so-called looney, he’s an experienced builder. Onetime he even built his own house I’ll have you know’ she informed me icily (why not, I’ll bet he’s broke up quite a few I almost said). Smart answer that I thought, instead I just said ‘Trust you to run off with the handy-man.’

  Natch, she always has to have the last word.

  ‘Wrong, he’s a handy-man, there’s a big difference’ she added in a smirky voice.

  Time to leave. Finally I said ‘No doubt you will be hearing from my solicitor in due course.’

  Just as I thought she’d no answer for that one.

  Then when I looked Jamie’s inside the car, doing things. He’d locked himself in, already he’s touching important levers (that’s all I need). He’s done it before last time it was the radio. I wasted half the morning trying to locate a station that spoke English. Cyn just laughs. Next thing, all of a sudden the young idiot let off the hand-brake – the car shot forward. Luckily for me I managed to jump clear just in the nick of time.

  Jamie rocked with laughter – what a hoot kind’ve.

  Mind you his mother’s just as bad, if not worse. They’re both doubled in two, the pair of them laughing like hyenas – they think it’s funny. He rolled down the window, ‘Where’s the problem? Kevin lets me drive the pick-up loads of times over in the park.’

  This is what I’m up against – more fool him I thought.

  Finally, her dope of a son opened the car door. I yanked him out (I could’ve cheerfully strangled him with my bare hands). Just in time I remembered to ruffle his hair, just to show what a good sport I am.

  Too late, then when I started up the car everything came on at once – the wipers came on, thumping away at full-speed, also the hazard lights – rock music blasting away.

  Nobody sees the danger.

  Cyn just shrugs and shakes her head. Don’t you worry my mind was busy already (we’ll see who has the last laugh madam). First thing Monday I’ll be organising my own legal team for sure. We’ll destroy them totally – we’ll make legal mince-meat out of the pair of them. Already I had a long list. Smashing-up half my house for one thing, parking violations, e.g. builders-skips in the middle of my oval lawn (over-pruning of miscellaneous shrubberies – that’s another) – not to mention suing the pair of them for making snide remarks behind my back. Don’t you worry this is going to cost them plenty.

  Boy O boy, I can’t wait. I had one last look at my wreck of a house before I left – by now you can see right through to the park. I yanked myself into my seat-belt. I let down my window. You’d to shout over the noise, I said ‘You know what, you really disappoint me at times, y’know that.’

  Cynthia shrugged, ‘Yep, me too’ she said. Then, just as a final gesture she made a long lob high into the air with her apple core, dropping dead-centre into the skip. ‘I’ll be in touch’ I said. She gave me a small circular wave ‘Bye baby.’ We exchanged looks.

  She makes me so mad, I slammed into gear, wheels spinning, back-end snaking through the mud, picking-up speed – only just missing a big heavy truck coming in the other way.

  ***

  Sunday 26th October.

  Pale hands I loved (beside the Shalimar).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one).

  8:00pm. RAINING ALL DAY (bored, bored, bored). MY TURN FOR THE KIDS – instead they’ve all gone off for a couple of days to the Black Country, they’ve made up a foursome with Clyde the Wallet and the Cabbage-patch Princess, (looking at some property or other)knowing him he’s putting in an offer to buy the whole of Birmingham I expect.

  Mind you, nobody tells me anything. I might never have known but for Lucy phoning me up. They’re all staying in this big swanky hotel with a drawbridge and a moat and a minstrel gallery. ‘Full of oil paintings of old Queens.’ Bless her I thought.

  Not like me, stuck at home in a house full of gossiping old biddies – I’ll say. Mother’s started her winter-knitting circle, making jumpers destined for a remote Ethiopian village. She even tried to rope me too as a chief baller-upper. My trouble is I soon get bored: ‘I’d rather be at work’ I said. (I’d rather put my head in the chip-pan).

  Mother harrumphed ‘Six days a week shalt thou labour and on the seventh day shalt thou rest’ she proclaimed smugly. Aunt Agnes had to agree ‘We were all down to a three day week during the coal-miner’s strike’ she commented, needles flashing in a rare glimpse of wintry sun. Mother sniffed ‘This is the trouble with your generation. You’ve no back-bone – you expect everything handed to you on a silver plate’ she observed over-loudly.

  I left them to it.

  You can tell how desperate I was, I’ve even tried phoning Thelma’s house. Okay, I know it’s a bit risky. If by some remote chance Thelma’s hubby Eric picks up the phone, the arrangement is I’ve to disguise my voice, then say ‘Oh, hello. Sorry to trouble you – please be good enough as to inform the good lady of the house, her flea-powders now in stock. Ask for Edwin Murgaroyd.’

  Luckily, as things turned out, it was herself on the phone. Still it was worth a try, I’d been rather hoping she might’ve been taking Max over to the park. I’d pictured us both having afternoon tea in the lake-side Tudor Café.

  However, no can do it seems. It turns out it’s the Allotment Society annual presentation dinner, quite a celebration in fact. She was full of it you could tell, they were just about to ‘shoot off’ apparently Eric had quite a spread in the local paper, under the banner headline ‘ERIC DOES IT AGAIN!’ Also his photo, next to a mammoth-sized cabbage. ‘Hadn’t I seen it – it’s over half a page?’ Thelma gushed excitedly over the phone. I said, ‘No.’

  She’ll make her mind up in a bit I thought.

  No doubt she could tell I was at a bit of a loose-end.

  After a pause, then she said ‘Anyway, where’s all your men friends?’ she enquired in a stiff voice. Then, before I could even answer she added, ‘All at the pub, supping themselves silly I expect, gawping at stupid football on TV – I’ll bet you a pound to a shilling. Oh, I forgot, you don’t like sport either do you Colin?’ she hung up.

  This is the trouble, I know she’s right. Truth told I’ve never been what you might’ve described as a ‘good friend’ maker. Somehow or other I’ve lost the knack (that’s if I ever had it). My trouble is, basically I’m a family man, through and through, my whole life revolves around my hearth and home – I’ve always put Cynthia up on a pedestal (this is the thanks you get). Now look at me, I’m a loner, a social outcast, an object of derision and ridicule – a pariah amongst my peers.

  How do you know when you’re going mad? Mother’s doing my head in. Everything has to have a set time, Sunday ‘high tea’ as she likes to call it. It’s always the same thing, grilled ham with a slice of tinned pine-apple plonked on the top (how boring is that) five o’clock sharp on the dot. Everybody sat at the table, munching away – nothing to talk about.

  Auntie Agnes was a bit late for once. She took her place right at the last minute. That didn’t go down well either. ‘Oh, if it isn’t the soap-star’ my mother muttered sourly, already starting to pour out the tea.

  Auntie Agnes just smiled and said nothing.

  What happened is she’d been on a bus-trip to the TV studios over in Manchester, watching them filming. However, much to everyone’s surprise she’d been asked to be part of the crowd scene (she’d been invited back a couple of times already), so now they’re calling her “Smiling elderly lady with tea-cup.” No wonder my mother’s a bit sniffy (jealous more like) – cheapening herself she calls it.

  ‘Too busy signing autographs I suppose’ mother commented sourly, her mouth in line. />
  Mind you, they talk about me as if I’m invisible. They think I don’t know. I’d been sent for some more hot water from the kitchen – you could hear them talking:

  Mother: Mind you, his father was always a big drinker too.

  Auntie Agnes: Most men like a drink.

  M: He’s a bit of a strange lad altogether if you ask me.

  A. A: Strange? How do you mean, strange?

  M: Talking to himself for one thing. (I came back from the kitchen. We all exchanged smiles).

  A. A: You’ve been washing your white nets I see?

  M: Eh? Um, just lifted the colour a bit hasn’t it?

  A. A: Oh, I’ll say – it’s lit up the whole room.

  Me: I’m going over to the pub.

  ***

  11:30pm. God, when will it all end? I’ve just had Miranda Starr on the phone again. Don’t worry that isn’t her real name. She must think I’m a complete fool. Mind you, I’ve only myself to blame, rather foolishly I’d contacted her via the personal column in the local newspaper. There again, who else but me could be so dumb – giving her my mother’s phone number. Though, in all fairness I have been under a terrific amount of personal stress of late.

  Somehow or other it’d caught my eye. ‘Ready to fly higher!’ it said.

  ‘EXOTIC FEMALE OF THE SPECIES. Highly inflammable – Ready to spread my wings. Seeking ICARUS. 35ish. TALL romantic FIT male, preferably articulate in more than ONE language. OWN TEETH (etc, etc) ha ha G.S.O.H. First Aid skills a bonus.’

  She’s as mad as a hat – I can’t get rid of her. She’s always wanting to play this describing game, over the phone I’m meaning – kind’ve wanting to know all about physical attributes. She has this thing about height too, she’s mentioned it quite a few times – about how tall you are. Who can blame her, onetime this really small guy turned up (he looked like a jockey standing in a hole). I mean, fairs fair, at least be honest with people, right. She puts on this sultry voice, ‘People are always coming up to me, telling me I remind them a lot of Julia Roberts, especially when I’ve got my hair up, it’s happened quite a few times. Well, I look pretty much like her – only with a neck-brace.’