It Always Rains on Sundays (17 page)

She got off at Doncaster (she'd talked non-stop for over an hour). Just in time I noticed she'd left one of her bags. I handed it through the window. Peace at last, I tried to push everything out of my mind. Next thing the train shuddered to a stop. Just to pass the time I had a mad rush at writing a poem all about my recently discovered (so-called) Aunt Freda Lumb:

SOMEWHERE AT RANDOM

(Soon) I'm leaving the city, I've had enough of big towns,

Wherever you turn all you see is hard frowns.

Thousands of faces without any names,

When you try being friendly they think you're insane.

I've stuck a pin in a map, just chose one at random,

An arbitrary choice not purposely planned on.

In choosing a village I had little dispute.

Proviso being, Post-office cum general and Community Institute.

I've a cottage in mind, it's the end of a few,

Just a two up two down but you'd envy the view.

Round the back there's a garden and a tumbledown hut,

There's a stone wall around it and a gate I'll keep shut.

That's as far as I've got, I put it aside. Maybe it's just as well. Next thing you know it'll be picket-fences and afternoon cream teas – no doubt selling brown hen eggs at the gate. Almost home, familiar landmarks flashing past. It brought everything back with a jolt, not least having to face everybody for one thing – I wasn't looking forward to it one bit.

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2:30am. (CONSERVATORY). Can't sleep! I've just had a bit of a head to head over the phone with Gabriel B.T – thought I might as well get it over with.

No answer – I let it ring. Finally, I said ‘It's me Colin.' I waited. ‘Colin. Colin Quirke' I repeated. There was a pause. ‘Colin? Have you any idea what time it is – it's the middle of the night' he said incredulously. ‘Really?' (I looked at my watch, he was right). ‘Sorry about that' I said. ‘I hope I didn't wake you up – well, I know it's a bit late.' Anyway, so then I told him straight out. ‘Look, about my trip. London I'm meaning.'

He yawned noisily over the phone ‘Oh London. London you mean?' He said it twice. ‘Vanity Publishing' I said, I just blurted it straight out. ‘I thought maybe I'd
better let you know how I've gone on kind've. Looks as if you were right.'

There was a pause. ‘Oh, noooooooo' he goes.

Talk about over-acting – I'll say. Underneath he was chuffed to bits I'll bet. At least he didn't laugh out loud, that's something at least. I tried making light of it,

‘Bastards – home goal, right.'

‘Money-grabbers eh. Bad show, bad show.'

Anybody would think he really meant it.

‘Ah huh. Fraidy so. Shambles, complete waste of time' I said.

‘Mind you, in all fairness – I did try to – ‘

I cut him off ‘Warn me, yes I know. I've been a complete b.f. I know.'

What made it worse, I could just imagine him turning to Alison right next to him in bed. ‘Hey, guess what –?' Don't worry, at least I know I can count on Alison no matter what.

Gabriel's voice chimed into my thoughts. ‘All the same, leading you up the garden path, giving people false hopes, it's not on' then added. ‘Even so it isn't against the law – you are aware of that I suppose?'

Smugness slid down the line like rich double-cream.

What else did I expect, truth told he'd be laughing his socks off I'll bet.

Finally he says, his voice filled with all this fake sympathy ‘Look here old chap. Maybe it's best to keep it under your hat – the whole sordid business if I were you. Don't blame you, you know how these things leak out. Don't worry I know how you feel.'

‘Nah – tell who you like' I told him dully.

Fuck it I thought, knowing him, no doubt he'd be on the phone the minute I hung up. Telling everybody about my away day vanity trip I expect, how gullible I am – what a fool I've been.

Who could blame him. ‘Tell who you like' I repeated. I hung up.

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11:00am. (CONSERVATORY). Postcard from Jamie over in Orlando. ‘Hi dad – having a great time. BEST HOLIDAY EVER! I caught a massive shark, Kevin said it weighed over 200 pounds, that's at least! See ya later, Jamie.'

Don't worry – I'm counting the days. Who's Kevin?

Thelma's been phoning me up almost on the hour – asking me when I'm coming into work. Nobody understands. Somehow or other I just can't face it. ‘What's the point?' I repeated (a pause). She'd run out of patience you could tell. ‘There's a bloody inspection on this afternoon, that's why' she hung up.

8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). In my notebook I've put ‘CREATIVITY SPRINGS FROM ADVERSITY – NEW RESOLVES' From this day forward I've decided to put the whole sordid Torchlight Publications fiasco behind me. That goes for Edna Batte (Mrs.) too (not to mention all her rock-solid lies!) e.g.:

Alas, old Batte – I could not thank her.

I WILL NOT BE TREATED LIKE A WANKER!

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8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY, nice and sunny for a change. Work-wise, okay I guess (7 ½ % of my brain activated) – v.boring as usual. At least no-one's mentioned anything about YOU KNOW WHAT. L…n I'm meaning. That's something at least. Mind you, who'd be interested in my little petty goings on anyway. Not when there's juicier bits of gossip running amok, e.g. Kirsty and Shiraleen I'm meaning. The latest is they've finally decided to ‘come out,' declaring their undying love,
before the whole world (not that it wasn't pretty much common knowledge before I'd've thought). By all accounts, the final clincher, they were both witnessed by the whole Watch Committee (quote) ‘snogging and embracing with great gusto' inside the lift the night before. At least it's cleared the air – so now of course they're going around telling everybody they are a definite item.

Lunchtime we went out onto the roof to catch a bit of sun. Thelma's idea, no doubt she'd be trying to cheer me up I expect – these days she watches me like a hawk. You can tell, I just happened to perch myself on the parapet wall. She stared (she was white as a ghost). She was over like a shot, ‘Wait – wait. Colin, don't do it. Think of your wife and children' she cried out. She pulled me away. ‘There's always a next time' she said. You could tell it'd shook her up. Okay, I know I'm a bit depressed, hopefully I'm not quite suicidal. These days, even a small cut shaving is ‘self-harming!' in her eyes.

Mind you it's nice to know somebody cares I suppose.

She handed me a poem she'd wrote one time (a true story by all accounts) all about her affair with the guy that lived next door – it's what broke up her marriage apparently.

She walked off to look out at the view while I read it:

The Affair

So, we sit here knee to knee, like two strangers sipping tea,

Through the window we watched my husband mow the lawns.

As he trundles to and fro, so content in sunlight's glow,

Should we tell him grass grows greener at the Thorns?

It's so often on my tongue, what to say – how it begun, We are told to love thy neighbour after all.

Not the first time I am sure, nor the fact you live next door.

Though, then as now we are divided by a wall.

Yet, I'm so tired of deceit, stolen moments – where to meet

Overt glances, due apportionment of blame.

Jolly foursomes for dinner – tell your wife she looks much thinner,

All these politeness's, they drive me half insane.

God, where's it going to end. We were happier as friends,

Is this the after-taste of honey to affairs?

Let's agree the times not right, and above all be polite,

Please excuse me, I think I'll join my husband for some air.

She came over. I handed it back ‘That's a good poem in my opinion' I said. She shrugged, then gave me a thin smile ‘It's a bit too close to home' she whispered. I nodded. Mind you if I'm truthful I wouldn't've put Thelma Clegg in the having a wild affair category by a mile. She picked up her bag ‘Time we were making a move.' I followed her inside.

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Later on we were having our afternoon tea-break. She told me the whole story. So then it turns out she'd had this longish on and off kind've entanglement with the Italian guy. Marco, who lived next door, a textile engineer from Milan (making tufted carpets). ‘They export it all the way back to Italy, isn't that strange?' Thelma informed me. What really finished it, he'd been made redundant. He'd no other option but to kind've upsticks and go back to Italy, wife bambinos (four!) everything.

We went into silence. ‘I'm sorry to hear that Thelma' I said. Wow, you think you know people, right.

You have to say something I suppose.

Mind you some women are pretty hopeless. One fiery glance, a mouthful of strong white teeth and it's over with. Kismet, it's as if they can't help themselves, next thing you know their having a torrid affair with somebody. There again, who can blame her. Eric I'm meaning. Let's face it there's usually a good reason when a wife goes off searching for fresh pastures. Mind you, nothing surprises me these days.

She turned, her eyes brimming with tears, ‘You're lucky Colin' she snivelled ‘you've a good strong marriage – you don't know how lucky you are.' I handed her a Kleenex. I nodded – she's right, what else can you say.

Suddenly, then she said in a small voice, ‘I've been thinking of going back to Eric – that's if he'll have me.' (It took me aback a bit I'll tell you). ‘Steady on' I said ‘'back to Eric you mean?' She nodded. She blew her nose, ‘He's a good man is Eric, you know where you are with a man like Eric.'

That's true I thought. ‘Well that's up to you Thelma, of course.' How pathetic is that.

Again, we went into our own thoughts.

Then it came to me where I'd seen him before onetime. Last Whitsuntide Sunday, they were holding a kind've open forum down at our local Horticultural Society, he was on the panel. I passed him up a question (at least I think it was him). Right at that time I was a bit unhappy about my Pasque flower. ‘Hah, the old Pulsatilla Vulgaris eh? he says at once. Oh, he certainly knows his onions I will say that. (I remember how impressed I was at the time.) Anyway, the upshot is he ended up highly recommending this special spray, you'd to wear rubber-gloves and a mask, also these special goggles now, I come to think (not that it did any good) not long after the bugger died on me. It just shows, they don't know everything.

Too many cats, that's my theory of things.

Finally I said (somebody had to say something). ‘You know Thel, there's more to life than propagating giant-sized bloody cabbages.' Next thing if she didn't burst into floods of tears. It just shows – where's all that come from I thought. That's how it got left.

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7:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). I'm a bit excited already – Cyn's homecoming I'm meaning. It'd even crossed my mind, maybe organizing some kind of a surprise welcome home party. It's more a question how far to go. Cyn I'm meaning, (you never know what kind of a mood she's in.) I even got as far as trying to sort out a few flags and bunting up in the loft above the garage – I was okay until I put my foot through the floor. Omens or what. Sod it – why risk it I thought.

Meanwhile I've been making doubly sure everything is in spick and span order. It's all a matter of being well organized. I've been through the whole house, top to bottom (2hrs 17 mins I make it) – it just shows.

Sundays, it's a real killer sometimes. There's a big sign outside Tony's tavern. ‘DUMPLING DAY ALL DAY – WHY NOT TREAT THE WHOLE FAMILY.' Somehow or other I just couldn't face it. Sundays, it's always full to the brim with all these jolly families, having a really good time – I'd stick out like a proverbial sore-thumb.

Finally I ended up calling in at my mother's. If I'm truthful it was as much a calculated plan as much as anything else. I'd've given anything for a good old-fashioned Sunday roast with all the trimmings. Too late was the cry. She was just on her way out, wearing her best Sunday coat ready for church. She laughed, buttoning up her coat ‘Nay lad, you've just missed it.' Auntie Agnes came through from the kitchen still drying her hands. ‘Do you like my new hat?' I nodded. ‘Hello Auntie' I said. She checked herself in the hallway mirror (she
must've heard me). ‘She makes a lovely roast-dinner does your mother' she enthused.

Tell me about it – it smelt wonderful.

Next thing she proceeded to list everything they'd had on her fingers, ‘Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, buttered mash, roast potatoes, carrots and green beans, with rich onion gravy. They both laughed. I nodded. ‘Yes, I know' I said (I could feel my stomach growling). She patted her mid-rift. ‘I don't know where I put it all' she laughed, then added. ‘Then we had jam-rolly-poly and custard – I'd to undo my belt.' Again they both laughed.