It Always Rains on Sundays

  Thelma pointed frantically at her watch, hoping I’d take the hint. Eric drew thoughtfully on his pipe, he nodded towards the window, ‘Snows on its way’ he announced bleakly.

  Don’t you worry I couldn’t get away fast enough I’ll tell you. Let’s face it, any chance of getting myself snowbound for the night with old Eric and Thelma was not a priority. Same goes with Thelma, she almost ran to fetch my coat, clearly the prospect of me finally taking my leave seemed to perk her up no end.

  Outside it was blowing a gale. I looked worryingly up at the flurrying snow, already, pea-sized hailstones were rattling the shed roofs. However, much to my surprise Eric would insist on giving me the grand tour. I buttoned my coat and turned-up my collar. Thelma trotted on in front holding the lantern, ‘My words we are honoured’ she cried out over her muffler.

  We finally ended up in the top shed. He insisted on showing me his special trophy-room, shelves with rows of yet more fancy cups, adorned with clusters of rosettes of past honours. ‘Awesome’ ‘Megga’ I kept saying. Right at the time I was staring in wonderment of a large model of a 400 pound pumpkin.

  ‘My God, how do you grow them to such a size?’ I blurted.

  They both stared. Thelma tutted ‘Oh dear – you mustn’t ask those kind of questions Mr. Quirke’ she said gravely. ‘Hah, I was waiting for that’ says he re-lighting his pipe. Not that there was that much to see, everything was in the very early stages of preparation – secret formulas garnered over a whole lifetime. He blew out a thick plume of pipe-smoke. Still undecided, he recovered his plant-beds with sacking. Finally turning, his eyes narrowed ‘Not press? You’re positive about that I take it?’ He looked at Thelma. She shrugged.

  ‘No-way. I work up at the Library with Thelma – ask Thelma?’

  He turned to face me, he’d come to a decision, his voice dropped to a whisper ‘What if I were to say … sheep’s urine?’ Eric’s grin widened, he nodded, he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger, then winked. ‘Oh, right’ I said (not that much to be honest). Thelma shrugged – I think by now she was past caring. She trudged back towards the house, shouting at the dogs.

  Soon after that I headed back over the moor, deep in thought – a wiser man hopefully, driving into a white-out of blinding snow.

  ***

  Friday 20th November.

  The weavers knot

  (a knot used by weavers).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  6:30pm. Home early, there’s a Poetry Society meeting on – (I’m really looking forward to it). Hopefully Thelma’s condescended to make an appearance too. I keep trying to reassure her ‘You’ll make lots of friends – look at me?’ I said. ‘That settles it. I’m definitely not going’ she told me. Oh, very droll I’m sure.

  That’s if she decides to turn-up (weather permitting of course). First thing this morning, I looked up at the grey, snow-laden sky. Mother was just fetching in a line of washing (they were frozen like boards) I pointed, ‘Looks like we’re in for a bad winter’ I said, pulling into my galoshes. Mother scoffed ‘Don’t be so soft’ she said scathingly, wiping a dew-drop off her nose-end with her coat-sleeve. She turned ‘If there’s ice in November to carry a duck, they’ll be nowt all winter barring slush and muck’ she chanted.

  So much for the old weather-woman of the north I thought later.

  As things turned out I was right, its snowed non-stop all day, by home time the car-park was blanketed in a foot of snow – I’d a job on finding my car I’ll tell you. Too late, then I discovered I’d been digging out the wrong car. Mind you, old Docket was v.grateful at least, he couldn’t thank me enough. No problem I said. You feel really stupid.

  11:30pm. About tonight’s Poetry Society meeting (we’ve had a lot better turn-outs). Mind you, I’m putting that down to the bad weather as much as anything. Thelma made it after all – so now she’s a bona fide, fully signed up member (so that’s something at least). We’re always on the lookout for new blood so to speak. All that worry, then it turns out she’s staying with a girlfriend of hers in town. You’d’ve thought she’d’ve mentioned it – I know I would. Play it cool I thought. That’s all it takes with some people – next thing you know you’re a couple. Like I said, I just kind’ve introduced her around to a carefully chosen few as it were. ‘And this is a work colleague of mine from the Library.’ I said ‘Thelma’s like me, she simply adores every aspect of poetry, don’t you Thel?’

  Though, if I’m being truthful – I’d have to say she didn’t exactly sparkle – far from it in fact. Frankly, she was a bit disappointing (most of the time she just sat there like a lump) with her mouth agape, he added. Mind you, she can be awfully slack sometimes if she’s that way out I’ve noticed. Then, when I’d the temerity to draw attention to it she went into a almighty sulk. She told me she didn’t even want to come in the first place. This is what she’s like – well, nobody’s forcing you I thought to myself.

  In my notebook I’ve put: ‘Items of note (in a word – none) rather sparse and v.few I’m afraid, originality bit thin on the ground, v.predictable – mostly spurious verse! As indeed they were mostly. However, Lizzie Shaw came up with a new one. Well, I liked it – and, at least it was rather jolly!

  My shoes are too tight – here I am Friday night

  All dolled-up and no place to go.

  I was off on a date, but it might be too late,

  Mind you he’s a bloody good liar is Joe.

  The man’s too cute by a half – he’d sell his boots to a dwarf.

  Mind you, I’d have a thief any day to a liar.

  So I think I’ll stay in – least that’s without sin,

  Just sit here, mapping my legs by the fire.

  (etc, etc and so-forth).

  Next thing you know we’re assailed by Percy Goodlad’s impromptu, (v.theatrical) allegorical narrative poem (bit iffy most people thought) – well part of it at least, e.g:

  Cuthbert the Ready

  Choose me! Choose me! – the maidens flock,

  A mighty man, and such a cock!

  He tucked the end inside his sock.

  Elan! Elan! – the maidens sigh,

  One night with him I’ll surely die.

  Somehow or other he’s gone all to pot lately – he hasn’t been the same since his wife ran off with the local M.Ps wife. Finally, he was persuaded to sit down (he started to cry). This is the trouble I missed half of it because of all the constant interruptions. Gabriel Biggar-Titte I’m meaning. Some chairman I thought (or his table at least). Don’t worry I’m not the only one.

  What stopped me I don’t know.

  Then it turns out Gabriel appears to have acquired himself a new girlfriend. Pure Cabbage-patch (emphasise on the word ‘girlfriend’) fourteen summers I’d say, that’s at the most, and tremendously pretty I might add. (‘Is he thinking of adopting her?’) I overheard some wag chortle. This one’s Polish, her names Fried-ka – you say it like doing an egg. Oh, and hardly one word of English, trust Gabriel B.T. to be fluent in the stuff – he gets by in five languages wouldn’t you know. So, what little attention Thelma’s presence might’ve have attracted normally was in fact diluted mightily under the circumstances I suppose. She’s the replacement for Alison I expect.

  Not surprisingly Gabriel’s reputation for liking them young, it’s opened up new boundaries, it’s causing quite a buzz, indeed, quite a brouhaha in fact. Like most guys, my thoughts stayed in. English or no English, even the fact that she zipped up her own thigh-high leather boots, was quite an incredulous achievement in itself, in my eyes at least. Just looking at her is enough, she has these great big, dive into cornflower blue eyes that just kind’ve look at you, and this long Rapunzel, kind’ve whitey blonde hair (apparently she can sit on it). – isn’t that amazing!

  One thing for sure all the men really liked her (a lot) you could tell. So did the women come to think, well mostly – one or two reserved judgement until later (a bit peevish I thought) – it was a bit like looki
ng into a pram I expect.

  Mind you, how long this one will last is anybody’s guess.

  ‘Remember Irena?’ the same wag remarked in a low voice, his mouth close to my ear – ‘six languages, she couldn’t say no in any of them’ he sniggered (‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw’ they all went). I nodded. He’d be meaning the Russian girl I expect (nobody could even pronounce her name). This is a couple of P.As back, before Alison came on the scene – the same one that could carry an adult Rottweiler one-handed, usually whilst eating a salami door-step of a sandwich at the same time.

  Gabriel’s face fairly beamed (he’s strutting around like a cockerel with two dicks), preening for all his worth. Introducing her to one group, then on to another, kind’ve prodding her. I only wished you’d seen him. ‘And, this is Fried-ka’ he announced overloudly for the umpteenth time. She turned, around and around, smiling prettily, blushing delightfully in Polish. She’s like some prize he’s just won in a raffle – I was expecting trumpets.

  Finally it’s my turn, we touch hands.

  So, okay, I have to admit I waited in line like everybody else – so what?

  She gave me the sweetest smile, showing lots of ultra-white (milk?) teeth. ‘Co-len? Co-len?’ she said it twice. We kind’ve looked at each other for about ten hours, at least. I can’t help it (those eyes of hers) she took my breath away. I gulped – I kept nodding. I think I’m in love with her.

  Had I said it or thought it?

  Then, all of a sudden she exclaimed ‘Halo – kocham Anglie!’ (“Hello, I like England” I think) – how about that. Isn’t that AMAZING. Okay, she said that to just about everybody. Just that in my particular case, somehow or other, she said it with a lot more personal emphasis I thought. Wonderful, funnily enough now that she’s close-up, maybe her English wasn’t that bad come to think.

  Finally things started to settle down. Next thing on the agenda is all about finalising the last minute details regarding the forth-coming poetry competition. Trust Gabriel B.T. wanting to make a big production of things. He’d a list as long as the Humber-bridge, he’s going over things for the umpteenth time, as if we’re all a load of complete idiots. Mind you he’d been up and down like a demented Jack-in-the-box all night if you ask me. Everybodies entry had to go into this special ornate, mahogany box, under the scrutiny of the whole committee. Finally, he held his own entry aloft, then slotted it into the box. Everybody clapped, a few cheered. ‘So, ladies and gentlemen’ he concluded ‘without further ado. May the best man win – good luck everyone’ says he. He stepped down from his chair. Somebody had reminded him. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw’ he goes, he lifted his hand waiting for silence ‘Oh, yes, certainly. Or, indeed woman, of course – my humble apologies ladies’ he laughed.

  Again, there was prolonged, loud applause.

  Finally, aforesaid ornate box was locked up with a fancy key. However, what surprised most people (especially his Barbie-doll look-alike new girlfriend Friedka) is handing her the key – who no doubt, baffled by the whole procedure, in turn dropped it down her cleavage for safe-keeping. Gabriel whispered something into her shell-like ear (she coloured up, then giggled). Finally handing it over to a member of the committee.

  Soon after that, due to the inclement weather the meeting was adjourned. All in all I think Thelma really enjoyed it. Who knows, now that she’s a fellow-member, I have high hopes we can meet up socially to say the least. Mind you, it’s a bit hard to tell with some people. ‘Fancy a tipple?’ I said. She shook her head (rather quickly I thought), some lame excuse or other. She’d something pre-arranged with this (name-less), so-called ‘girlfriend’ of hers. ‘Well, please yourself’ I thought.

  This is what she’s like. I ended up going to the pub.

  ***

  Monday 23rd November.

  I never sang for my father (book title).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one).

  6:30pm. Home early – Jamie’s school concert (his last before he moves up to the big school). Good old Thelma. She isn’t to ask twice (‘Go – just go, a son need his father’ kind’ve). She’s a real gem in no mistake – who else eh?

  More car trouble I’m afraid – footprints I’m meaning, prow to stern. Bastards, is nothing sacred – you can’t miss it, size eleven I’d say with a distinctive, kind’ve zeddy pattern, I’d know it anywhere. Don’t you worry, I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea who it is. No doubt it’ll be that geeky new paper lad, him with the funny eye I’ll bet. Then, when I confronted him he denied it, of course – what else. ‘Okay, in that case’ I said ‘you won’t mind me having a quick shufti underneath your shoe?’

  I was just about to make a citizen’s arrest, right on the spot.

  He made off, hurling abuse from a safe distance. Only, now he’s making out, telling everybody I’ve assaulted him. ‘Tell who you like’ I yelled ‘never mind a torn jumper – next time I’ll bloody-well swing for you.’

  I called the local cop shop – just in case.

  This was a police-woman (she was full of sympathy you could tell), ‘Oh, that’s terrible’ she exclaimed over the phone ‘you did the right thing to report it.’ She ended-up giving me her brother-in-laws phone number who runs the Pheonix Car-valet in town. It just shows – basically, there’s good in everybody. Right now she’s over at Fox’s Garage. Fat Frank’s giving her a complete re-spray (he can’t do enough). He’s even loaned me his wife’s old Volvo saloon, the one with the three giant-sized rear-view mirrors – it’s just until she builds up her confidence again after the debacle with the school-bus that time.

  Letters (one only): More bumph I’m afraid. ‘CHANCE OF A LIFETIME!’ it says. ‘Fantastic opportunity for the discerning traveller. Which of us wouldn’t fancy the chance of a group holiday in Italy searching for rare truffles in Umbria?’ God, what’s happening to me – I think I’m slowly unravelling (for some unknown reason I’d read it as grope). So, what does that tell you. No doubt something deep and Freudian I rather suspect – bring a friend it says. Oh sure, who did you have in mind?

  11:00pm. About Jamie’s school concert – well, okay I suppose. Once we’d all agreed on transportation (one thing for sure, no-way am I riding around in Red-top’s stupid pickup truck). This is what I said ‘Why can’t we all go as a normal family just like we always do? – two parents, like it says on the invitation.’ No chance. Cynthia was adamant, she wouldn’t budge even an inch. Finally we compromised (we tossed up a coin). Lucy ended up going with them. So that meant Jamie looking down his nose because he had to come with me yours truly, trundling around in Fat Frank’s wife’s old Volvo-saloon with the L-plates and big mirrors.

  So that means, not only am I driving a strange car (all these mirrors) – it’s like sitting in a beauty parlour. There’s a lot more snow than I thought, lots of it, deep, crisp and v.uneven. We drove slowly, then on top of everything else I’ve got Kevin the Looney on my tail. All the time he’s pushing me with his stupid head-lights, deeper and deeper into this pea-souper fog, further into the unknown. I could sense Jamie’s apprehension.

  ‘Don’t worry son – I’m in full control’ I assured him.

  Mind you, all he can talk about is – you know who (Kevin the Magnificent I’m meaning). ‘Kevvy can do fifty press-ups, one-handed’ he told me in a lull. I nodded (SO WHAT?) Atmosphere already. ‘Knowing him he needs the other hand to help him count’ I said under my breath – part hoping he’d heard me. His voice got louder ‘Well, I think it’s brilliant’ he persisted.

  We drove the rest of the way in total silence.

  ***

  Jamie in this mood you never know (usually I write him a funny poem). This is the trouble, easier said. What’s funny to an eleven year old? e.g:

  THREE GUESSES

  Three guesses, three guesses, who’s coming to tea?

  Fat Uncle Arthur and skinny Auntie Vee.

  And lots of half cousins, they’re coming in droves,

  And scenty gran Ryder – I’ll be holding my nose.

&nbs
p; Mum’s warned me already, I’ve to keep my mouth shut.

  She’s no need to worry, I’ll hide in the hut.

  Auntie Vee ain’t arf nosey, she really abhors,

  Inbetween conversation she’ll be rooting through drawers.

  Old Granny Ryder (she must have false teeth).

  She chomps hours at table, then throws it beneath.

  (etc, etc).

  As things turned out it went down rather well I think. Though, what spoilt it for me is Red-top (apart from sitting right next to me). All the time he’s making these goofy faces at Lucy, twinkling his fingers – trying his level best to make her laugh.

  What’s so funny about that?

  After that we had this gloomy-doomy girl soloist (with bright red hair) playing the cello (that went on for six minutes). Finally it’s over, everybody crowded onto the stage, that’s including the school choir, belting out Jerusalem, conducted by the headmaster Mr. Braintree.

  Last thing on the agenda, then it’s time for the usual, teachers mingling with parents routine (a complete waste of time if you ask me). Everybody dying to hear what a fantastic genius their really thick kid is kind’ve. What really got me is later, Mr. Braintree I’m meaning, coming over to talk to us, ‘Well done Nigel’ he pipes up ‘well done – nice touch of humour’ says he, patting my sons head. What a crumb, right.

  Though, if you want to know what really pissed me right off even more is what happened next. So, then he turns to Cyn and Red-top, he says ‘And, these are your parents I presume?’ Beat that – he’s looking at a guy with Day-glo red hair for chrissakes (is he blind?) Next thing they’re shaking hands. What a plum-head, right.

  Everybody laughed. No wonder I stared.

  Too late the damage was already done.

  That did it for me – after that I made my excuses as they say. I drove home in deep thought. Then went up to my room, I laid on the bed in deep contemplative thought, listening to light classical music (Chopin’s Piano Sonata No 2 in B flat minor Op 35 ‘FUNERAL MARCH’). I tried working on my Daddy Sends his Love poem. That depressed me even more, I fell asleep – I woke with a start, my face stuck to the pillow, still sucking my pencil. What woke me was my mother calling me down to supper. ‘I don’t want anything’ I yelled. Somehow or other I just couldn’t face her, or Auntie Agnes for that matter – it just shows, normally I’d’ve given my Sunday-boots for a nice wedge of Fred Bishop’s prize-winning pork pie. Then my mother’s voice again: