It Always Rains on Sundays (2 page)

Jamie grinned, then gave me a lazy wave.

They roared off down the driveway, scattering gravel, squeezing into a cacophony of loud protesting peak-time traffic (it'd take a bazooka to stop her). Cyn's daily crusade – her verses the whole universe.

I sighed.

She'd be running late I expect. She'd worked late the night before, flexitime up at the local A&E hospital on the reception counter, doing an extra shift (no doubt covering for somebody else). This is what she's like, she takes far too much on if you ask me. Next thing you know she'll be tearing over to the Health Club I expect. Nobody listens – no wonder she gets so short-tempered.

Don't say I didn't try to warn her that's all.

Look at the time – I'm still hanging around waiting for that stupid, so-called Drain Doctor guy to turn up. Mind
you, they're a law onto themselves those kind of people – the money he's on I'm half expecting him to arrive in a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce.

Meantime I thought it might be a good opportunity having a quick word with our over the hedge neighbour, Ms. Thrush, about her bloody cat (it's always the same place) – my hollyhocks don't stand a chance. Mind you, you'd've thought somebody who worked for Social Services, they'd be a bit more inclined to show a better example.

Don't you worry this time I was ready for her.

I showed her the evidence. ‘Why me?' I said (I'd taken it round on a shovel). ‘What can't speak can't lie' I said. She denied it out of hand. She shook her head vehemently. She said ‘It can't possibly be Frobisher – she knows what she feeds her cat and it certainly isn't that' her nose twitching. She closed the door with a thud.

Mind you, some people are never wrong no matter what.

Oh, well we can all say that I thought (and I know for a fact it isn't Brian), our cat has more sense for one thing. Mind you, it's all very well her going around telling folk how wonderfully clever her precious Frobisher is, jumping up switching the bedroom light off and what have you. At least our cat knows where to shit I almost said.

After that it came out nice and sunny for a change. For a time I sat inside the Manderin sun arbour at the top of the garden – it's a good place to think. Somehow or other it's like a different world, it's always so peaceful and
quiet. I opened my notebook – I've been toying with the idea, maybe writing some kind of epic poem about God (it's a lot to take on I know). All I've got so far is the first line:

Oh God above who smiles on some, aren't I the unlucky one.

Not exactly what you might call a big opener is it.

Mind you I'm hardly surprised – too many distractions for one thing (neighbours I'm meaning). Ditzy Avril next door for one, our other side neighbour. However, as to why she has to put herself on public display in front of her bedroom window I don't know (I'm never quite sure if she's
undressing
or dressing). Either way it lowers the tone of the whole cul-de-sac if you ask me.

Oh, what I'd give to turn back the clock, when old Mr. and Mrs. Farthingale used to live next door, now
they were neighbours
. Cynthia won't hear so much as even one word against her. These days she's round there more than she's at home. Okay, an odd girls night out is one thing, only, since she's got in with that new line-dancing crowd of hers it's grown to two regular nights out at least – or even three on odd occasions – it's a bit of a sore point. In fact it's starting to undermine our whole relationship if you ask me.

What's made it even worse is when Avril's young husband Eddie getting himself killed recently in a tragic micro-light plane accident. That's when everything
changed for the worse, Cynthia's excuse now of course is she's helping poor Avril to get over it.

Everybody liked Eddie, I really miss him.

Cyn cut the report out of the local paper. There's a big picture of Avril, sitting on a rock, showing off her legs – its a bit gushy even for Avril (e.g.): ‘

“We've only been married six weeks – he'd try anything once” she said tearfully. Thus stated, slim leggy vivacious, natural blonde Avril Kneen 26, tragically widowed recently when young daredevil husband, well known amateur racing enthusiast, also Harley Davidson devotee Eddie Kneen (Junior) 25, younger son of local business man and entrepreneur, car-agency owner Mr. Edwin V. Kneen, killed outright in a freak micro-light plane accident over local beauty spot.'

Okay – all I know is grieving young widows (well supposed to be more like) all dressed-up in black ready to go to their husband's funeral. They don't usually pose for pin-ups, right – not in my book at least. Maybe its me.

*
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10:30am. Finally, the Drain Doctor cometh – at long last. I was wrong about the Rolls, instead it's a big neon-red van with ‘DRAIN DOCTOR' on the sides. He gave me a big toothy grin, ‘Call me Dwayne' he says (‘Dwayne the Drain' get it?) Dwayne's a wiry sort of chap, with quick movements and an anxious look, wearing a green boiler-suit and goggles and matching wellies. He reminded me of a frog about to plop into a pond.

It's all pretty impressive. His van's filled to the brim with all kinds of snazzy equipment for unblocking drains. He has this special camera for looking up dark holes.

Let him get on with it I thought.

I watched him from the top window – I was expecting the worse. Pretty soon there's pipes and rods all over the lawn, man-hole covers up. Next thing you know he's inside the house, water everywhere – the lower ground-floor resembled the last moments of the Titanic – it didn't look too promising.

Wait till Cyn sees it, she'd be thrilled.

Dwayne the Drain looked really worried you could tell (he's had me out of the house twice already). We both stared down in the wet brick-lined hole. No joy as yet – he shook his head. It bothered Brian too, he stared long and hard at the man in the frog-suit. I shrugged. He followed me back into the house, then dived into a cupboard.

11:30am. Dwayne's face is a wreath of smiles – success at last – he punches the air (I'm glad somebodies happy), sadly I watched the drain-man raking-out the red glutinous mass, what's left of my Poetry Journal. I stared. Brian meowed, he swished his tail – the cat looked as pissed-off as me. ‘Thanks Dwayne' I said, only half meaning it. I trudged back to the house. Brian following closely at my heel.

She'd a lot to answer for that madam – this time I had irrefutable evidence. She'd gone too far, I could feel my anger. God, when I think – all that work, lost forever.

*
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*

3:00pm. Cyn's just got in – look at the time, big end of the day gone already. Oh, finally I thought. God knows where she's been till this time, knowing her, no doubt she'd've met up with that ditzy drinking pal of hers from next door. Her and Avril, some lowdown pub in town I'll bet, swilling gin, shrieking at lewd jokes the pair of them I expect.

She was carrying her workout bag (she still isn't speaking – she walked right past me without a word) – suit yourself I thought. Okay, I was wrong, this is the trouble she spends half her life over at that stupid overpriced Health Club. You watch, next thing you know she'll be moaning on about her back you can bet.

So then of course she's running around trying to catch up. Next thing the vacuum-cleaner goes on full-blast (attitude to the hilt you could tell). Making out she's really busy, clanging pans, chopping carrots and what have you. Don't you worry I can wait. I bided my time, waiting for just the right moment. That kettle's been on three times to my knowledge – she'd never even dream of offering me so much as a cup of tea. Two can play at that game, she'd a long hair on her chin, and I'm certainly not going to mention it that's for sure.

That's because she's too busy feeding her precious cat, that's why.

Finally, I showed her the evidence (e.g.) the gooey red mass sliding around in the bottom of the bucket. She peered inside, then pulled a face. ‘Yuck.'

‘My Poetry Journal I believe, or what's left of it?' I said.

She couldn't've cared less you could tell. She gave me a big ‘search me' kind of shrug, then carried on with her work, opening drawers, banging cupboard doors (whistling if you please). Next thing the radio goes on over-loudly, blaring out her favourite twangy, so-called music. I'm surprised it wasn't on already, she carries it about everywhere like an oxygen tank – I turned it down.

She stared ‘You want to loosen-up a bit Colin' she said airily.

She made a grab for the radio. I grabbed it first, we struggled – between us it ended up on the kitchen floor displaying its innards.

We ended up having this almighty big row.

Then it's time to pick up Lucy from school. Cyn broke the silence. ‘Time to fetch Lucy' she grabbed her car-keys. I looked at the clock. ‘I was planning on doing that' I thought aloud.

Then I remembered I hadn't a car.

She smiled thinly. ‘Tough' she tossed her keys into the air, catching them one-handed (smirkers are really the pits I always think). I wouldn't mind I'd been looking forward to it – it was the high-light of my whole day. She squeezed her way through. I could hear her whistling on her way out – Cyn only whistles when she thinks she's won something. She slammed the outside door with a big thud.

I picked up the radio.

*
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6:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Manky post to say the least – two letters. I've only just found them, they were under the doormat. So, what does that tell you – Cynthia, who else? That's all I need (more bad news). They've returned my Model-talk poem (that's twice!) There's a blow, back from Teen-trivia for Girls. Why be surprised, mind you I've crossed swords with that swine of a so-called new editor on numerous occasions – churlish oaf (second-class post, say no more). ‘Stupid Sod!' scrawled right across it in red-biro. Jack Sprat indeed, at least I don't have to hide behind some stupid non-de-plume. No sir, my name's up there, proudly for everyone to see:

‘Dear Colin Quirke esq… NO MORE POEMS PLEASE! That's assuming that one could apply such a salubrious sobriquet to this doggerel nonsense. Just to remind you, our young readers are impressionable teenage girls. Are you already seeing a psychiatrist I wonder? If not, I strongly suggest that you do – and sooner the better!

Jack Sprat (editor).

P.S. in future (correction) – no, there is no future in your particular case. I repeat. NO MORE POEMS PLEASE! – find enc/

MODEL TALK

When you say you're a model some think it's a doddle,
They think it's all airs and graces.
The lens loves a dimple, until you get your first wrinkle,
Sadly, you'll find your fortunes as rich as your face is.

Your face is sublime and you look very kind,
Give an air that butter won't melt.
Though, you're boiling inside when your weight you
can't hide,
And you can't do up your belt.

There's lots of good ways – some don't eat for days
When it's weight you've got to divest.
Some pike and pick and make themselves sick
– in that case a bucket is best.

A face without blemish is one we'd all cherish,
It's sad and not much of a joke.
So, while you've still got some clout take the easy way out.
Go out and find a rich bloke.

No sense of humour some people. Meantime I've dashed off a quick succinct reply:

Jack Sprat is a twat

He never learnt to read.

As editor of crappy mag

There's hardly any need.

Letter (two): ‘For real men only' it says (more bumph I'm afraid). Might I be interested in (quote) ‘a discount course of male beauty treatment?' Also, am I troubled by any of the following, namely ‘frown lines' ‘crows-feet' ‘eye-bags' or what's described as ‘everyday wrinkles' (Huh). Yes, yes, yes and no. ‘Secrets handed down from ancient Peru!' it says. Nah, if I'm truthful I've never been all that impressed by Peruvian male beauty all that much. Main reason being is because I happen to dwell in a house of abject misery, completely devoid of laughter and mirth, also verboten is giggling, sniggering or even so much as eyes with a merry-like twinkle, and as far as ‘thinning lips' go. Let the obvious speak for itself I say.

*
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7:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). When will it all end? Cynthia I'm meaning – she still isn't speaking (not only have my conjugal rights gone for a burton) – there's no dinner either. What happened I'd spotted this chicken-salad sandwich out on top of the kitchen counter. What stopped me I don't know (it looked very tempting to say the least). Cyn was outside, squeezing in yet another session of frantic peddling on her exercise-bike. No doubt trying to keep up with the younger trim-figured Avril next door I expect.

I knocked on the window. She stopped peddling, then scowled, sweat was dripping off her nose-end. I pointed ‘This chicken sandwich – am I okay to eat it?'

She broke off mopping her face. ‘IS IT FUCK AS LIKE' she yelled at the top of her voice.

I wish I'd never asked. Oh, charming I thought – kids about too.

What made it even worse, old Mr. and Mrs. Heap from over the road just happened to be passing the side gate on their regular after dinner evening stroll. No wonder they looked, you'd've heard her a mile off.

That goes for both of them, and he's got Alzheimer's.

Talk about two-faced. She laughed, making-out it's all a big joke. ‘Oh. Hi there' she goes. ‘Don't try my patience Colin Quirke, you know you hate salad.' Everybody smiled.

They all ended up having a long chat over the garden gate.

This is what she's like. Nobody knows her, she has this fake persona she turns on just whenever it suits her. If I'm truthful, sometimes I really hate her (I can't help it). More and more I get these visions in my sleep, police-cars arriving in droves, sirens wailing, unloading digging equipment – the whole garden taped off. People from local TV, sniffer dogs behind the garage, rubber-neckers, cameras flashing … ‘Quirkey, put your hands in the air, ON THE FLOOR. I SAID ON THE FRIGGIN FLOOR!' No wonder I woke up in a cold sweat.