Then, all of a sudden she said ‘Oliver’s stopped coming to the Operatic Society, I hardly ever see him. His phones off too for some unknown reason.’
‘Oh dear. Too bad,’ I said.
She’d made me miss my catch. I trotted off after the ball. I returned the ball. ‘What about us?’ I called out ‘me and you I’m meaning.’ Her turn to miss an easy catch. She laughed, then loped off, chasing after the ball. She stopped herself just in front of the low parapet wall.
She shielded the sun from her eyes
‘What about us? Tonight you mean – you are coming I hope?’
Mixed-up, she meant old Docket’s leaving party I expect. Not that I’m looking forward to it that much (not if it’s anything like last time at least). What with corny jokes and long drawn-out speeches, not to mention strangulated vowels, e.g. ‘Thenk queue for caming hoar this heav-en-ing’ etc, etc. That said I owe him a lot, the latest is he hasn’t been too good – not true (leastways I hope not). Last time I saw him there was a man up in his office, chalking-up a fitting for a new three-piece worsted suit. So, what does that tell you. My guess he’ll live for a hundred at least.
She was waiting for me. Somebody had to say something.
‘No, you and me I’m meaning. You’re unhappy, or not very – you’ve said that yourself quite a few times – put up-able you said. Maybe it’s time to make a move.’ She shrugged – it could’ve meant anything. This is the trouble, that’s as far as it ever gets.
We continued on with the game. I sent her a simple underarm catch – it went straight through her hands. She chased after the ball, finally blocking it on the re-bound using her foot. She walked slowly back, shaking her head, then said ‘Colin, I can’t leave him – not again.’ We exchanged looks. ‘Well, not right now at least.’
Typical I thought.
I nodded – well, that’s up to you sweetie I almost said. Personally speaking I don’t see any problem – (not from what I hear at least). Let’s face it, hubby Eric, he’s getting more paranoid by the day (or indeed night come to that) – looking for phantom intruders. Thelma stood there in her night attire, holding the lantern, the woman’s a born saint in no mistake. That’s not counting the more personal side of things (boudoir-wise I’m meaning) alluding to their, shall we say, so-called ‘love life.’ Least said on that one I thought. Mind you, not that it was ever all that cracky before from what I hear. So Thelma said, curtailed somewhat drastically I fear (the term ‘groin injury’ also ‘strangulated hernia’) spring to mind, sustained it would appear by trying to manhandle three-hundred pound pumpkins single-handed into the back of his ancient Landrover, without taking the elementary sensible precautions, (e.g.) Wearing his special belt, or indeed ‘ball-brace’ as she so delicately put it.
My guess is it’s a lot worse than she’s letting on.
Thelma’s voice startled me. ‘Anyway, what about you?’ she repeated. I shrugged. What is there to add that she didn’t already know? We carried on with our game in concentrated silence, throw, catch … (each to our own thoughts) throw, catch … Trust her to throw the ball before I’m even ready – I felt it whizz past my head (too bouncy by far), I hadn’t a chance. We both watched it ricocheting off the chimney-stack, heading for the boundary wall – luckily it stopped. I galloped off after it. Soon out of breath, I plonked myself down for a breather … Thelma’s voice came distant, ‘Oh, do take care Colin?’ I nodded.
Below me, you could see the busy street traffic through the bare branches of the wintry trees – people getting on with their lives. My mind was all over the shop, mostly with what she’d said earlier. No wonder I’m all mixed-up. This is the trouble, she’s like a pendulum. What with picnics and pie-making, and I don’t know what else. Sometimes she’s all over me, then she’s saying ‘Oh God – I’ve just seen this really fabulous little cottage – it’s really cute. Just wait till you see it’ she’s going. So, then, I go just to humour her – usually it’s on Primrose Hill or someplace like that, called Honey-pot Cottage, or maybe Penny-pot (onetime there was even a marmalade cat in the front window called Archie) with a winding path and a front porch with pink rambling roses around the door.
Like I said, those times she can’t get enough of me – that’s women I suppose. Right now it’s up to her, right. Honey-pot, Penny-pot or Piss-pot, I’m easy either way I’ll tell you.
Thelma waited for the ball – this time I made doubly sure. I sent her a gentle under-arm catch. No problem, she caught it easily on the bounce. She held on to the ball. She’d had more time to think, picking-up from what she’d said earlier ‘Eric’s been really good. He’s never even mentioned it.’ I nodded. No doubt she’d be meaning her Italian lover next door (like I said, I’m a bit ambivalent about the whole thing). ‘Well, good for him’ I muttered, part hoping she’d heard me. She returned the ball. I paused. She clapped her hands waiting for the ball, I threw it back. Thelma hadn’t a chance (too hard by a mile) the ball flew past her head, zipping away, bouncing over the asphalt, angling sharply, finally disappearing over the low parapet wall. We exchanged looks, then peered gingerly over the edge, just in time to see the tiny red ball rebounding off the roof of a passing taxi-cab.
We both laughed, in turn startling a bunch of argumentative rooks in the top branches of the bare wintry elms – at once aghast, wheeling away, squawking into the wind, black rags against a cold December sky.
My arm tightened protectively around Thelma’s waist. She smiled, then flushed, she squeezed my hand, turning towards me ‘You’re very bold today Mr. Quirke’ she said quietly. I turned, followed by what turned out to be a long lingering kiss.
Old Docket knocked on his window, then pointed at his watch.
***
Friday 11th December.
Come into the garden Maud,
I am here at the gate alone. (old song).
Stoney Bank Street. (Post-nineteen!)
6:30pm. Home early, there’s a Poetry Society meeting, scheduled for to-night (that’s unless his lordship decides to cancel it right at the last minute). If I’m being truthful I’d been rather hoping Thelma might’ve put in an appearance – somehow I v.much doubt it. An emphatic N-O in fact. Oh, well, please yourself ducky I almost said. Frankly, I couldn’t care less.
Massive post! Cynthia’s been round with my backlog of accumulated mail (it was all in a pile behind the door when I came down). This is what she’s like, she’s like a thief in the night, nary so much as even a knock on the door. Sadly and alas it looks like my ‘Message in a bottle’ poem I sent her has all come to nought I fear (talk about pissing into the wind – I’ll say). ‘YOU WANT PUTTING IN A BOTTLE YOU STUPID SOD!’ she’d scrawled across it in big red letters. Mother found me kneeling behind the door on the doormat, wailing loudly with my head in my hands. She’d just got back from her all-nighter hospice vigil over at the Immaculate Sacred Heart of Mary. Not that she cares (her supposed to be a bloody Christian too). She was running late, she walked straight past me, nary so much as a second glance. Don’t you worry, all she’s bothered about is the bloody kettle not being on. Nobody understands – what’s somebodies marriage anyway, my petty little goings on don’t matter I suppose, they are but as chaff in the wind.
Then it turns out they were having a Hawaiian Night round at the Mechanic’s Institute, evidently it’s all in aid of this African village (no-one can pronounce the name) they’re hoping to raise enough money to buy a nanny-goat – it’ll be a bit of company for Horatio the donkey they donated the year before.
Typical I thought, all she cares about is her own selfish hedonistic night-life if you ask me – coconut-shells for one thing, that, and where she can get hold of some raffia-grass at short notice to make herself a hula-hula skirt.
She came out of the kitchen, nibbling a cracker. ‘Any chance of a sausage sandwich mother?’ I said. No answer, instead she stomped off upstairs (‘To rummage through my drawers’ she yelled.) ‘What about me? What about me?’ I cried to the ceiling.
Her voice shrilled through the floor-boards ‘Grow-up Colin!’
***
12:30pm. Wonderful news. I’ve been celebrating over at Tony’s Tavern, Thelma’s won the poetry competition (I still can’t take it all in). Aftertaste of Honey, I stuck it in without her knowing. Nobody else knows, everybody had to use a nom-de-plume – all I could think of is The Dark Lady, Shakespeare and all that, it sounded rather mysterious I thought. She’ll be over the moon I’ll bet.
Trust Thelma to miss out on her big night. Mind you, maybe it’s just as well (new member and all that) it’s bound to cause a bit of friction in some quarters. What happened she’d had to go over to Clitheroe to visit her sister Pauline (on an errand of mercy she called it). Only, now the latest is there’s a v.strong possibility she’s fallen preggers (again?) She’s hoping it’s a simple calendar mix-up. No wonder she’s worried, she’s already got three kids – each to different fathers I might add.
So much for dancing smoochies with muscular builders from Accrington I thought.
God knows what colour this poor little sods going to turn out. I thought I’d only thought it, I must’ve said it. ‘Why? Have you a problem with that?’ Thelma challenged at once. I shook my head. Sometimes it’s easier to lie. ‘None whatsoever’ I said.
About the P.S. meeting. I wouldn’t’ve missed it for the world. There’s never been anything quite like it, not even in the long history of the Middlesmoor and District Poetry Society, going back to the early thirties. You could feel the tension, standing-room only. Everybody filled with excitement, waiting for the announcement in eager anticipation.
Meantime, our excitable chairman was running around here there and everywhere like a headless chicken – in fact the whole thing was starting to get to him you could tell.
Things weren’t going to plan, everything was running late. Unfortunately, the mayor and mayoress, who’d been invited to do the honours had been double-booked. It turns out, it’d been a toss-up between the Poetry Society prize-giving – either us or else the Moorsiders and District Glee-singers annual pantomime. (Little Bo-peep as it happened). Though, what probably swung it in their favour is the novelty kudos of having an all-male cast I expect.
Luckily instead Angela Headstone, the elderly widow of the late and highly regarded Vicar of Briarmoor, a rather sweet, elderly white-haired lady with a dicky hip (also almost stone deaf it turns out). She’d very kindly agreed to step into the breach at v.short notice. They’d to send a special car fitted with a wheel-chair ramp, all the way over to the Harrogate Hydro (both ways) – so, what all that lot cost maybe we won’t ask.
Frankly it was all turning into a bit of a farce if you ask me.
Meantime something made me look over at the long centre-table, Gabriel Biggar-Titte, seated in his usual high-backed carver-chair, resplendent, wearing a new (v.expensive looking) cream dinner-jacket and crimson bow tie. Surrounded by all his usual sycophant cronies. His eyes rested greedily on the large ornate silver trophy, raised up on a dias as a centre-piece just in front of him, brightly polished silver, gleaming seductively under the Morano chandelier – waiting for the lucky winner.
Wishful thinking or what? Horrible, horrible – was he expecting to win? (what a pisser that would turn out to be). He caught me looking at him. He nodded, smiling thinly, then turned away.
That’s all I need. Anybody but him – even Ivy Duff.
Finally, they were ready to make the announcement. Everyone waited with baited breath, everything went quiet – all eyes were fixed on the piece of paper shakily held in the widows veiny hand, her thin falsetto voice seemed to fill up the whole room… ‘And, the winner is … ‘After-taste of Honey’ she exclaimed.
Next thing there was an eruption of loud spontaneous applause, there was a pause (in my head there’s a loud gasp) ‘God, that’s Thelma’s poem!’ Everybody started talking at once, they’re all wanting to know who wrote it. Gabriel arose from his chair, his hand went up waiting for silence. He nodded. She cleared her throat, her voice came loud and clear. ‘The Dark Lady’ the old lady announced. Everybody clapped.
Next thing, everyone’s jabbering at once, staring around. They’re all wondering the same thing, dying to know who this mysterious, so-called ‘Dark Lady’ might be.
‘Dark Lady – hey, that’s Shakespeare isn’t it?’ the man next to me said. ‘So, where is she?’ a voice piped up. Like I said, I can hardly believe my own ears. What stopped me I don’t know – it was right on the tip of my tongue.
Nobody coming forward to claim the prize, this changed things. Gabriel B.T. wasn’t too happy that’s for sure – (bad enough that it was a woman) his whole table in fact, shaking their heads, huddling together, whispering in deep consternation.
Gabriel’s beside himself, things were going from bad to worse. Rightaway he was up on his feet, he tapped his glass with a spoon, trying to restore some kind of order. ‘People, people!’ he cried. He waited for complete silence, he said ‘Well, I don’t know about you people. However, the rules are categorically simple – no winner, no prize I say.’ Not everybody agreed, already there were murmurs of dissent from several quarters – a few booed. Gabriel looked visibly shocked, (he could see he was losing it). ‘What I might suggest’ he began to say, amid loud shouts of protest (‘Down, down, show of hands’ they all cried). His voice got even higher ‘We have to have a proper presentation after all’ he shrilled in protest.
However this time he was shouted down. This was a matter for the whole committee. Gabriel’s face was a picture, he looked as if he was about to burst into floods of tears ‘No winner, no prize! No winner, no prize, that’s what I say’ he wailed. They all huddled into a hurried confab at the far end of the room. Then, after talking it over between them they came to an unanimous decision. There’d been a democratic vote and a worthy winner had been chosen – as for claiming the prize, who knows. They might not even know about it yet, there could be many reasons – illness for one thing.
Time to move on, that meant delegating someone to read out the winning poem – surprisingly enough that honour had been bestowed on diminutive Caroline Snegg’s the tiny-voiced primary school-teacher (an incongruous choice I’d’ve thought). That said I was proved wrong, after a shaky start she came through with flying colours. Excellent in fact judging by the enthusiastic ovation she got at the end.
No doubt about it Thelma would’ve been very proud.
Indeed, a good choice of poem most people thought. Not so Gabriel Biggar-Titte, of course. His whole table in fact, that goes without saying. He positively hated it, you could hear his voice above all others ‘Sentimental doggerel rubbish – bad enough that it rhymed’ he exclaimed (amongst others), calling it ‘utter tripe’ and ‘pathetic drivel.’ His cronies seated around the table all agreed ‘Hear, hear. Hear, hear’ they chorused.
He poured himself a stiff drink. He lifted his glass, and said ‘cheers,’ he gulped it down in one go. He shook his head, nor had it helped any ‘That a bloody woman’ had won it, he repeated, adding, ‘And, even that stupid cow hadn’t the common courtesy to turn-up’ he lamented loudly.
Mind you, if I’m being truthful he’d been a bit tight-faced all night come to think. Others had commented too, ‘All week more like’ Rita Elmwood chipped in who runs the local newsagents. So then it turns out that the doll-like new girlfriend Friedka liaison was in fact well and truly over already, she’s got it first-hand from one of the cleaning-ladies that worked up at the Grange. Serves him right I thought – who could blame her. Nobodies so much as set eyes on the long flaxen-haired young damsel in over a week. That’s not lasted long I said to myself gleefully. Hopefully she’s had the remarkable good sense to scarper for good. More likely she’s been picked up by Social Services – with a bit of luck they’ve sent her back home on the next bus.
Poor old Gabriel. Everything was going wrong, I tried to catch his eye, he nodded vaguely, trying to smile but didn’t quite make it. He shook his head, his fin
gers absentmindedly traced over the fancy scrollwork of the silver trophy just in front of him.
He sighed, then took a big drink from his glass.
This isn’t how he’d imagined it, it was a big disappointment all round in fact. What’s wrong with people he must’ve thought – all that mix-up over the Mayor not turning-up too, or even Councillor Patel and family come to that. He’d let him down too (he’d promised him faithfully) – he’d even shook hands on the steps outside the mosque.
Again, he sighed. There was a sudden burst of raucous laughter from the table over by the door. I followed his gaze. ‘RESERVED FOR PRESS AND GUESTS’ it said (no doubt that’s something else surplus to requirements he must’ve thought). He raised his glass, offering a thin smile to the lone reporter, and even younger photographer sent by the local Examiner office – some hopes I thought. They were both well away going by the sounds of it, his booze no doubt. Not that there’s much to report so far. I could just imagine the headline: ‘WHO’S THE MYSTERIOUS DARK LADY?’
Again, there was another roar of loud laughter from the same table. He stared, barely disguising his look of contempt – talk about rubbing it in. Luckily he’d had the foresight to keep his best 76 claret (etc, etc) well out of the way, downstairs in his well-stocked cellar. That’s some consolation at least.
He refilled his glass – not for the likes of that tribe he no doubt thought.
***
Saturday 12th December.
Happy birthday to you (old song).
Stoney Bank Street. (Post-FOURTY-TWO!)
MY BIRTHDAY (that’s the stupidest song ever if you ask me). God, how embarrassing – 42 cards! Two from the kids, also one from my dear mother. That’s not counting one from Auntie Agnes, that says ‘Get well soon!’ (no doubt her hearts in the right place). All the rest are from my mother’s Sisterhood Guild. Mind you, it’s always nice to be prayed for I suppose.
It Always Rains on Sundays Page 46