It Always Rains on Sundays

  I went to fetch a key.

  They both bustled their way in amid a flurry of wet raincoats, shaking umbrellas. Talk about two drowned rats – I’ll say, neither looked best pleased. Who do you expect at this time of night. Mother had a face like a suffering saint, ‘What’s the door doing all bolted up and barred?’ she said crossly, taking off her rain-mate.

  ‘I didn’t even know you were out,’ I said.

  Mother glared ‘Course you did’ she muttered. Her fingers stopped halfway down the buttons of her dripping raincoat, staring at Thelma, as if seeing her for the first time. Both ladies looked at each other. Auntie Agnes started cleaning her glasses and said little. ‘Oklahoma night, how many more times – course I have’ mother muttered sourly.

  ‘News to me’ I said. She was that way out you could tell.

  Mother wanted the last word ‘We’ve been on about it for ages, haven’t we Agnes?’ She was more bothered about getting her tight shoes off more than anything else, she plonked herself down on the sofa next to Thelma without speaking – you’d’ve thought she was invisible.

  ‘Mother, this is Thelma, a colleague of mine from work – remember, I told you about her.’ Thelma smiled. No answer. Auntie Agnes half-smiled, as if not wanting to take sides. Mother grimaced, easing her shoes off each in turn, her eyes screwed-up at the centre-light, no doubt fishing for sympathy. ‘Oh dear’ I said flatly, not meaning it.

  Just to fill up the silence, then I said. ‘We’ve been to the theatre.’ No answer, then added, ‘She also writes poetry, it’s a common interest we both share – very good poetry too I might add.’

  Still no answer, instead she stared down at her feet, wriggling her toes as if she was a bit surprised they still worked. She pursed her lips, then said ‘My poor feet.’

  Some bloody Christian I thought.

  Whereas Auntie Agnes, she was different again, in fact her sunny-like nature sometimes went to extremes. Once she’d grasped hold of Thelma’s hand she refused to let go, ‘Thelma you say? Oh nice, very nice I’m sure. Oh very nice’ she repeated, flashing her new set of dentures.

  Mother gave her a withering look, continuing to massage her big toe. You have to smile, mother’s petty jealousy, it stands out a mile. Nor indeed has Auntie’s latest filming commitments gone down too well either. She’s almost a regular nowadays. They send out a special taxi, right to her door, all the way from Manchester – all expenses paid and a free hair-do thrown in. ‘Smiling elderly lady with tea-cup’ it says on her script. Right up to press she’s only said one line, ‘Oh, thenk qu – is this best butter?’ Neither had her mood blossomed any that the so-called ‘luxury coach’ they’d hired had ‘conked out.’ Out on the moors, right in the middle of nowhere, or even the fact that she’d had to sit over a wheel, both ways ‘Out in the back of beyond, stuck for two solid hours in the pitch-black’ she grumbled bitterly, in her end of the world voice.

  Then, after a long awkward silence, Thelma said ‘Did you both enjoy the show?’ Nobody answered. ‘They’ve been rehearsing for weeks – one of the girls at work is singing in the chorus’ she added chirpily.

  Mother pulled a face ‘Um. Well, it was alright if you like that kind of thing I suppose’ she condescended in a slow either way kind of voice, turning to look at the clock. Auntie Agnes must’ve just caught the back-end on her way back from putting the kettle on, ‘Alright? It was wonderful’ she challenged her at once. ‘You were full of it coming home on the bus – you were singing away, top of your voice same as everybody else, “Oh what a beautiful morning!” she burst forth lustily. ‘Oh, and those costumes, it was really wonderful’ Auntie enthused.

  Like I said, she was just that way out you could tell. ‘I said it was alright, how many more times’ Mother chuntered sulkily, then added ‘Well, I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m more than ready for a nice mug of hot cocoa’ she announced in a pained voice, pulling herself up off the sofa. ‘Is that kettle on Agnes?’ she called out, limping jerkily, padding across the carpet towards the kitchen. I went to fetch Thelma’s coat.

  ***

  Saturday 14th November.

  Myriad the thoughts that trip the brain,

  Whilst pointing Percy at the porcelain.

  (unfinished poem).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one).

  1:30pm. Mondeo’s overheating! That’s all I need. Half day at work! (small hurrah). Kids off for the whole day with Cynthia, her and the yankee orang-utan – no wonder I’m at a bit of a loose-end. I’d been hoping for a lie in. No chance. Omens galore, ominous hammocks of black clouds, hanging from every horizon. Mind you, I’d a feeling it was going to be one of those days when I ricked my back earlier on, stooping down to pick up a pound coin – only to discover what turned out to be the top of a rotten beer bottle – it just shows. Mother sounded happy at least.

  This is the trouble, you hear everything, singing her head off (“Oh what a friend I have in Jesus”). Then it turns out she’s expecting a mysterious visitor from London. Aunt Freda-Lumb, no less.

  No wonder I stared. ‘I’m making her a Dundee cake – it’s called turning the other cheek.’ Well, I know what I think. ‘Is that wise mother?’ I said.

  That settled it. After that I took myself off, out of the way. I went for a long walk along the canal tow-path (got v.wet) I’d forgot to take my raincoat.

  Letters (one only): Another downer I’m afraid, sadly they’ve returned my narrative poem all about the Bronte’s lost brother Ben – just on a hunch I’d sent it off to the Bronte Society over in Haworth. No joy I’m afraid. However, well-thumbed I noticed, also marked ‘gritty.’ Well, hopefully (leastways I’m taking it as a ‘g’). Mind you, really speaking – a bit of moderate encouragement wouldn’t’ve gone amiss, e.g. ‘original angle’ say, or ‘valiant effort’ or ‘v.intriguing.’ What’s it take to be nice to people?

  So be it, however we press on with the motley – my belief in myself is ever undimmed. Might try tinkering with it, maybe bending it into a sonnet.

  9:30pm. F it I cry. Nothing seems to work out – I’ve kicked it into touch. Meantime I’ve been on with another (only now I’m not too sure). AM GOING OVER TO TONY’S TAVERN

  2:30am. Look at the time (nobody told me it was going to turnout to be a drinking competition). What happens is if I have something that I’m not too sure about, sometimes I kind’ve try it out on my friends over in the Dark Bar (the men only bar I’m meaning). You’d be surprised, at least you get an honest opinion from the proverbial man in the street.

  Sometimes the critique value alone is worth pure gold.

  Not only that, it’s knowing you are amongst friends.

  All good guys each and every one. One thing for sure they always make you feel welcome. Rightaway the minute they see me come in they make a space for me at the bar. I stood next to Harry. Harry Tatt the ex-butcher (him with the messy divorce I’m meaning) – people listen to Harry. He nodded.

  ‘Hi Harry’ I lowered my voice, I said. ‘Look, no offence. I don’t want to talk about my lousy marriage, okay with you?’ He nodded. So, then I said ‘I’ve got a new poem, only I’m not too sure (so, okay it might cost me a few beers – so what) – it’s a small price to pay I think. I unfolded my new poem, actually it’s more of a kind’ve rehash (only, I don’t call it a re-hash). That poem I wrote all about my new found Aunt Freda-Lumb that time in London – also, he added, one-time lady-friend of my late father’s I’m starting to think.

  Harry’s the best listener in the whole world, bar none. ‘I’m not what you’d call over the moon, y’know.’ I said.

  Rightaway, he nodded the sound down on the TV, his hand went up asking for quiet, conversation along the bar dwindled almost at once. ‘Listen up everybody, okay. Lend us your ears. Colin the poet!’ he announced (that’s what they call me – it doesn’t really mean anything). Interruption: Asian Kenny, he was the only dissenter. ‘Jesus Christ, not tonight’ he wails, both fists drummed the bar-top.

  Harr
y gave him a hard look.

  Kenny’s drunk already (he’s been drinking all day) – so what’s new. Again, wife trouble, she’d left him for another man six months ago – he’s more worried about the dog. Then it turns out he’s had a big win on the gee-gees. He held his head between his hands, ‘Jesus Christ’ he repeated. Big Oggy at his elbow lifted his glass, he glared ‘You – pipe-down, OKAY?’ he growled.

  Tony behind the bar topped-up the last pint of frothy Tetley’s bitter, then slid it along the counter, it stopped in front of Harry the Butcher. He nodded, then drained-off what was left inside his schooner. Turning, he said, ‘Okay, whatcha got Col?’

  First thing I do, I always like to set the scene kind of thing. ‘Lonely old lady, right.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Look, I want you all to try and imagine, okay. She’s living all alone, in this scrunchy little garretty attic, right up at the very top of this really crumbly old house.’ I paused, I let it sink in. ‘I want you to think about it – one poky, tiny window that looks out over the rooftops of London, okay?’

  I looked around at the expectant faces.

  Already, Patrick showed real interest ‘Oh, what part of London? I know London like my own back-yard …?’ he trailed to a stop under Big Oggy’s cold stare.

  Sometimes that’s all it takes.

  Too late, after that voices came from several directions at once, ‘Loneliness can be a real killer, believe me I know.’ Then drunky Kenny once again, ‘I don’t wanna get old – wassa fucking point?’

  ‘This old woman – how olds old?’ came a voice.

  I pointed at his empty glass. Tony nodded, then gave him a refill.

  Then, Patrick again ‘Onetime I slept in my car for five whole months – middle of winter.’ I looked at Harry. He frowned ‘Hey, quiet – that goes for everybody, okay.’

  Finally it went quiet. ‘Okay, here we go. Elsie, top floor back’ I announced.

  ‘This charmless house has been my abode

  Ten years – no more when I think back.

  It’s what they call ‘bed-sitter land,’

  I’m known as ‘Top-floor back.’

  Interruption: ‘What the fucks an abode?’ I stared at Asian Kenny (this guy’s going to be trouble for sure) ‘Quieten him somebody’ I said, then added ‘Look, I’m just trying to set the scene, okay?’ I picked up where I’d left off:

  ‘My window yawns open to the sky,

  All day I watch the curtains dance.

  Nothing to spend, but time itself,

  A woman without circumstance.

  Already one or two were a bit restless you could tell, most times they’re a pretty easy to please audience, I said ‘Nobody loves her, no friends, nothing. She’s very poor, no money hardly’ I explained waving my pen.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know the feeling’ somebody guffawed.

  Everybody laughed like morons. I waited, then continued:

  ‘Punjabi landlord Mr. Khan,

  His kindness knows none better,

  Trots furtively in stocking feet

  Five flights to bring one letter.

  “Call me Omar” slides Mr. Khan,

  Unusual – he’s always in a hurry

  And now he’s time to squeeze my hand

  – the others stirring curry.’

  Patrick again – this time a question. ‘Question?’ he yells. I nodded. ‘Only, you said Freda – so, how come she’s Elsie all of a sudden?’ he grinned. Everybody stared. His hand came down slowly. He swallowed off his drink, ‘Just a simple question – Christ.’

  ‘It’s poetry’ I said (you could tell it hadn’t gone in) ‘because it’s better, that’s why.’ I was starting to lose them already. ‘Look, take my word, okay. It’s what they call poetic licence – also, I rather think you will find it suits the narrative.’

  Harry nodded, ‘Narrative, okay’ he repeated.

  Big Oggy agreed, he nodded ‘Poetic licence stupid,’ he shook his head.

  I waited, eager to continue – by now I’m into my stride:

  ‘“Come, come live with me” –

  His eyes cast towards the bed,

  His fingers peeled at his belt

  I can’t think what I’d said.’

  Asian Kenny drummed the counter with both fists ‘Hey, good’ – (for some unknown reason he must’ve thought I’d finished). He started to clap, ‘You know what, that’s really good’ he’s telling everybody. I gave him a look. Again I picked up from where I’d left off – or tried more like.

  Alas, soon after that, I had to break off yet again. Pity, I was just getting to the best part of the whole poem.

  This time for good as things turned out.

  It turns out there’s far more lucrative attractions going on over in the other bar. What happened, there’s this big crowd of free-spending revellers (American’s, say no more) just piled in. Cyn’s crowd I’m meaning, quite a party going by the sounds of it. Mind you, who can blame them (free booze for everybody) – word had spread like wildfire. Sadly, in ones and twos I watched them trooping out, pretty soon I’m left looking at an empty bar.

  My God, it’s even worse than I thought. All this loud music blasting out, you could hardly move. You should’ve seen them, free booze flowing over the bar like a prairie fire. Everybody up dancing, yelling – all this loud laughing I’m meaning. (So, this is what’s called having a good time is it I thought.) Mind you, life is just one long party to some people – not that they need much excuse anyway. They just pick up from where they left off the night before. Cynthia & Co, you could spot them a mile off, centre of attention as usual, up dancing like mad things.

  Then when I look, even Harry Tatt, him and Clyde the Wallet, he’s as bad. You’d think they were really big buddies, swapping jokes I’m meaning – you can hear them laughing over everything – nothings that funny.

  Sometimes you aim people a lot higher, right.

  Don’t you worry, I didn’t plan on hanging around.

  Then, just when I’m leaving – too late. Who should come over but old Red-top. That’s all I need. Next thing you know he’s giving me high-fives, making me shake hands, he’s pumping my arm like a mad thing (I don’t even like the fellow). He’s dying to buy me a drink you can tell.

  I showed him my glass.

  You’d to shout over the music. ‘No thanks’ I yelled. He nodded. ‘I’m driving my car’ I explained. I said ‘There’s this big club over in Manchester. That’s where we usually all end up – the whole gang kind’ve (I winked), lots of girls, that’s if you know what I mean.’

  He grinned his slow grin. Tell him anything I thought.

  Red-top’s really chatty for once. So, then he’s telling me it’s Avril’s birthday (it turns out that’s the reason for the big surprise shindig). Not only that, also, by some amazing coincidence it happens to be his too – that makes it a double celebration. Well, don’t expect me to rejoice I thought to myself. You could tell he was expecting me to say ‘Happy Birthday’ or something, only I didn’t. Instead I just kind’ve mumbled (it could’ve meant anything). We both kind’ve laughed.

  Luckily for me somebody called him over.

  Through the crowded dance-floor I spotted Cyn and Avril sat at a corner table, both laughing, tossing back vodka martinis. Cyn kept looking over, then kind’ve sniggering. You could tell they were talking about me. Oh, sticks I thought.

  Time to make a move I’m thinking.

  Then, just when I’m leaving the music changed over to a slow waltz. (Whitney Houston, ‘I will always love you – love yooooooou’). Oh God, that’s all I need. Somehow, it’s as if everyone’s part of a couple, smooching slowly around, pretty soon the whole dance-floor is just one mass of swaying bodies. Then when I look Cyn’s dragging old Red-top up onto his feet too, followed by Clyde the Wallet and Avril, her arms draped over her partners shoulders – she’s really out of it you can tell. I nodded. She smiled through half-closed eyes, swaying dreamily to the music. Cyn happened to look over (she looked happy) o
ur eyes kind’ve bumped. I sighed.

  Instead I took my drink over to the bar. I stood next to Harry.

  ‘Hello Harry’ I said sadly ‘are you having a good-time?’

  He nodded vaguely (he was only half-listening at best). I followed his gaze, his eyes greedily watching Avril’s swaying hips. Her dancing partner looked pretty happy too, his face deep into her ample manufactured chest. Harry’s lips hardly moved, ‘Good a place as any I reckon’ he commented. We both nodded.

  Harry had a small puppy-dog inside his coat, I happened to notice. Much taken he ogled and jiggled it about constantly. All these stupid cooing noises you’d think it was a real baby. He grinned sheepishly (he was dying to tell me you could tell). ‘It’s a Yorkshire Terrier, his names Little Willie – it belongs to the lady’ he told me dopily. I nodded.

  He means Avril – I think he’s in love with her.

  I’d already met Little Willie earlier on, he was a surprise birthday gift from Tony and Oliver from the pub.

  Suddenly there’s this almighty big cheer from over in the other bar. Glad of the distraction, I wondered through to take a look. Everybody’s staring at the giant-sized TV screen, watching this big important football game. Somebody must’ve scored, they’re going crazy, yelling and cheering like morons. Next thing, for some unknown reason the goals been disallowed. That’s all it takes, next thing arguments start. Things start to turn pretty ugly – soon they were fighting in lumps.

  This is what finally decided me to leave.

  Back over in the other bar I nodded at Harry (he’d lost the little dog I noticed). So, then I said, ‘I think I’m going to call it a night.’ Then on my way out, this is when I saw Avril, sitting all alone watching the dancers. Rightaway she gave me a nice smile. (I’m changing my mind about her) I’m really starting to like her. ‘Happy birthday’ I said. I kissed her cheek. You could tell she’d had a few, her eyes were all over the shop. ‘Thanks Colin’ she lisped.