It Always Rains on Sundays

  Rich husband Clyde had bought her an expensive new watch – it looked like two shifts down a diamond mine. Thinking about it, being rich really suits some people. Avril’s a born natural if you ask me. Big jewels, like sucked wine-gums shone from several fingers – red talons for finger-nails, her engagement ring sported a solitaire diamond as big as a coffee-pot lid.

  She broke off playing with the puppy-dog, frolicking inside her lap ‘You know what. I’m really glad we can all still be friends,’ she crooned happily (she means well I suppose). I nodded. Her attention swung back to the little dog. She lifted him high into the air, nuzzling him, then kissing him on the nose. She laughed, ‘Hey, did you get to meet Little Willie yet?’ she gurgled rapturously through a sheen on shining blonde hair.

  I patted Willy’s head ‘You bet, we’ve already met’ I assured her. No doubt about it, giving her the little dog, it’d really hit the bulls-eye.

  She gazed down with warm affection at Little Willie, her eyes danced merrily. She sighed ‘You know what, it’s pretty amazing when you think. Having something so warm and vital and full of life between your legs, I’m meaning – it’s really wonderful. I could keep him there forever’ she gushed.

  I nodded, then shrugged. I said goodnight.

  Harry over by the bar nodded (we were both thinking the same thing), he shrugged – going by the look he gave me he’d heard it too. I nodded. He gave me a lazy one-handed wave, keeping his eyes fixed on Avril’s ample cleavage. ‘See ya’ he said.

  4:15am. I’ve been phoning up Aussie Bland. He was my last hope. Typical, it has to be his really frail and feeble, about three-hundred and nine year old mother who picked up the rotten phone (“Is that you Dorothea – how’s Albert’s bad leg?”) Huh? She wandered off to fetch him. I waited. Then I got this big wave comes over me – what’s the point kind of thing. Anyway, finally, about three days later he decides to come and answer the damn phone. Just in case I disguised my voice (I covered the phone with my hanky). ‘I ONLY HOPE YOU’RE SATISFIED YOU FAT BASTARD’ I cried.

  There was a pause, ‘FUCK OFF QUIRKEY – pack it in, okay’ he said in a loud voice (I said he was bright). He slammed down the phone.

  ***

  Tuesday 17th November.

  Arthur Hugh Clough 1819-1861.

  Say the struggle nought availeth.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Rain all day – so what’s new. More car trouble I’m afraid, she’s totally kaput. Rightaway I’m on the blower, trying to contact Fat Frank over at Fox’s Garage. ‘What now?’ he barked. ‘You tell me squire – she’s as dead as a door-nail’ I said.

  You could tell he wasn’t best pleased. It’s hardly my fault is it?

  I wouldn’t mind, there’s a Poetry Society meeting on for tonight – I was running late already. Luckily, he came over in the tow-truck rightaway. (Bad news.) It turns out, part of the ignition-key has broken off inside. He shook his head, ‘Looks like I’ll have to tow the bugger in’ he sighed. You feel really stupid.

  Somehow or other I didn’t feel like asking him for a lift home.

  Luckily for me Dec Tasker the caretaker came to my rescue, he offered me a lift in his van. However, (all to no avail apparently), just as I’m leaving I’m handed a note from rotten, stinking Gabriel B.T. – he’s only postponing the rotten, stinking Poetry Society meeting yet again, the swine. Friday now he’s saying. Oh superb I thought – I wouldn’t mind but it’s the only thing that’s been keeping me going. This is what he’s like. Mind you, as to why he can’t simply pick up a rotten telephone like us lesser mortals I don’t know. Just so he can show off his fancy la-de-dah personalised note paper I expect (two griffins indeed). It looks more like a cat with a frog on its head if you ask me.

  No explanation or anything, he sent round his so-called, ‘gardening lad’ as he likes to call him. Poor little sod, imagine all that way on a push-bike in Wellington-boots, out in the pouring rain, peddling up that steep one in four hill up to the Library. I wouldn’t mind he knows Declan’s speech impediment by this time, surely to God. It only embarrasses folk when he starts stuttering and whatnot, getting himself all excited, spitting over everything.

  To be truthful I felt rather sorry for him. (I handed over a few coins out of the fines-box.) Unfortunately, I’d run out of loose change, or I’d’ve given him more. As things turned out the young fellow was highly delighted you could tell. It just shows what a little kindness can do – he was off in a trice, whistling if you please … My words I thought to myself, there goes a happy, contented human being – indeed, pretty much a rarity these days I’m afraid. I watched him peddling off, hell for leather he goes, away down the hill. Finally disappearing into the haze. You know what, I rather envied him in a way.

  Where else but in England?

  Something else too. I’ve been having a quiet word with Thelma’s new acquaintance, this German character I’m meaning, her most recent admirer – him from her Spanish-class, not that I’d wish to interfere with her personal life, of course. Who she wants to associate herself with, it’s entirely up to her. However, I am rather concerned about her welfare – I am her superior after all.

  What brought things to a head, he appears to have acquired this rather irritating habit of loitering about the place, waiting for her at the front counter. Okay, fair enough, no crime in itself I have to admit. Then there’s his piercing whistling to contend with too (‘Yankee doodle-dandy’ if you please) – not to mention scuffing the new paintwork with his mighty clod-hopper motorcycle boots. We are a Library afterall.

  Somebody had to say something.

  ‘Look here’ I said. I spoke to him man to man. ‘Look here – nothing personal. I’m doing you a favour here squire. I don’t know if you are aware, Mrs. Clegg is a married lady, savvy – get my drift? Also, I might add – how shall I put it. She’s a bit vulnerable at this particular moment in time – very. Thelma’s husband can be rather unpredictable at times’ I said. ‘Strange to say the very least – rumour has it he invariably carries a serrated vegetable knife down his sock, be warned.’ I think he got the picture.

  Mind you, really, when you think such relationships, they rarely prosper into anything really meaningful – it was only teetering at best. Not to mention trekking over those bleak Pennine hills in the black of night on a motor-cycle combination in the depths of a Yorkshire winter, on those perilous moorland roads, all the way over to Manchester.

  I’ll give him his due he must’ve taken the hint.

  After that I then escorted him off the premises so to speak. We walked round as far as the car park in complete silence. He donned his helmet, then clicked his heels and saluted – silly sod. (I don’t know what all that was about.) I waited, holding the torch steady whilst he untangled the heavy length of chain securing his motor-cycle combination – for some unknown reason he kept flooding the carburettor, after the third attempt the machine finally put-putted into life. Just to prove my point it’d started snowing. Sooner him than me I thought, pulling my Duffle-coat hood up against the blustering wind. ‘Watch that road squire’ I shouted into the darkness. I watched his receding tail-lights wobbling off into the cold night, ‘You won’t be the first late night traveller to end up in a bog out on those moors!’ I called out.

  Thelma waited on the front steps, wearing her big coat and bright red bobble-hat, looking anxious (no doubt she’d be wondering where her gentleman caller had got to I shouldn’t wonder) say little I thought. Sometimes it’s a lot easier to lie. ‘Oliver? Oliver?’ I shook my head. ‘Oliver who?’ I repeated.

  We both looked up at the swirling snow.

  ‘Oh dear – it’s a terrible night’ I said.

  Thelma nodded, blinking up at the night sky. I took hold of her arm, shepherding her back indoors, into the warmth of the Library. ‘Look, I’d better give you a lift home my girl – it could get a lot worse’ I said with alacrity. I neglected to mention it would be in the back of Dec Tasker’s old van. ‘It�
�ll be a bit of a tight squeeze – at least it’ll save you the trouble of two buses’ I said.

  High time for a showdown. Thinking about it, everything kind’ve ties in I suppose. Turning-up unannounced at Thelma’s house a couple of nights later I’m meaning. Then, all the way over there in the Mondeo I’m turning things over in my mind, what I’m going to say (not a confrontational, him or me exactly) more of a, let’s get it sorted out once and for all kind of thing.

  That said, I knew it was a big mistake the moment I rat-tatted the front door with the rams-head door-knocker. All of a sudden I’m deafened by bells, half-blinded by flood lights.C.C.T.V. cameras, poking out everywhere you look. Somebody should’ve warned me – the whole place is like a fortress. This in turn starts the dogs off, barking their stupid heads off. BIG DOGS – you can see them bouncing off the door through the frosted-glass, trying their best to get at me.

  It’s really scary I’ll tell you.

  I’d completely forgot about Eric’s paranoia (he’s as mad as a hat), he thinks everybody’s after his secret formulas, how to grow giant-sized vegetables? Somebody should tell him – we’re in the middle of winter.

  Something streaked through my mind. WHY AM I HERE?

  Too late. I can see somebody – a man (all of a sudden the alarm stops). Eric presumably, bolts shooting back, the door opened. So, we meet up at long last – I can feel my heart thumping already. I braced myself…

  Then, when I look, it isn’t Eric after all – leastways it isn’t the same guy I’d been expecting. This guy’s little, wiry, sharp-featured with a high hair-cut and a pencil moustache. He has these intense staring eyes – he reminded me of a ferret.

  What’s happened to the big fellow, him with the shoulders and huge hammy hands I’d seen that time before at the horticulture show? It must’ve been someone else. Meantime he’s fighting to hold back the dogs. Three Dobermans, solid as young bulls, with shiny coats and eager eyes, showing lots of fierce looking teeth. ‘Don’t let the boys out! Don’t let the boys out! He exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.

  Finally (much to my relief) he managed to shut them off into another room.

  Right at first I’d all on trying to convince the idiot I wasn’t from the media. He fixed me with his piercing stare, he laughed coldly, ‘Okay, let’s have it. What are you, local or national? No doubt you’ll be wanting to take photos I expect?’ Okay, I knew he was a bit looney – this guy’s unbelievable. I shook my head, ‘Me – no-way’ I said.

  His mad eyes bore right into me, he laughed wildly, throwing back his head ‘Oh, they all say that’ he cried. ‘Don’t you worry, others have tried and failed miserably. I’m telling you now – I’m impregnable’ his eyes lit up, he smirked secretively. ‘Be warned my friend – I shall say this but once. Those dogs haven’t been fed for two whole days – barring a sheep’s head a piece’ he laughed mirthlessly.

  Too late, I was already here – THINKING WHERE’S THELMA?

  Luckily, this is when Thelma decided to show-up. I’d spotted her a bit earlier on behind the frosted glass (or her brightly coloured pom-pom slippers at least) dancing about nervously. Then when she saw me she almost dropped down in a dead faint – her hand went to her mouth. I smiled weakly. ‘Hello Thelma’ I said.

  She stared, ‘Actually, I’m from the Library’ I heard myself say in a squeaky high voice. I gave her a small wave. She stood behind her husband, (she pointed at the wall-clock). She’s right it was rather late I suppose, she clutched her dressing-gown, ‘Oh, my word. Oh-if-it-isn’t-Colin. Mr. Quirke from the Library?’ she chanted. She began making wild faces, one hand working across her throat, making a cutting motion. ‘Oh, I expect you have an urgent message, perhaps, ay?’ I shook my head.

  Meantime Eric, still very much on the defensive, divided his attention between the both of us. She laughed hysterically ‘Something to do with work I suppose – nothing-wrong-I-hope?’ she chanted, still using the same disembodied voice. She stared (she was waiting for me) ‘What-could-it-be-I-wonder? (that couldn’t wait until tomorrow at work?) her face said. Why was Thelma speaking like a thespian?

  ‘Urgent? Well, not exactly – I was just kind’ve cruising around.’ They both stared ‘All of a sudden I just saw your house,’ I said.

  Everyone turned to look at the grandfather clock.

  She’s right – who else would venture out on a night like this over those bleak, god-forsaken moors – only an idiot. Just to remind me a gust of icy cold wind whipped off my cap, chased by a few odd flakes of flurrying snow.

  I turned-up my coat collar.

  Suddenly Eric stuck his head out of the door, craning his neck, looking furtively up and down the dark deserted moorland road. He shot out a calloused hand, pulling me indoors. He smiled for the first time, displaying several spikey teeth ‘Eric Clegg.’ I nodded. We both shook hands. ‘Colin Quirke’ I said, running to retrieve my cap from the middle of the road. He bolted the door, then turned the key.

  I trooped after them, dogs sullenly following closely at my heels, watching my every move. (No sign of Max, still fast asleep I expect). Eric’s high-pitched voice resounded along the low-ceilinged, stone-flagged passageway (– they didn’t get many bona fide visitors.) ‘Not at that time of night at least!’ he called out. ‘Not in winter’ he added.

  We all laughed. After that things lightened up considerably.

  We sat out in the large, beamed, kitchen cum dining-room in uneasy conviviality, huddled in front of a pot-bellied stove, making desultory conversation about the changeable weather. This is when Max decided to make a belated appearance, boisterous as ever. ‘Lookout. Here comes trouble’ they both chorused. Rightaway he came up to me wagging his tail. ‘He likes you’ Eric commented. I shrugged, ‘Oh, I like dogs’ I said.

  Thelma shot me a look. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea’ she announced.

  ‘He needs more than a cup of tea’ Eric said in a flat voice, staring at the glowing stove. Thelma fetched two glasses and a bottle of brandy, without smiling. Eric was a pipe-smoker, the whole place reeked of it. Inbetween silences he sucked at his pipe and thought deeply.

  Mostly I was fending off stupid dogs, three moody monstrosities with crazy eyes and lolling tongues, dripping gunge all over the place. Every now and then he half-raised himself from his rocking-chair to reprimand the dogs, ‘Down Striker, down … DOWN. Gypsy, what have I told you?’ ‘Jack. DOWN – how many more times. BASKET’ he yelled.

  Then, after a pause, he said ‘Library eh?’

  I nodded ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  Thelma laughed for no reason ‘We’re a team, aren’t we Mr. Quirke?’ I nodded. Another silence. Already we’d run out of things to say. Meantime he busied himself at the stove – he rattled it constantly.

  He saw me looking, he rested his poker ‘That fire hasn’t been out in over twenty-one years’ he stated, pointing with the stem of his pipe. He paused, then added ‘Well, not properly it hasn’t, has it Thelma?’ he half-turned, as if looking for confirmation. ‘Is that a true statement or not?’ he asked her. She nodded.

  Thelma was a bag of nerves. ‘Um, that’s correct, twenty-two actually, come January’ we all nodded. ‘Only to clean it out of course’ she added quickly, flashing him a quick smile – you could sense the atmosphere.

  They’d had the same conversation before you could tell.

  They exchanged looks. ‘Wow’ I said ‘that’s really amazing.’ There was another long pause. You could hear the grandfather clock out in the passage, steadily ticking away. Eric re-lit his pipe, then rocked gently. His pipe came out yet again ‘Well, this is what I said – only to fettle it out’ he reflected. So, then I said ‘There’s a pub on the other side of town called The Naked Man. They say the fire’s been going over a hundred years. That’s at least, or so they say.’

  Everybody nodded, then stared at the stove.

  Eric pondered it over, he crouched down in front of the hearth, he picked up the poker. He took out his pipe, then muttered
‘He means The Naked Man I expect’ he turned ‘Or, so they say’ he said doubtfully – ‘or, so they say’ he repeated, not without scorn.

  Thelma gave me a look, it could’ve meant anything.

  Too late I’d already said it. Why didn’t I just go?

  ‘I understand they burn peat – does that make a difference?’ I offered vacuously.

  Meantime Eric busied himself at the stove, flames roared up the flue-pipe. He nodded ‘Pull your bloody socks off would that bugger’ he announced, his eyes fairly glowed.

  Some confrontation I’m thinking.

  More for something to say (change the subject I thought). Instead, I thought maybe I’d ask him about his hobby – how come he managed to grow things to such a gi-normous size? (Big mistake – capital M.) Thelma laughed hysterically, squirming in her seat. ‘Oh dear, you mustn’t ask questions like that?’ she whooped.

  Luckily I must’ve caught him in a good mood.

  He re-lit his pipe for the umpteenth time ‘Hear that Thelma?’ he exclaimed between puffs. ‘It’s more than any hobby my friend’ says he. He laughed coldly, he pointed his pipe at the large trophy display on the sideboard – the whole wall was covered with framed photographs taken at various shows up and down the country. Large ornate silver trophies jostled for space on top of the mantelpiece. ‘We can but try – it’s just something you’re born with I suppose,’ he conceded modestly, throwing one leg over the other. He turned to Thelma ‘Next stop Shepton Mallet, well hopefully at least, eh Thelma?’

  She nodded ‘Well hopefully’ Thelma agreed, smiling thinly, sipping at her tea.

  Thelma had already told me. He meant the World Annual Vegetable Show, this being the mecca for all like-minded contenders it seems – his ultimate goal.