It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  Emily Dickinson 1830-1866.

  Because I couldn’t stop for death,

  He kindly stopped for me.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-one). LIFE NIL.

  8:00pm. I’ve just seen my face in the hallway mirror. I look like Dr. Death – I’ve promised myself an early night. Mind you no wonder I’m a bit down (one letter!) Finally (I’ve been expecting it) – my eyes went straight to it when I came in from work. Aussie Bland no doubt, manila envelope, peeping malevolently from behind the clock. Quirke verses Quirke I expect – do your worst say I. Oh, isn’t life a pisser sometimes, even your best friend turns against you! Don’t you worry, Cyn’s welcome to him, he couldn’t divorce a pair of bloody kippers. Mind you, all this could’ve been sorted out yonks ago, once upon a time we’d’ve been meeting-up in some early morning misty meadow, pistols at dawn, end of – BANG.

  9:30pm. What a bitch. Cyn I’m meaning – she’s only sent the rotten stinking rozzers round, that’s all. Nobody would believe what that woman’s put me through – nary so much as a thought regarding my poor old widowed mother. Having to answer the door to a uniformed policeman, on a cold winters night. What next I cry! Next thing you know she’ll be worrying herself into an early grave you can bet. I was sat in my shirt-sleeves eating my supper (nice piece of smoked haddock) – but there you go.

  I shouted her indoors. ‘Leave this to me mother’ I said.

  There he is (sixteen if he’s a day) out on the front steps, shining his torch into his notebook. I fetched him indoors: You’d better come in constable’ I said. No point entertaining the whole bloody street I thought. ‘What’s all this?’ I said. ‘What seems to be the trouble officer?’

  No surprises there, of course. Cynthia, who else. So, then it turns out she’s made a formal complaint (typical I thought). Imagine, calling the police, just because I happened to drive past DeLacey Street a couple of times the previous night. You’d’ve thought they’d far more important things to do with their time if you ask me.

  I closed off the inner-door – why upset my mother more than she already is. Too late, she’d already pushed her way in, ‘Gracious me, you must be frozen throughout on that bicycle in this weather young man’ she exclaimed, twisting her pinny into a knot. ‘Not now mother we’ve a bit of business on’ I told her. She’s fussing around like a mother hen, then if she didn’t sit him down in the armchair right next to the fire. She trotted off to the kitchen, reappearing moments later with a wobbly cup of tea on a saucer and a big triangle of homemade mixed-fruit pasty. She stood back, arms akimbo, watching him eat with gusto, ‘That should put you on a bit my lad’ she commented, showing him a gummy smile.

  ‘Have you done mother?’ I said.

  Finally she must’ve taken the hint, she went out on the pretext of fetching him some Garibaldi biscuits. After that we got down to the job in hand. He read out of his notebook – nine reported sightings according to him, or ‘unwarranted attention’ as he called it.

  Well, he’s grossly misinformed there for a kick-off I thought.

  ‘You can substantiate that statement I take it?’

  He made a quick lunge deep into his pasty, then he gulped at his tea ‘Well, it’s a bit much’ he spluttered, spitting out bits of pasty – ‘according to information received.’

  ‘Look here constable’ I interjected ‘pray be good enough as to explain to me which law of the land states categorically that I must not traverse past my children’s place of abode during the hours of darkness?’ I said.

  He consulted his notebook ‘Several sightings. He continued, ‘Four consecutive nights all told. That’s in one night.’ He looked up ‘Well, it’s a bit much. It’s developed into a bit of a habit.’ We both nodded.

  Mind you he is right I suppose, I’ll give the young fellow his due. Fair enough, 6:00am, it is rather questionable to be picking up the children for school I suppose. Also, climbing the cherry-tree, flashing my torch up at Cyn’s bedroom window, on reflection it’s a bit fool hardy to say the least. I mean, he is right in a way, you can see his point I suppose.

  So then I spoke to him man to man, I said ‘You have no idea what that woman’s put me through’ I told the young constable. ‘I’ve been under a considerable amount of domestic upheaval – it’s like being put through an emotional wringer, it’s the only way I can describe it.’

  He nodded glumly, he was full of sympathy ‘Um, I know what you mean’ he said sadly, finishing off his pasty. ‘Tell me about it. It’s the same with my mum and dad. They’re a right pair of muppets when they’re together I’ll tell you – getting a divorce is the best thing they ever did’ he lamented, working a finger around his gums.

  What’s wrong with people?

  ‘Divorced eh?’ He nodded ‘They’re as happy as Larry.’

  He stood up, making ready to leave, brushing loose crumbs off his uniform into the hearth, finally he said ‘Look, I’ll leave it with you, okay.’

  We shook hands. I showed him out. ‘Mind those steps, they’re a positive menace’ I said.

  We looked up at the cold starlit sky.

  ‘I’ve had a lot on lately – you don’t know the half of it.’

  He stooped to put on his bicycle-clips, then adjusted his helmet ‘Best thing they ever did’ he repeated ‘half the time they were both at each other’s throats like a couple of ferrets inside a sack.’

  ‘Really? Divorced eh – best way in that case?’

  ‘They’re both as happy as larks – funny that isn’t it?’

  He peddled off, ducking his head under the clothesline, ‘Tra son’ I called out after him.

  Mother put her head round the door ‘Is everything alright?’ I nodded. You could tell she was a bit agitated. ‘I’ve had a bit of an accident’ she trembled out, her voice almost in a whisper. Somehow or other she’d managed to knock the spout clean off her Silver Jubilee Staffordshire teapot. It was a family heirloom, she showed me the pieces. ‘Yes – so it would appear’ I said.

  She stared, her face was aghast. ‘Do you think it might super-glue?’

  This is the trouble, people like my mother, they think they can super-glue everything just about – even a wonky marriage. I shook my head. ‘No’ I said (she bit her lip) ‘anyway I pretty much doubt it mother – it’s poisonous for one thing. Leastways I think it is’ I said.

  ***

  Monday 7th December.

  For godsake go steady with the butter.

  (Yorkshire saying).

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  Cynthia called me up at work (very high-horsey I thought) laying down the law as per usual. Mostly about Lucy. ‘She’s getting picked-up from school earlier and earlier’ she ranted, then added ‘Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. What could be simpler than that. Poor Kevin’s sat there waiting like an idiot – alternative days, or is that too long a word?’

  Don’t you worry I fired it straight back.

  ‘No prob, I’ll look it up’ I said. Boy, was I glib (water off a duck kind’ve). Cyn really hates it when I’m in a good mood. She thinks I don’t know – all that brouhaha, about going over to the States I’m meaning. Not a true story (not anymore at least). How do I know, just by chance I happened to bump into Fred Gooley, he’s the secretary over at the swanky Lakeside Country Club. Anyway, he told me in the strictest confidence that old Red-top had just signed-up for a whole year’s subscription. So, what does that tell you? Well, I know what I think. Why pay out an arm and a leg if you’re moving away, right.

  I said ‘So, when does lover-boy start this big important job anyway – him being a policeman I’m meaning?’ She sensed my scorn

  ‘Intelligence Service if you don’t mind.’

  Some people, right. They’ll believe anything. ‘All I can tell you at this stage, it’s something pretty high-up with a lot of clout’ Cynthia said. I’d all on not to laugh out-loud. ‘What’s that, bell-ringing?’ I almost said. (Ha ha, Ha ha.)

  Next thing she comes out with a real b
eauty. This is the best yet, then she’s telling me (wait for it) he’s been – head-hunted! Oh, Pleeeeese! Her voice filled with mystery, almost a whisper ‘Tell nobody, okay. I’ve been sworn to secrecy. Kevin’s taken an oath of allegiance, top security. Royalty I’m meaning (a pause). Even the Queen was mentioned. Keep it under your hat – it goes no further, got it?’

  Boy O boy – I can’t wait. You should’ve heard her – she’s a real tonic in no mistake. I clamped my hand over my mouth ‘You bet’ I tittered.

  Hard to imagine, right. Old Red-top guarding the Queen of England, beat that. No wonder I laughed. ABDICATION MORE LIKE. Oh sure – I can just imagine it, undercover, him with that big mop of red hair too – the dopey one out of the Marx Brothers. Talk about laugh, I’ll say.

  She repeated it ‘Tell nobody, okay’ she hung up.

  11:30pm. Just got back, I’ve been over to St Jude’s hospital. I’d been hoping to have a proper face to face meeting with Cynthia when she came off shift – fool’s errand more like. I hung around for over an hour. Then when she saw me she dived into the lift. Don’t you worry, she’d seen me alright.

  However, one good thing at least – well in a way. Then on my way out I just happened to bump into my old buddy from the Poetry Society, Calvin Cartwright (isn’t it a small world). His eyes fairly lit up when he saw me. Mind you I’m not surprised, he was sat in a wheelchair outside the A&E department with his leg in plaster.

  ‘Oh dear – what’s all this Calvin?’ I said.

  No doubt about it he’d had it pretty rough by all accounts. He’d been stuck in a corridor six solid hours, waiting for an ambulance to give him a lift home.

  I felt really sorry for him I’ll tell you.

  He was glad of the lift you could tell. Like I said, I was happy to help out. I wheeled him out to the car, (trust it to start raining). ‘This countries fucked I’ll tell you that for nothing pal’ he grumbled. I tried helping him into the back of the Mondeo. ‘You work your fingers to the bone – what thanks do you get, chuff all’ he muttered, wincing through gritted teeth.

  I looked in my rear-view mirror, ‘Um. I know just what you mean Calvin,’ I said. He made a porthole in the side-window, then said ‘Then, when you need an ambulance to get you home, forget it pal – six sodding hours. Nothing to eat barring one out of date sodding sausage-roll. That’s what’s wrong with this sodding country, nobody gives a shit.’

  He complained quite a lot come to think. I’ll be honest, I was starting to wish I hadn’t even bothered. I nodded ‘Um. I know just what you mean Calvin’ I said. I mean I do try. I’d even wedged my best herring-bone overcoat underneath his plaster-cast so that his bad leg was a bit less vulnerable in transit.

  Mind you who can blame him, he had my fullest sympathy. Then it turns out he’d had the sad misfortune of stubbing his big toe, struggling with two heavy suitcases, climbing out of a taxi over at the airport, an inauspicious start to a much looked forward to vacation – a secret life-times ambition of his to swim with the Florida dolphins.

  I nodded. ‘Good lord’ I said. ‘You have been in the wars.’

  From what I could gather he was back living with that harridan of a married sister of his – not the best choice of domestic arrangements I’d’ve thought, not with three teenage children at least (not to mention a grumpy out of work husband who hates dogs). Apparently he was spending the last of the house-sale share-out money. One last fling – a trip of a lifetime he called it. ‘Before that miserable old cow gets her maulers on it’ he chuntered.

  This is the trouble, he’s such a downer over just about everything.

  Something lighter I thought – I tried changing the subject: ‘Oh, by the way Calvin, how’s that Thai bride of yours?’ Trust me to say the wrong thing. He sighed. ‘Bloody Norah – not you as well!’ he exclaimed crossly. (I’d struck a nerve.)His face scowled under the flashing street lights. ‘Don’t bloody-well ask’ he said, then added ‘There’s no pleasing some people. I’ve bent over backwards for that woman. I’ve even shaved my sodding chest, Thai food, dragon tattoos – you name it. She spends half her life on the bloody phone, rattling away, talking to her stupid mother over in Thailand. We’ve called it a draw – I’ve thrown in the towel., enough is enough.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that Calvin – pity,’ I said.

  His voice came out of the darkness, just behind my head. ‘Not divorced yet then?’ I shook my head. ‘No’ I said.

  What’s it to him anyway I thought.

  ‘Don’t blame you mate – you’re well shut if you ask me.’

  He was really starting to get on my nerves.

  What got me, next thing if he didn’t start complaining about the car. ‘Phew. Jesus Christ, it’s bloody hot in here pal I’ll tell you that’ says he. Tell me something I don’t know already, I thought. ‘Fords are well known for it – especially Mondeos. Ask anybody you like,’ he continued.

  Mind you he’s a right Johnny know-all if you ask me. All the same he needn’t think he can pull my car to bits.

  ‘My God, I hope it isn’t going to bloody blow-up’ he piped up.

  What stopped me I don’t know. I’d all on not to turf him out by the side of the road (plaster-cast or not). Now he’d reminded me it felt hotter than ever – I’d to keep wiping the windscreen. After that I daren’t even take my eyes off the temperature-gauge, I’d to keep wiping the wind-screen with my sleeve. ‘Hell-fire’ he suddenly exclaimed. ‘I can hardly breath – I hope you know your bloody engines boiling-up pal,’ he yells.

  Just over the brow of the next hill I stopped the car to fill up the radiator. I cranked down the window to let out some steam. Outside it was blowing a gale, cold sleeting rain, slanting off the fells, rattling against the glass. I climbed out of the car. I showed him the plastic water-container I always carried just in case. I stuck my head in ‘Oy. Anymore out of you and you’re out – got it?’ He nodded ‘Bad leg or not. OKAY?’

  After that we drove on in complete silence.

  4:30am. In my notebook I’ve put ‘Message in a bottle.’ I keep having the same recurring dream. That’s what woke me, it’s really strange. Cynthia who else, even in my sleep she’s still there, dogging me everywhere I go … Summertime, everything’s peaceful, a beautiful sunny day I’m lying on the beach, kind’ve dozing in the sun … high sun-lit clouds … white shimmering sails, like galleons, scudding over the Atlantic of clear blue sky …

  This is when I see Cynthia, she’s wearing this long white diaphanous gown, walking along the sea-shore, leaving her footprints in the sand. All of a sudden she spies this bottle floating in the sea … she wades out after it. Suddenly everything changes, the whole sky darkens – everything’s eerily silent, and no birds sing … There’s this distant, solitary figure – a man. Right at first I’m not too sure. Then when I look, it turns out Cynthia isn’t quite so alone as I thought. Oh God no – I might’ve known … Red-top (skimming pebbles UP the beach). Who else could it be, yep, it’s him right enough.

  Too late – I knew it was too good to last.

  Meantime Cynthia wades out to retrieve the message-bottle, she holds it aloft in triumph. Alas, this is where I have to intervene. ‘Hey, wait a sec – not so fast lady’ I yell. ‘Who says it’s for you anyway?’ However, Cyn being Cyn, she refuses to hand it over. She leaves me no choice, I confront her – I kind’ve wrestle it from her grasp. Finally, I cast the bottle far out in to the sea.

  Final scene, we’re all standing, three in a row, silhouetted against a fading backdrop of sea, sand and the dark red disc of a setting sun. Last thing we see is the message-bottle, floating further away, getting smaller and smaller … to who knows where … WHAT’S IT ALL MEAN?

  Poem: (to Cynthia, a fragment) – of what might’ve been.

  Message in a bottle …

  Oh wondrous seas, far distant shores

  (Oh) but one word my heart implores.

  Ebbing and flowing like time and tide,

  Could she but read the mes
sage inside …

  ***

  Tuesday 8th December.

  Edward Fitzgerald 1809-1883.

  A flask of wine, a book of verse, and thou.

  Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. Mother’s hardly speaking, consequencently we ate dinner in silence. Fine by me (Dover-sole for a change – v.nice). All this started over me keeping her awake, we ended up having an almighty row. Only now she’s going round telling everybody I’m not right in the head (‘Men in white coats next!’ she cried). Then, on top of everything she’s blaming me for making her late for her meeting round at the Salvation Army hut (huffy to say the least). Pity – right up to then I’d had rather a nice day.

  She slammed out of the house.

  You’d’ve heard the door slam in Timbuktu I’ll bet.

  Nobody understands (I waited until I heard the gate). I whipped upstairs to fetch a few cans from my stash, up in the attic. Peace at last, I stretched out on the sofa to watch Simpson’s on TV. After the first big clap of thunder I saw her umbrella where she’d left it over by the door. I raced after her. Too late, I stopped outside the corner-shop to catch my breath. Filled with guilt, I slopped back in my carpet-slippers, holding my newspaper over my head, listening to the big spots of rain.

  In my notebook I’ve put: ‘Had lunch with Thelma, v.good! (I THINK I MIGHT BE IN LOVE).’

  We went out on the roof. Thelma had found a red ball stuck in the gutter – we started a game of catch. Mind you Thelma is the undisputed worst catcher in the whole world I’ll bet. Her wild returns are really something to behold, she had me running around like an idiot. That said, I’m not much better I suppose – I’d even miss the baby for sure. She just stands there, laughing like a hyena, killing herself.

  ‘Hey, I’m not a friggin gazelle’ I yelled out, chasing after the ball for the umpteenth time. After that things started to improve, we exchanged throws for quite a time. Somehow or other I felt really happy for once, isn’t that strange?