It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  So, then I tried talking to him man to man ‘Look, I’m all alone – people keep shoving me around. Nobody gives a shit – I’m the little guy that trips over the pavement. Who else can I turn to in my hour of need?’

  ‘Phonebook’ his face twitched. ‘Look in the phonebook’ he said in a whisper, mopping his forehead.

  He picked up a currant (I grabbed both his hands) ‘Cynthia is co-habiting with a no good lazy moron.

  He hasn’t even got a job, beat that – he’s living off her, how low can you get?’

  He pulled his hands away. ‘Look, I’m saying nothing, okay.’

  ‘All he does all day is dig these massive holes, right in the middle of my fucking front lawn. Oh, listen – wait till you hear this brother, he’s putting in a hot-tub – beat that.’

  He looked up ‘A hot-tub? Oh, that’s nice. I’ve always fancied a hot-tub.’

  Don’t you worry I hadn’t finished, not by heaps. ‘Aussie, this is a desperate situation’ I said. ‘Okay, my question is – is this fair?’ I let it sink in. ‘Course not, I can tell by your face.’ He stared ‘We’ve got to fight this all the way, right. Go now, big book, top shelf, spouses property rights – also wilful damage to cuckold husbands personal feelings while you’re at it – look under ‘I’ for idiot. Moneys no object, it’s the principle – I’ll even sell the house if I have to. DO IT NOW, call me back within the hour, okay.’

  He looked up from his plate, sorting out currants into little piles (another pause). He divided his words carefully ‘Um. I too have a question my excitable friend’ I waited, he smiled like somebody keeping a secret … more currants – I pulled his hand away. Finally he said ‘Who’s name happens to be on the house deeds?’

  Simple enough question – too simple in fact.

  B, dong. Then I remembered, slowly it dawned on me. Finally the penny dropped, years before, Cyn’s parents were involved in a tragic motorway pile-up. Total wipe-out (it happens) they were both killed.

  Good question – all that insurance money. That’s not counting the sale of the house. So, what did she do with the money? A trip around the world maybe? No chance – a new car EACH. No-way (uh-uh) forget that one too. This lady didn’t even treat herself to a new Sunday hat. (Cynthia’s a Virgo, say no more.) trust her to be sensible and level-headed. No wonder I stared. ‘She owns the friggin house, right?

  How could I forget that?

  He nodded, he was enjoying every moment you could tell by his face. He sat back with his arms folded, smirking for all his worth. Boy, is he glib ‘Facts m’boy. I’m saying nothing,’ he picked up a currant, tossing it nonchalantly into his gaping maw.

  I know now why I hate him.

  He’s right, he’d got me in one. Typical I thought, SHE’D PAID OFF THE MORTGAGE ON THE HOUSE. All the same he could’ve warned me – he could’ve told me a lot sooner if he’d’ve wanted to: ‘Hey Col. Look, about the house’ kind’ve. That’s all it takes. Some friend, right. Boy, is he smug. All he does is just sit there grinning that stupid grin he always does.

  No wonder my minds busy. It’d knocked me for a six I’ll tell you. Not only didn’t I own a house, or even half a house – maybe at a pinch I own the front gate. It’s as if all of a sudden I’m a person of no fixed abode. Frankly, even the thought of having to live out my last final days with my old mother, it doesn’t even bear thinking about – it’s untenable.

  He’s enjoying the whole thing. What a creep.

  Then, on top of everything else he’s trying to flirt with the friggin waitress. “‘May I have a small jug of piping-hot H2O – that’s if it isn’t too much trouble my dear’” he says in a posh voice. What with that geeky laugh of his (hee-ic, hee-ic, hee-ic). I could’ve died right there on the spot.

  No wonder she gave him a funny look.

  Suddenly Austin said ‘By the way, do you happen to know the statistics for divorce in this country?’ (No, but I know he was about to tell me). ‘It’s mega, believe me, it’s really gi – normous.’ I stared. ‘Three out of five marriages end up in the divorce court – it’s massive.’ He shook his head.

  This is the first time it’d been mentioned. ‘DIVORCE?’ I yelled loudly. Everybody turned to stare, they were leaning out of booths.

  ‘When? When? WHEN FOR FUCKSAKE?’

  He shrugged ‘Look, I’m saying nothing. Don’t put words into my mouth – I never said that, okay.’

  Oh sure. ‘Well, say it quieter next time, okay’ I said.

  He took off his glasses. ‘That’s at least, its gi – normous’ he repeated.

  ‘Oh, thanks – you’ve cheered me up no end.’

  His face looked empty without his glasses, he looked at me with his little piggy eyes, ‘Look, I’m saying nothing. Maybe you’ll just have to come to terms with it – you’re lucky it’s lasted this long,’ he said, conversationally.

  We both nodded like donkeys.

  Tell me something happy I thought.

  ‘You should go in for the bad news of the year prize. You’d win cups I’ll bet, no problem – you’d win hands down’ I said.

  He shrugged ‘These things happen, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘They’re an item – they’ve both living in the same house I’m meaning.’

  He rubbed his eyes, then put on his glasses ‘You don’t know that for a fact. Nothing that would stand up in open court at least,’ I stared.

  ‘When she told me she needed her own space, I didn’t think she meant the whole friggin house’ I said sadly. He shrugged. Time to go, I squeezed out of the booth, trailing my coat. I picked up a currant ‘I saw shirts out on the line – don’t sleep-overs count, that it?’

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

  He unfolded his newspaper with a flourish (his relief that I was finally leaving stuck out a mile). ‘Maybe she’s hoping you’ll come to terms, accept things as they really are. Think about it’ said the man in the striped suit.

  I nodded ‘What makes you think I don’t, twenty-four seven?’

  He let out a big sigh (rather smugly I thought). Absentmindedly I picked odd currants off Austin’s plate. Let’s face it, this man could’ve helped me if he’d’ve really wanted to – he’s supposed to be my friend.

  He yawned, ‘I’m only glad I aren’t married’ he commented airily from behind his newspaper. I stared (what else did I expect). Well, that figures I thought (still living at home with his old mother). God, how pathetic is that, one thing for sure nothing changes, not since school-days. Fat sod, bigger version that’s all, same wispy, no-colour sandy hair, two fingers of putty pug of a nose, same squinty little eyes behind loose-fitting specs with a bit of plaster over one ear.

  I pulled into my overcoat. ‘Right then I’ll be off then’ I said.

  He kept his eyes close to his newspaper, one hand probing around, feeling for loose currants. Twat I thought. ‘You’re making a right old tit eating that bloody bun’ I said.

  He heaved a big end of the world sigh ‘Think about it’ he murmured distractedly. ‘Mind you, I’m saying nothing, okay.’

  Outside, I turned up my collar against the rain. I caught his eye through the steamed-up window. I cupped both hands ‘Oy, don’t come running to me next time you can’t start your mangy granddads, mangy rotten old lawn-mower, you fat sod!’ I cried out.

  He stared, unfolded his newspaper, then turned away,

  ***

  6:00pm. Big storms a-brewing – I’ll say. Everyone’s been sent home early just in case. Doomsville more like – no lights. (Last time, the whole valley low road got flooded.) When I got home Mother’s beside herself, she’s worried to death. She’d even let the fire go out in the living-room and covered up all the mirrors, just on the off-chance a bolt of lightning should suddenly decide to come down the chimney. She’s sitting in candle-light under the cellar steps, mumbling to herself. Something about “Godswill, will be done” (as far as I could make out). I gave her a small (medicinal) glass of brandy – sh
e seemed to perk-up after that.

  Later on, Blind Bob came round for his evening meal. (I’d forgot, it’s always the first Monday in the month.) After that I usually walk him home, round to Whitaker Terrace. While I was waiting about, my mother caught me trying to manoeuvre my way down the back steps wearing a scarf as a blindfold. You feel really stupid.

  ‘Daft bugger’ she said – I’ve never heard her swear in my whole life.

  Mind you, I don’t know which is worse, without street-lights, everything’s as black as our coal-hole. ‘Step Bob!’ ‘Lookout – another step Bob!’ I kept saying. Finally he sent me back home – he said he could manage far better on his own – bit ironic really when you think.

  ***

  Tuesday 4th November.

  Robert Herrick 1591-1674.

  Gather ye rose-buds while ye may.

  Old time is still a-flying.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-two).

  8:00pm. You have to smile. (Haw, haw. Haw, haw) – I’ll say. I’ve just been over to Fox’s Garage to pick up the Mondeo. Only, now the latest is Fat Frank’s giving away a FREE! One hundred piece, nickel-plated socket-set (yes – I did say ‘nickel-plated’). That’s with only ten full services (they’re going like proverbial hot-cakes). What a dope, right.

  Somebody ought to tell him I think.

  Letters (one): Wonderful – isn’t life grand. A final reminder from the so-called Window Doctor. This is the red-one, he’s chasing me for what they call ‘urgent remedial repairs’ on the conservatory roof over at DeLacey Street. Oh sure. However, now that said structure no longer exists, e.g. (ending up in a builders-skip). No doubt I shall pass the matter on to the appropriate householder forthwith.

  Letters (two): Amazing, from mad as a hat Edna Batte (Mrs.) at Torchlight Publications, addressed c/o Edward (Ted) Truffle esquire.

  Dear Edward (Ted).

  Thank you for your letter Sept 10th, also a few samples of your work. I’m mightily impressed, as indeed is the whole team. Each individual poem stamped with that well known Yorkshire grit right through to the very core. From what I’ve seen so far at least – well worth publishing in my opinion. Truly I rather liked them all!

  LOVE IN A HUT

  Your face is the face I see every morn,

  Do I go to work or stay where it’s warm?

  PROBLEM

  Soon it will be too late I’ll have missed my bus,

  Between MONEY and LOVE my life is torn –

  Too late – my clothes land where they drop.

  I stand before you NAKED as when I was born!

  HONEY

  Indeed, a richly flavoured goulash, depicting how life really is, a veritable cameo, each piece, simple and honest. Here again, encapsulating anguish and futility of loves all painful parting. I do agree, some are rather sad (home-truths often are I’m afraid!) – having to face up to things:

  GIRL

  (Oh) My little girl I watch you play

  Growing bigger and bigger every day.

  I hope and pray you won’t grow fat

  (Like me) Having to stay home and stroke the cat.

  GIANT

  Head hung with sadness because I’m not tall,

  I keep off the pavement and walk on the wall.

  It’s hardly my fault I was made short,

  Wasting hard earned cash on long trousers I’ve bought.

  Would she admire me more if I was a GIANT

  Or will she go off with some loftier client?

  JUNE

  Nothing seems right I’m all out of tune,

  I’m beside myself with worry.

  June. June, write to me soon

  R.S.V.P – and please hurry!

  More good news, we’ve already had a jolly good response from just about everybody, e.g. ‘sound stuff’ ‘top-notch poetry I’d say’ (etc, etc) – our professional readers report is particularly gratifying (I’m hoping you will be offering us a complete collection, yes?) Meantime, please send me everything you have Teddy

  With kindest regards

  Edna Batte (Mrs.)

  Executive Editor.

  ***

  2:30am. God I’m weak – look at the time! I’ve been over to Tony’s Tavern. (Big mistake – capital M). The Dark Bar was crowded, you could hardly move. Mind you, you’d’ve thought mixing with convivial jolly company, it might’ve taken me out of myself. Worse if anything, (I’m more depressed than ever) it ended up costing me a big pot of money I’ll tell you (cards I’m meaning). Let’s face it I’m the worst player in the whole world.

  Everybody shouting at once, ‘It’s your deal Col – whenever you’re ready’ (no patience, some people). Finally, they had to close the game – just in time if you ask me. I was just about ready to sell my effing shoes.

  They blamed me for everything you could tell.

  No doubt they could tell how down I was I expect. You try to put on a brave face (something must’ve slipped out). Let’s face it, most of them had gone through the self-same experience as myself (maudlin drunk more than likely). Mind you, I’d had quite a few myself come to think. I stared into my beer.

  ‘What about my kids, it ain’t right’ I said in a cry-baby voice.

  Most of the guys agreed you could tell. Drunky Kenny for one ‘Dump her – they ain’t worth it’ he yells down the bar through a haze of blue smoke (there’s a big sign ‘NO SMOKING BY ORDER OF THE MANAGEMENT’). Everybody laughed, in turn this sets everybody else off. After that, voices came from everywhere, ‘Throw in the fucking towel’ ‘Kick him in the bollocks’ came a voice further down the bar – a whole shoal of them, ‘Sue the bastard’ somebody else shouted. ‘Yeah – dump her.’ Then Kenny again ‘Who needs women anyway – throw in the fucking towel’ he repeated. They mean well I suppose.

  Easier said – this is the mother of my children don’t forget. Then, Vinny’s voice, thick with sarcasm ‘Do yourself a favour. They aren’t worth it, forget it’ he said (he hates women generally for some unknown reason). He laughed, others joined in. Finally, then came the voice of reason. Harry the butcher – same goes for him too. He shook his head ‘Don’t try to tell me what’s right, okay?’ he said in a gravelly voice. He picked up his glass ‘Kids grow up, then what? Not in a fucking hundred’ he said. Everybody nodded, each had their own story. People usually listen to Harry (he’d been divorced twice already) – another in the pipe-line. He tipped back his glass. ‘Take my word, women are very devious, they plan everything.’ He shook his head ‘Trust nobody, they take everything. Next thing you know they’re in bed with some other poor mutt.’ He reordered. ‘Then they skip with the loot. Not in a fucking hundred’ he repeated.

  Vinny again, then he came in, he agreed ‘He’s right. Don’t try telling me what’s right. You’ll be lucky to see them on Christmas day. Right Harry? Am I right or am I right Harry?’

  Everybody nodded. Harry included ‘Not in a fucking hundred’ he said.

  I nodded sadly. One thing for sure, Harry knows what he’s talking about if anybody does. His last divorce cost him plenty, it cleaned him out. Once upon a time he used to own eleven butcher-shops and a hand-made pie factory, at onetime he was churning-out a mile and a half of sausages each and every single day of the week. (‘It tears the heart right out of you – my wife swallowed everything’), he’s flat broke. Last I heard, his wife’s living on the French Riviera with some guy half her age.

  He spread his large beefy red hands out over the counter. ‘Not in a fucking hundred years’ he repeated in a flat voice, looking at his reflection in the back-bar mirror. There were murmurs of general approval. He turned ‘Some good advice brother – get yourself a first-class lawyer, okay.’

  Lawyers, I was up to here.

  Aussie Bland for one. Don’t you worry I won’t forget him in a hurry either. Mind you, he’s right (easier said than done), I’ve found that out already. This guy I phoned-up out of Yellow Pages that time, Morri Peel. Don’t worry, I was a bit cagey at first – let’s face it, most
people are only after your money, right. ‘By the way squire, what’s it all going to cost? That’s if you don’t mind me asking?’ I said.

  He was a bit of a fast talker to say the least.

  ‘Not a sausage my friend, call me Morri’ he says. Right at first he was fine, he was sweet as pie (it turns-out you get so many minutes free of charge). He laughed, ‘right now it’s your time you’re wasting, fire away.’ Then, when I told him who owns the house, after that everything changed.

  There was a pause. ‘How long have you been sleeping rough?’

  Something must’ve stuck in his mind when I mentioned the word Library (I think he thought that’s where I slept) – in fact he said it twice. Finally I said ‘Look, I’m a fucking librarian – I just happen to work there’ I yelled. ‘I have a very responsible job’ I reassured him.

  After that he was fine, we were back on first names.

  So then I ended up telling him everything, the whole sad story kind’ve. Mostly about old Fe-Fo the red-giant, about him not even having any kind of a job – only being interested in my wife’s inheritance (he laughed out-loud). Maybe it’s me, for some unknown reason he thought it was really funny. Somehow or other, him being a professional man I’d expected more. Mind you, at least he listened, that’s something. So then I said ‘So, in your considered professional opinion Morri – what’s my best move?’

  He paused, he let out a big sigh. ‘That’s a good question’ says he ‘She’s already beaten you to it if you ask me, one thing for sure, she’s getting some very sound advice from some quarters – worth 24 carat gold some people.’ I nodded. Then I remembered my erstwhile, so-called best friend, fat Aussie Bland – what’s the least I could expect for strangling somebody (very slowly – with piano-wire?) That ought to have been my next question.

  Right at the minute my main concern is about seeing my children on a regular basis. Again, he was sharp as a tack on that one too. ‘Okay-dokey, first off let us assume your ex-wife (he paused) – sorry about that’ he snickered. ‘That is to say, your currant wife. She sends them off to school, she keeps them nice and clean, right. Also, another good point in her favour is feeding them on a fairly regular basis – with judges especially. Mental cruelty, that’s another, couples who argue – chairs through windows and suchlike. Rather foolishly I’d happened to mention, that one odd incident, that time with the (v.light) chair. Nobody listens, ‘Whoa, whoa there!’ I cried. ‘Hold it’ I said.