It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  People on phones, right. Oh sure, I bet – she’s a scream.

  She means about that time she’d been having sex in the back of her ancient CV5 with the ceiling-painter that time I expect. Like I said, some people, they’ll say anything. Next thing, then all of a sudden her voice dropped into a low whisper ‘Guess what I’m wearing?’ she purred over the phone.

  ‘Oh gosh – wearing?’ (How would I know). You’re never ready are you? ‘Absolutely nothing at all’ she teased – ‘nothing that is but a tiny, silky black thong’ she giggled.

  ‘Well, golly’ I said. ‘Thong eh?’

  Meantime somewhere in the back you can hear people laughing, being raucous I’m meaning. All this weird music (bone on bone), plink-plink, also cymbals, followed by this big gong – it’s really strange.

  Then after a pause ‘Guess what I’m taking off now?’ she purred huskily. ‘No, really, I couldn’t even make a guess.’ Then she said ‘I’ve off-times been described as pert-breasted.’

  ‘Well, there you go’ I said.

  This is my mother’s house don’t forget.

  Then next thing you know there’s Auntie Agnes. She needs to use the bathroom, it’s urgent, trying to get passed, ‘Look, maybe I should call you back, it’s a bit awkward right now.’

  You could sense her disappointment.

  ‘You sound short, O slave-master.’

  Slave-master, is she serious?

  ‘You can tell peoples height over the phone?’

  There was a long pause, then she said in a low voice ‘My skin is soooooo sssmoooooth … So, really … my nipples …’

  God, I’m thinking. ‘Hey, really? Well, it sounds smooth enough – even over the phone. Really flat, y’know.’

  She let out a big sigh ‘It’s hardly the same, not when you’re all on your lonesome own-some. You know what I mean Ricky?’ Then I remembered, that’s just a name I’d come up with onetime. Somehow or other it sounded right at the time. There was a long pause. Finally, without any warning there’s this loud moaning noise over the phone. ‘Oh God. Goooood. Rrrr-kee! Rrrr-kee! Oh yes, yes, YES!’

  What do you say to people who moan all the time?

  Trust Auntie Agnes to get herself stuck on her way down. I tried to unhook her sticks out of the banister struts. Finally I shoved the phone into my waist-band. By now the line had gone strangely quiet – I listened. Thank Christ, she’d hung up.

  No wonder my nerves are on edge.

  Something should’ve warned me. Even the first time we spoke. Right away she’s describing her whole body kind’ve (including the size of her breasts). Then she’s telling me how she’s managed to squeeze one of them inside a Royal Doulton soup-tureen (it turns out it fitted exactly.) How amazing is that? How would I know, I’ve never even met the woman.

  No wonder she said G.S.O.H, right?

  God, what had I started, this whole Miranda fiasco – it has to stop. She calls me up at all hours, it’s really starting to get to me. Last time it’s the middle of the damn night (three am) – hard to believe I know. My mother picked up the phone. She’s asking to speak to Ricky Rochester, I grabbed the phone. Wrong number I said.

  Mother gave me a funny look. ‘She described you to a T.’

  Mother’s eyes blinked sleepily behind her glasses, she stomped off upstairs. I could hear her in the bathroom rinsing her denture (I heard it drop into the sink), whizzing around like a roulette-wheel. She came down into the kitchen, her slippers flip-flapping over the lino.

  ‘Maybe we should go ex-directory?’ I thought aloud. She stared. ‘It’s all to do with my new job’ I lied easily.

  What new job (past tense – BIG MAYBE) – I’d really blown that one for sure.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about you Sonny Jim, but I’m ready for a nice big mug of hot cocoa,’ she said.

  ‘Good idea mother’ I said.

  Letters (one only): From mad, bad and dangerously dotty, Edna Batte (Mrs.) at Torchlight Publications (London). Just for a laugh I’d sent her a couple of larky poems – calling myself Ivor Turnip-Head. It just shows – she can’t help herself.

  ‘Dear Ivor,

  Many thanks for sending us a few samples of your work, they show remarkable promise in my opinion – well worth publishing. Each filled right to the brim with thought provoking originality. Here at Torchlight we take great pride in nurturing new writers. In actual fact our reader report is particularly glowing in your case, e.g. – ‘tactile, deep sensitivity, honest, gritty right to the core – fresh as new paint, a tip-top poet in fact – a voice to mark well for the future. In fact I liked them all (this for instance) very earthy I thought:

  HOME

  You’d die for a pie my mother had made,

  You’d fast for her rhubarb and custard.

  You’d stand in a line from here to the Tyne,

  Sunday-roast, with horse-radish mustard!

  LOVE

  He pushed me to the height (s) of LOVE.

  Like a phoenix we arose from the plain,

  Took flight higher than the stars above,

  Now I’m left like a cake in the rain.

  (etc, etc and so-forth).

  More poems please Ivor – incidentally, regarding your sister Fanny’s impending OP – tell her not to worry. From what I hear they can do wonders nowadays with the latest prosthetic limbs and what have you. Try talking to her (it can’t be much fun) not when she’s stuck up in that dark cobwebby attic day after day. Not being able to clean her top windows isn’t everything I assure you – by Jove it isn’t! I am very much looking forward to meeting you next time you’re in town. Hopefully we can then move on to the next stage. More poems please Ivor – a whole collection perhaps, ay?

  Yours sincerely

  Edna Batte (Mrs.)

  P.S. Good luck with your fast-fading eye-sight by the way – chin up, that’s the spirit!’

  ***

  Monday 3rd November.

  Eat all, sup all, pay NOWT

  (old Yorkshire saying).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  Great rains, thunder-storms, (etc, etc) – pretty Mondayish in fact. Lunchtime, Thelma suggested we go down to the basement. (Mind you, she couldn’t’ve cared less about me). There’s me prattling on all about my woes, all the mighty upheavals and whatnot going on over at DeLacey Street – she couldn’t’ve cared less. Since she got back living with her precious Eric she thinks everything else is tickety-boo.

  All she cares about is her stupid cross-word.

  ‘Did you know that Colin? – oh, how interesting’ she piped up for the umpteenth time from behind her newspaper ‘Who’d believe it – it turns out a diligence is in fact a kind of transportation for carrying people about at onetime.’ She shook her head ‘Well, well – did you know that Colin?’ she repeated.

  Don’t you worry two can play at that game.

  She was waiting for me, ‘Yes, as a matter of fact – I thought everybody knew that.’ She nodded – water off a duck kind’ve. Then, a bit later she’s asking me something else. ‘How many Ds are there in ‘dandelion’ Colin?’ No wonder I looked (this is a librarian don’t forget). She tapped her teeth with a pen, staring into space.

  ‘About fourteen, give or take’ I said.

  Don’t you worry I’d already decided. She stared – I was already halfway up the stone steps. ‘Watch the shop – I’ve some urgent business to attend to’ I yelled. Leave her to it I thought.

  It was worth a try at least.

  I thought maybe I’d try having another quiet word with my old solicitor pal Aussie Bland (off the record of course). After all what are friends for, right? Even more so when he hears the latest about what’s happening over at DeLacey Street. Let’s face it, it does move the goal-posts somewhat.

  Good omens luckily I just happened to spot him in Betty’s Café in the High Street. There he is large as life, ensconced in the far corner booth – I knocked on the window. Fat sneaky bastard, then when he saw me if he isn’t
trying to hide behind his newspaper. Typical I thought. However, needs must as they say. I ordered on my way in (I thought I’d treat myself to a jammy-cream Do-nut). ‘Hah, just the fellow’ I exclaimed, sliding into the seat opposite him.

  He frowned darkly over his glasses, then shook out his Financial Times. He pretended to read, I flicked his newspaper. I said ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my illustrious over-educated old mucker Aussie – I’ve been trying to phone you all morning.’ He grunted, ‘All morning’ I repeated.

  ‘What happened, couldn’t you find anybody to dial for you?’ he said dryly.

  Hah, a joke (ha ha) even so, that in itself – a rare commodity in his particular case. Indeed, things are looking up, nor was he encumbered by a heavy cold.

  ‘Remind me to laugh’ I said.

  Leaning forward, I said (I kept it light). ‘No, what it is old chum. I’ve been meaning to have a quick word with you Aussie.’ He stared wearily (not good). ‘A bit of advice my old mate. Marital problems I’m afraid – strictly off the record of course’ I added quickly.

  He turned away, then shrugged (shop-talk, he was on his lunch-break). He shook out his newspaper. ‘Um. Fraidy so, bit tedious I know’ I grimaced ‘There you go – things don’t seem to improve much’ I lamented.

  ‘I’m due in court in under an hour’ he said sourly.

  Typical. You think you know people, right. No I thought, it isn’t that when he can’t start-up his mangy old Granddad’s, prehistoric, mangy rotten lawn-mower is it – he soon forgets that. “Oh Colin, you are clever with your fingers” then he’s saying. He’s all over you then isn’t he? Some friend I’m thinking.

  A bored young waitress, dressed-up in a frilly Victorian black and white costume came over with the order. She unloaded the tray. ‘Who’s the Fat Rascal?’ she enquired, noisily sorting out crockery. I pointed at Austin ‘He’s the Fat Rascal – I’m the jammy-Do-nut’ I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  She held out the bill ‘You’re not together then?’

  ‘No!’ we both chorused. Though, if I’m truthful I’d have to say Austin’s “NO” was a lot louder than mine. ‘Separate bills’ I said.

  Meantime, Austin still refused to meet my gaze. Instead he stared intently at his large over-sized currant bun, as if pondering how best to tackle it – me too come to that. So, then I said ‘Tell you what Austin, I’ve never had the singular good fortune of actually eating a Fat Rascal – not in my whole life.’

  He wasn’t taking me on, he looked about furtively, ‘Go away, bog off’ he hissed, then added, whispering out the side of his mouth ‘Colin, you must not even speak to me, okay?’

  He folded his newspaper, putting it away for later.

  ‘Not even about the merits of Fat Rascals? – by Jove say I.’

  He pushed his glasses up his nose, then gave me a meaningful look. More for something to say, then I said ‘How’s your bad cold by the way?’ No answer. I sucked at my jammy-fingers each in turn, then added ‘Not terminal I hope?’

  He shrugged, then continued to stare down at his plate. He started to pick out currants, it took all his attention.

  ‘That bad eh – not like somebodies marriage I hear. Only close family, right – no visitors. “Sorry mate, we’ve had to switch off the sodding pump” oh right.’

  I gave it chance to sink in, then did my deep sighing routine.

  I waited, I said ‘Only I ain’t got no family, well hardly – not anymore I ain’t.’

  Again no answer. ‘Oh dear, that bad eh?’ Finally I said ‘She’s been in to see you again I can tell.’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing to tell me – not even ‘a spokes-person’ commented – no?’ No good, he wouldn’t budge an inch. Next thing, all of a sudden something must’ve decided him to tear apart his Fat Rascal, braking it into several pieces. We both stared at his plate.

  ‘Bog off’ he repeated. ‘I’ve already told you, go see Mrs. Tabbs.’

  Her again – I thought we’d already covered that one.

  After that I decided to try plan B (grovelling). ‘Aussie, we’ve known one another since we were kids. We were at school together – piss over the wall buddies’ I said (the waitress came back with two separate bills). I took a wild lunge into my Do-nut sending out cream.

  The girl walked off smirking to herself.

  Austin stared, his face showed open disgust. He shoved a handful of serviettes into my hand. ‘Here, wipe your mouth for Godsake – you look like a rabid dog.’ I swiped at my mouth. I’d just thought of something else. ‘Maybe if I hadn’t helped you so much with your rotten spelling’ I said. ‘Who knows, but for me, maybe you might not have soared to the echelon heights you have already achieved.’

  ‘That’s total rubbish, a fabrication of the truth’ said the lawyer.

  ‘Says you’ I scoffed. ‘Okay spell … Miss-iss-ippi right now, okay?’

  He paused mid-chew ‘I’ve always been an excellent speller, top marks’ he mumbled.

  ‘Pardon me while I jeer. Look, I’ll start you off. Mi-double-s – ‘

  ‘You’re having a laugh. I got stars, rather frequently in fact.’

  ‘Star bollocks more like’ I sneered. ‘Okay, let’s try another. How about, a-ssi-tance, or maybe. How about pe-ril-ous? As in “THE MAN’S BEST FRIEND WAS IN GREAT PERIL?” ‘He stared. ‘“He was in urgent need of a-ssi-tance” ‘I let it sink in. ‘Meaning thicko, he is in need of fucking help from a friend, savvy?’ I almost yelled.

  He blinked, then made a big thing of looking at his watch, ‘Look here, I’m due back in court, in precisely thirty-nine minutes.’ I did a mirthless laugh, ‘Oh, aren’t you the big-shot’ I almost jeered. He unfolded his newspaper ‘I’d like to read my news-paper – okay with you?’ He sensed my stare. ‘Tell me if you come to a big word’ I said. He looked up ‘Grow up Colin, between you and me there’s parts of you that are pathetically immature. (I shrugged). Sorry, but it happens to be true.’

  ‘Don’t mench – O wise one. That’s what Cynthia said too, curiously enough. Look, about my kids, I’m allowed to see them on a regular basis, right. It’s supposed to be every Sunday. I was starting to wonder that’s all.’

  His cup stopped halfway to his mouth ‘Christ, who said you can’t see your children? – nobody I know that’s for sure.’

  ‘Sunday’s, three hours that’s if I’m lucky.’

  ‘Look, I’m saying nothing, okay.’

  Our eyes kind’ve bumped. I said ‘Natch, any information that might accidentally happen to fall from your table, it goes without saying nothing will go beyond these four pseudo Tudor décor walls – divulge, is that the word? You have my solemn word as a recovering alcoholic.’

  We both watched a girl tottering passed the window on high spikey heels. ‘I’m saying nothing, okay.’ He picked up a loose currant, then popped it into his mouth. Then, after a pause ‘I believe the word restrainer was mooted’ I thought I heard him say. At last – a breakthrough!

  ‘Jeepers. What next?’ I wonder.

  ‘Frankly I don’t blame her’ he said, looking down at his plate. ‘Let’s face it mate, you have been a bit of a pain in the arse, that’s to say the least – she’d quite a list.’

  ‘She’s a listaholic, tell her I said so, okay.’

  ‘Look, I’m saying nothing. You drink too much according to her.’

  ‘Oh sure. Next to her I’m almost a teetotaller.’

  ‘Also, you’re neurotic, pathetically childish and an all-round pain in the arse – end of quote. Her words not mine.’

  ‘Tell her I’m a poet for fucksake – what else does she expect?’

  He shrugged. ‘Insanity was also mentioned, quite a few times actually.’

  ‘Oh wonderful, mad eh – excuse me while I drool.’

  He stared at his newspaper. I pushed it aside. ‘You want a list – I’ll show you a list. Question one – ask her who’s destroying my damned house even as we speak. You should see it – it looks as if it’s had a direct hit with a fucking
bomb.’

  ‘Look, I keep telling you – I’m saying nothing, okay.’

  Now that I’d got his attention, I wanted to make the most if it. ‘Not only my house, then there’s my Poetry Journal, totally destroyed. TWICE. Don’t try to tell me that’s normal – so who’s the looney?’

  He picked at his bun. ‘Ask anybody, once upon a time people we’re always saying “Hey, how come you are always so happy, laughing from morning till night” – a happy marriage that’s why, simple as that. I should be suing the bastard, right now. Right up to this guy coming on the scene we were highly regarded as one big happy family. People stopping us in the park, complete strangers, congratulating me, wanting to take our family photograph “Do you mind if I take your picture?” kind’ve. Nobody could comprehend my constant merriment. Ask who you like.’ I laughed coldly ‘She’s the bad lady, not me.’

  He nodded, then picked up a currant ‘Tough’ he said ‘that’s really tough.’

  He was on my side you could tell.

  Time to bring up my big guns. ‘My question to you my learned friend. Question number two sir, is simply this, about demolishing my fucking house I’m meaning? Answer equals no – am I right? Am I right or am I right? They’re both as bad’ I said ‘her and the home-wrecker both. We’ve got to nail the bitch, right? – right?’

  He stared, this time both hands went up at once. Austin’s face had developed some kind of a twitch (funny I’d never noticed it before). ‘I’ve already told you, I can’t work for both of you.’ He patted his face with a spotted hanky out of his top pocket.