It Always Rains on Sundays (18 page)

Mother said ‘I nearly phoned you, didn't I Agnes?' they both nodded like donkeys. ‘Anyway, then we both decided you'd be over at the pub as usual.' She gave me a look.

We all said our good-byes, half-way up the garden path mother called me back (food I wondered?) No such luck – then it turns out she'd knitted me some multi-coloured fingerless gloves, it's a good way of using up her ‘ball-ends' she explained. They watched me try them on.

We all hooked-up, I walked them round as far as the Sisterhood Hall, they were going for a special talk, something pertaining to ‘Blessing the poor mariners.'

‘We're a long way from the sea mother' I commented. She frowned, ‘Don't be so sarky – you won't be saying that next time you're sitting down to a nice piece of fresh haddock' she chided.

Chance would be a fine thing I thought.

*
*
*

Finally (hurrah, hurrah –) I've solved the mystery of that annoying squeak on the Mondeo. What happened. More to pass the time I decided to valet the car. Lo and behold, so then I'm delving away, next thing, out comes this little plastic duck from behind the seat (squeak, squeak) isn't that strange. So much for Fat Frank's deluxe car valet service I thought. What started it, by chance I found some feathers, brown hen feathers I'm meaning. Don't ask, I dread to think. Only, now what's bothering me, previous owners for one thing. Okay, I mean you tell me – lurking suspicions arise. Now I'm asking myself, am I in fact driving around in a second-hand car once owned by a chicken-farmer, or what?

Fair enough, even so – no crime in itself I suppose.

What it all boils down to is Fat Frank an honourable man? This Doctor of Theology story, (e.g.) this so-called spinster lady, okay. Let's get that out of the way for a start, this previous owner, supposed to be living out her final days in peaceful retirement in a quiet corner of St Anne'son-sea. This recluse (agoraphobic, who hardly dares move it off her own driveway). Is that a true story I wonder?

That being the case, next question is, that 2,654 miles now showing on the clock – is that bonafide I ask myself? True or false, it still begs the same basic question – is it in fact a one-owner car or what? Children most certainly, hence the little mischievous, aforementioned plastic duck, it is a toy after all. Not Lucy's that's for sure – not covered with sticky red jam and long ginger hairs at least. Lucy would run a mile.

God, how awful. Horrible – I've just had a sudden
thought. (
Please God don't let it turnout to be some scruffy sod from the housing estate)
. I can just imagine it, one of those no-hopers, life on the dole couples, that have Dec and Cat, and a red monkey swinging in the effing windscreen, with three mongrel dogs in the back. Some ginger-haired lout with a close-crop I'll bet, with fat hairy arms and lurid tattoos who says, ‘pal' and farts for a laugh – six dopey faced kids who look exactly the same, with heads like potatoes I'll bet.

*
*
*

No Writers Block magazine either, I've been looking forward to it (it's my high-light of the whole week). No doubt it'll be that geeky new paper lad I expect, him with the funny eye. He called round the other night trundling our wheelie-bin. Almost midnight (it sounded like thunder). Anyway, so then he's telling me some fancy tale or other all about having found it over in the park in the middle of the football-pitch. SO HE SAID.

Oh sure, pull the other one – ‘The football pitch?' I exclaimed.

On your bike I thought. ‘Wheelie-bins don't walk' I said.

Don't you worry, I'm onto his little game. I handed him forty-pence (it's all I had on me at the time). He sped off on his skateboard, like a thief in the night, disappearing into the darkness. Then when I looked, instead he's trying to foist me off with one of these trashy, downmarket, soft-porn WHAT WOMEN WANT
magazines, filed to the brim with grinning idiots, hunky-types strutting around wearing thongs and suchlike, showing off their improbable-sized private-parts. ‘Oy!' I called out after him ‘you want to keep your mind on your job my lad.' Too late he was off.

No, I thought you're more interested gawping up at Avril's bedroom window, hoping to catch her in her night attire I'll bet. One thing for sure, it's definitely not Cynthia's (well, one likes to think not at least) then again who knows. Earlier on – quite inadvertently I happened to come across a rather well-thumbed copy of ‘Impotency: What does it mean?' it was secreted away, hidden in the bottom of the laundry basket. So what does that tell you, no doubt she's borrowed it from Avril next door is my guess.

Mind you, as to why she'd require such vacuous rubbish I don't know, it strikes me she's more than her fair share of the real thing, that's if you ask me.

*
*
*

After that I just kind of cruised around in the Mondeo (not having to listen to that stupid squeak, it was wonderful). Then, just on impulse I thought I'd call in at Fox's Garage, just to tell him there was no hard feelings. He was busy working under a car ‘Sorry Frankie' I said. I was offering him my hand of friendship kind've – he refused to come out. I stuck my head under, ‘Can I pass you anything?' I offered. He grunted, then carried on banging away with a big hammer.

What's wrong with people? Somehow or other it's as if all the trust between us has dwindled to nothing. What's happened to the old-fashioned gentlemen's agreement – the old spit on the hand. Once upon a time it really meant something. Mind you, not that I'd fancy that, not from him anyway.

Nobody can ever say I didn't try.

Then on my way home I called in at the Asian Chippy – I thought I'd treat myself to a Christmas-dinner special and a box of After Eight mints. After that I put my feet up for an hour, listening to Chopin, reading Dostoyevsks Idiot (it's on my fiction list). I'm striving to improve my level of intellectual thought. Finally, after an hour I had to kick it into touch, it was starting to work me up. One thing for sure – at least he got the title right.

*
*
*

Later on the sun came out, (as things turned out it was the best part of the whole day). This is what decided me to go over to the park. I'm really glad I did – it was a real tonic in fact. Lots of people had the same idea. Families mostly, having picnics and what have you, playing ball games, out enjoying themselves. Somehow or other it made you feel part of something. Heckmondwike Silver Band struck up, playing ‘Songs from the shows.' I found myself a seat in front of the Victorian bandstand. This is when I happened to bump into Thelma from work – I went over. She was with Max, taking a turn around the lake. I offered to join them. Trust it to rain, halfway round
there was a sudden cloud-burst, soon turning into quite a heavy shower, it looked pretty set in. We'd taken cover under a tree. That being the case I invited her over to DeLacey Street for a cup of tea. Good idea. Thelma wasn't to ask twice, ‘Oh, that would be nice' she agreed at once.

We had tea and After Eight mints out in the conservatory. Thelma perched rather awkwardly right on the very edge of the Put-u-up bed, sipping her tea (not the brightest idea I thought later). Not to mention the array of strategically placed buckets, catching the various drips. My fault I know, I just wanted to keep her out of the living-room.

What happened next is pure farce – what possessed me to try to kiss her I really don't know. As things turned out we both ended up in an untidy sprawl of arms and legs, in turn making the bed collapse at one end (I think it was the surprise as much as anything else). Thelma sprang up from the camp-bed as if it was red-hot, straightening her clothing. Max growled, pulling at my sleeve and refused to let go. Somehow or other it rather spoilt everything – needless to say she didn't stop long.

Not thinking, in my panic I showed her through to the living-room. Natch, rightaway her eyes were drawn to the music-hall wall. You feel really stupid. For some unknown reason the bastard still refuses to cover up (you can still make out the outlines of the poem I wrote that time). Not that I need've worried on that score. Thelma being Thelma, all she did is stare (she's a poet herself don't forget). She shrugged, then said ‘Um.' She just carried right on talking.

All too soon it was time for her to go. So, then it turns out she'd promised to cook Eric's supper – (this is what got me). No doubt she'd see I wasn't best pleased. That didn't go down too well either. ‘Well, that's up to you, of course' I said frostily (I hadn't realised they were already both back in touch). ‘I expect you'll be doing his bloody ironing too I suppose' I added.

Too late I'd already said it.

She was already over by the door. ‘For your information Eric's a marvellous ironer if you must know. He can turn his hand to most things, he can sew a button on faster than you can tie up your shoes,' she informed me in a hoity-toity voice.

I followed her out.

Too late, she'd already turned the wrong way, instead she walked through into the kitchen – course, she has to see the over-flow display of wet washing dripping everywhere hasn't she. I lifted up the temporary clothesline I'd rigged up to let her through. ‘It's been a poor drying day' I said. She ducked neatly under the line, then stopped dead – I followed her gaze. She shrugged, her head shook sadly ‘What a man, you've mixed darks in with whites.' I took her point, some looked a bit grey I have to admit. Her eyes lingered on the sagging line of wet underpants. ‘When in doubt – leave it out' she lectured me, then added ‘I thought everybody knew that Colin Quirke' she tutted.

I stared. ‘Well, strange though it might seem some of us don't MISS CLEVER Cloggs.' I don't know what stopped me, I'd all on not to say something I'll tell you. Then when I looked she was struggling to open the back
door. You never know these days. ‘It's locked' I said ‘if you'll be good enough to wait a moment I'll go fetch a key.' No wonder she looked. All that meant, we'd to traipse all the way around the house to pick up Max. He is waiting patiently sat inside the front porch – I'd had to tie him up because of Brian playing up. Nobody felt like talking much you could tell. I walked her down the driveway as far as the side gate. Lo and behold, just to crown everything, who should we bump into next but old Mr. and Mrs. Heap from over the road, out on their evening stroll. That's all I need. I nodded. ‘Oh, good evening ‘I'm just showing this young lady the way home' I said. Then as an afterthought, I added ‘We're thinking of setting on a cleaning-lady.' They both stared. I saw Thelma look. We continued walking in complete silence as far as the main gates of the park. I nodded. ‘Watch that road Thelma, it's like a bloody madhouse round here' I warned her. I sighed, I watched her go.

Somehow or other it's all gone wrong.

8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). More Mondeo trouble (maybe I spoke too soon). Fraidy so, only now, the latest is she's started this persistent knocking noise, anything over
40m.p.h. kind've wuckle, wuckle wuckling – it's really strange. It's a bit worrying, that's to say the least. Meantime I've been free-wheeling down every incline, just in case. Right at the minute, just as a precaution she's back in dock over at Fox's Garage. Fat Frank's checking her out. He isn't too happy about it (it's hardly my fault is it?) ‘Leave it to me Mr. Kirk' he almost snarled, he grabbed the car-keys, he stomped off without a word, or so much as a by your leave.

What's really upset him, I suppose, it's because I got pulled over by the police, driving that ratty old rust-bucket of a van he loaned me that time. He's only got himself to blame. If he thinks I'm driving around in a clapped-out old bread-van with ‘MR CRUSTY' and two giant-sized loaves of bread on the sides he's another think coming I'll tell you. I have a certain position to maintain in this town.

Meantime I'm cadging a lift with Dec Tasker the caretaker. Talk about a Job's-comforter, I'll say. Fords are known for it, according to him it might even be her BIG-ENDS (he should know he's had eleven so he said). Mind you I'm taking that with a pinch of salt as they say. Lest we forget, he's the guy that nearly blew-up half the neighbourhood filling his fuel-tank with liquid fertiliser that time. Say little I thought, there again you don't feel inclined to disagree – not when he's doing you a favour going ten miles out of his way do you.

*
*
*

Letters (postcard): From Cyn & Co in Orlando.
Confirming their arrival (bent, and with alligators on the front, showing lots of spikey teeth!) ‘Home Fri/Sat probably v.early.'

Yikes! More bad news, Bramwell Bronte's Lost Brother Ben, that's back yet again – pity I had high hopes with that one too. Returned from St Bede's priory over in Bradford, via their new editor Cordelia Heathcote. Fool that I am, I'd been rather hoping she might've just squeezed it in her latest Myths and Legends of Olde Yorkshire. Alas, no it seems (new broom editor and all that). ‘Highly unlikely,' comes the dour reply. Not a sausage, how about
‘startling originality'
or maybe
‘stratospheric flights of imagination.'
Mind you, you can't please some people no matter what.

*
*
*

1:30pm. (CONSERVATORY). OH FUCK. That's all I need. Lucy's pet rabbit, Ben has died (I just happened to call in). Brian brought me the news. I followed him round to the back of the house. Somehow, it's as if he already knew, he stopped in front of the rabbit-hutch, then kind've pointed. Cat's intuition I expect. Don't worry, he's as pissed off as me you can tell. WHAT NOW?