It Always Rains on Sundays (13 page)

‘News?' I queried warily. It took me aback a bit I'll tell you. (That's out of the blue I thought.) No wonder I stared. He cocked his head out of the window, he said ‘A little bird tells me you've some rather interesting news from a publisher, in London no less' he added with a smirk.

Don't you worry, rightaway I'm on guard.

No doubt he'd be meaning my good news letter from Torchlight Publications – how he got wind of it I've no idea. Who told him I wonder? No-way, it certainly wasn't me – that only left Thelma at work. This too, I discounted it out of hand, she doesn't even like the fellow. Don't you worry she soon had him weighed-up – no prompting from me either, he added.

He was waiting for me, he grinned ‘Cynthia mentioned it, I just happened to bump into her in the Travel Shop in town' he said airily. ‘You've some rather promising news so I hear – a whole collection in fact. She said you were cock-a-hoop' he added with a smirk.

Bloody Cynthia – I might've known. Trust her to run into that superannuated twerp. Mind you, that's Biggar-Titte all over, he thinks nobody else should be published, barring his lordship, of course.

No wonder nobody likes him.

One thing for sure he got nothing out of me. I laughed ‘Me, cock-a-hoop? Oh, I think not, it isn't an expression I would use' I said with alacrity, then added ‘Good heavens. You know how it is – it's only a letter after all.'

He stared, then nodded slowly, no doubt he could tell he'd hit a brick wall.

Instead he changed the subject back over to Cynthia ‘All off to the Sunshine State eh? Quite a party of them I gather?' his eyes watched me carefully. I said ‘Yes.'

Nosey twat. What's it to him anyway? So, then he said ‘Whatsaname, she's gone too I believe – that rather attractive blonde filly, recently widowed unfortunately. Whatsit –?'

Let the bastard struggle I thought.

Don't you worry, I knew who he meant alright. Avril, who else? No doubt he'd be after a bit of juicy gossip I expect. Finally I said ‘Avril Kneen you mean?' He guffawed ‘Oh, I'll bet she is' he exploded, sniggering at his own pathetic joke. ‘No doubt they'll all be having a
whale of a time. All girls together – what say you Colin?' he laughed.

Colin say mind your own friggin business I almost said.

His face went serious, he said ‘Look, it's up to you brother, married ladies going off on vacation alone – without their husbands I'm meaning.' He gave me a broad wink, then tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘All the same I'd be rather worried if it was me – I'll say no more.'

You've said more than enough already I thought.

Trust Biggar-Titte, always wanting to stir things up. I shrugged. ‘There's a whole crowd of them, they've even taken the kids' I told him. He nodded, his window stopped halfway, he leaned out ‘Take a tip from a friend (
some friend
) – I've been down that particular road myself a couple of times already don't forget.' We exchanged looks ‘Good luck!' he cried. I stared after him. He shot off, tyres squealing, tail-lights aglow, into the High Street, weaving through the busy home-going traffic.

12:15am. (CONSERVATORY). That's all it takes, Cynthia I'm meaning (even the mention of her name.) I've been over to the pub, hoping it might take me out of myself – it didn't. Back home to a cold empty house, at least Brian's there to welcome me ‘Looks as if it's just you and me old son' I said. He stared, then leapt up onto the table in one bound. He pushed his head against my hand, then meowed once, as if to say ‘Not to worry old friend, you still have me. At least you know I won't forsake you – don't forget, every cloud has a silver lining.'

I gave him a fish-finger off my plate, he was chuffed to bits you could tell.

He waited by the back door to be let out. He was off in a trice, straight through the privet-hedge into Ms. Thrush's back garden (can't wait to get his leg-over I expect). Oh, if only life was that simple I thought.

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1:30am. Can't sleep – I've only just got around to opening my mail.

Letters (one): Oh, wonderful – more bumph. ‘DON'T BE A LOSER – quit work forever!' it says. How would you like to have an extra £100,000 per annum? (Yes, that's on top of what you're earning now). Nice of them to offer I'm sure. However, my golden rule is never to accept gifts of large sums of money – especially by mail. Strange though it might seem, adversity suits me fine and dandy. Some folks really enjoy having to struggle and scrape to pay bills (the whole family in fact). Absolute duffers the whole lot of us, we come from a long line of raggedty-arsed, 100 per cent losers, each and every one of us, WE LOVE IT. Our family motto is ‘Born a washout, die a washout – achieve nothing.'

Letters (two): from Torchlight Publications (London).

Dear Colin, sorry I haven't been in touch sooner. I've been away adjudicating at the annual West Country Verse Festival – I really enjoy it. More and more these
days my time seems to be consumed well in advance (reward enough if that in some small way I can help root out and nurture new talent) – being something of a poet yourself, no doubt you will understand. However, I know in the meantime Quentin has already ‘set the wheels in motion' so to speak. In truth, he was greatly impressed (not that often in his case I might add) Moreover he appears to regard you as being something of a catch. Indeed, now that I've seen some of your work, nor am I disinclined not to agree. Truly, a mixed-bag – filled to the brim with that unique, original, honest to goodness, good old Yorkshire grit. North Country right to the core – and good poems all in my view.

Actually I rather liked them all. This for instance:

Amy, dear Amy

Amy, dear Amy – what goes on in your head?

You'd be the first to admit – well, you're hardy well read.

And you've said it yourself, you do talk overloud,

And to be brutishly honest you're over endowed.

In those spindly high-heels you're heads taller than me,

Dear God – and you're language with my mother for tea.

(etc etc and so-forth).

This also caught my eye: (stanza two/three).

Where's old whatsit?

The presentation went quite well – I met our new M.D.

Who was at pains to tell me how we'd prospered, thanks to me

Oh, lots to drink – what food to gorge,

Though he would call me Arthur instead of George.

Somehow I expected more, more statement that I'd been,

I wonder who will sit there now, under the portrait of the Queen?

Poems of the workplace I liked also – in your letter you gave me a brief outline about your earlier life, e.g. working alongside your father on the shop-floor. I presume that is before you decided to go back to resume your ‘somewhat stunted' education. How wonderful, I rather envy you in a way. Somehow or other you can't beat the actual ‘feel of the cloth' hands on experience I always think. Actually my twin brother Frosty once worked in a travelling circus in Paris for a short period – needless to say, he absolutely loved it.

This is another (I've left out stanza three) – I think it's rather better?

ROLL ON FIVE O'CLOCK

Another week, another day,

I should not have gone to work today.

First blink of eye, first turn of head,

Far better if I'd stayed in bed.

Strangely silent the machine-shop floor

Before work begins full-fettle.

All too soon, the motors' hum, then roar

Soon drowned mid-screams of tearing metal.

From the machine-shop floor, you can just see the door

And escape, to green fields and oblivion.

Imagining the two of us there and the sweet smelling air

Andrea's arms, Andrea's knees holding tight to the pillion.

(etc etc and so-forth).

Intriguing to say the least (and, who's Andrea we all wonder?) However, practicalities, no doubt you will be pleased to know that our professional readers report was particularly glowing, you will find her assessment deeply gratifying, e.g. “a wonderfully, self-revelatory array of word pictures”

“-truly a warm, welcome new voice. I have no hesitation in recommending publication, highly deserving of a wider readership in my view.” No idle flattery I assure you. Well deserved – an opinion shared by our whole team I might add. Question. When are
you in town? Perhaps I can pencil in, say Wednesday next (that would be the 26th) – I'll expect you around 1:00pm. Do call me if not. I am very much looking forward to meeting you to discuss it further, what promises to be a fine collection of poems.

With kind regards

Yours sincerely

Edna Batte (Mrs).

Executive Editor

2:30am. Wait till I tell Cynthia – she'll be over the moon I'll bet. Looks as if I'm celebrating already – I'll say. What happened, a gang of kids were kicking a ball around under the lamp (I couldn't help myself). I gave it one mighty kick, it went over the trees – not a hope of finding it in the pitch-dark. Though, what made it even worse, I also lost my shoe. What with stumping up the cost of a new football (etc). That's not counting my suit having to go to the cleaners! Looks like I'm well out of pocket on that one.

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6:30pm. (CONSERVATORY). Postcard from Cyn & Co in Orlando. Only now she's telling me they're planning
to stay on even longer (everyone's having a whale of a time by the sounds of it.) WHAT ABOUT ME I DON'T COUNT I SUPPOSE.

Home early – there's a Poetry Society meeting on (it's been reconvened at v.short notice). Trust his lordship, expecting everyone to drop everything. Luckily for me Thelma volunteered to hold the fort at work (‘Go, go – just go!') Who else eh? She's a star in no mistake.

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11:30pm. About tonight's P.S. meeting. Okay, I suppose Omens galore I should've known something bad would happen. Big storms I'm meaning, loud thunder, driving rain – jagged lightning dancing along the sky-line (it didn't bode that well for a start.) What made it worse, my stupid wipers packed in. I was driving blind almost – ten miles an hour, that's at the most.

That put me in a lousy mood for a start.

Mind you, I hate being late for anything – not to mention having to fight off Gabriel's pack of mad dogs. Alison unbolted the heavy oak door, her smile faded. No wonder, I'm stood there looking like something the cats brought in (I'm wet through right to the skin). ‘Some idiot locked the gate – I'd to make a run for it' I said. She handed me a towel.

She shrugged ‘Um, it's on a timer, Gabriel's a bit paranoid about the dogs getting loose. Next thing, much to my surprise she gave me a big hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks. I stared. ‘What's all that about?' I said.

‘You old dark horse you,' she smiled.

Fine by me, any reason to be kissed by Alison, who's complaining. She laughed, her eyes sparkled ‘Why didn't you tell me – about getting published I'm meaning. That's wonderful, imagine that, a whole collection of poems. No wonder you're cock-a-hoop' she added.

Trust that idiot, Gabriel B.T. going around telling everybody.

‘Well done, it's a big boost for everybody' she trilled. Gabriel is full of it – we all are come to that.

It must've shown on my face. Her smile faded ‘It isn't true is it?'

I shook my head ‘Uh uh. Who knows, nothings definite yet.'

‘We all thought you were giving it a miss, everyone thought you were out celebrating already. ‘You know what he's like, Gabriel made this big announcement earlier on.'

I sighed. ‘And now he's told everybody. Oh great.'

My heart sank, I followed her along the stone-flagged passage-way, lined with old oil paintings with ornate gilt frames. We stopped outside the drawing-room door. Something made me look up, right above my head a portrait of Gabriel's old granddad. Three times Mayor, also shoddy magnate, resplendent wearing his ermine-trimmed robes and ornate gold mayoral chain of office, stern-faced and whiskery, starring down with insolent gaze.

Gabriel's family resemblance was pretty hard to miss.

We exchanged looks, she squeezed my hand
reassuringly. Let's get it over with I thought – I swallowed. She tried joking ‘Go in quietly, maybe no-one will notice' she whispered. I tried to smile.

Not much chance of that. Rightaway, thirty-odd faces swung round in unison. Gabriel's up on his feet ‘God, if it isn't the wanderer himself' he cried. Next thing, there's this big explosion of spontaneous applause. You feel really stupid (my face went bright red). God knows what he'd been telling them, Alison shrugged.

‘My wipers packed in' I heard myself say in a small voice.

‘Well, we did wonder old boy – you look like a drowned rat' retorted our chairman with his usual smirk. Everybody laughed. He retook his seat head of the long table under the brightly-lit Morrano chandelier, surrounded by all his usual cronies, he refilled his glass and said ‘Cheers.' Somebody handed me a glass. I found myself a seat right at the back of the room. After that things started to settle down, the meeting continued. (I'd got off pretty lightly all things considered).

Next thing on the agenda it's old Ms. Tonkin on one of her rare visits – complete with her portable harmonium (I'd been hoping I'd missed it). Luckily, these seldom visits are getting few and far between these days. What happened is, her late brother Hubert, a founder-member of the society – although not a poet in the pure sense of the word. However, he was well regarded locally as a fine hymn-writer. Something else worth a mention is that he left the Poetry Society £30,000 in his will, indeed a tidy sum (more now!) ‘to perpetuate and sustain growth.'