It Always Rains on Sundays (25 page)

No doubt whatsoever mother is a full-time, 100% devout Christian. Her whole family in fact, Salvationists for three generations – right from her being a young girl, her innate goodness astounds me at times. It amazes me how she manages to fit it all in. Meals on Wheels, you name it. Each and every Saturday, rain or shine, she stands on the same corner of the High Street outside the Post Office, shaking her collecting-tin – that's not counting her occasional hospice all night vigils. Then, on top of that most afternoons she helps out at three charity shops.

It reminded me, this poem I wrote onetime:

The Angel of Almsthorpe

Meals on Wheels is a very good thing

Especially when you've got nothing in –

‘Oh, it's Pam with the Van' they chirp when I knock.

‘She's like a shepherd on wheels looking after her flock.'

Some try to give money – as if I would.

Though when you're doling out custard you're bound to feel good.

My volunteer work, it's only part-time

Three other half-days I sell flags for the blind.

Well, I got home last Friday, I'd been changing Mrs. Hodges bad leg.

No hubby, just a note on the table. Do you know what it said?

Well, it is personal, I'll just give you the gist.

From my hubby of course, he'd made quite a list.

Among others, such as putting his keys through the door,

He'd run off with Nicola the divorcee next door.

This is a true story (why would I lie?) Father had indeed gone, he'd vamoosed for good. So, then it turns out he'd run off with another woman, a so-called friend of hers, with an ample bust and dyed hair who worked at the works canteen (aka my newly discovered, so-called Aunt Freda-Lumb is my guess). One cold winter's day she
came home to a cold empty house and a note left on the kitchen table. She never saw him again.

Mother being mother she just carried on regardless, having to bring up two growing lads on her own, managing the best way she could. From what bits I could gather it'd been going on for quite a time (ironically she'd left him within a year). After that it was hardly ever mentioned, ‘We just didn't get on' she'd tell people. Others were more direct, ‘I'm not surprised, he was drunk out of his head half the time' I overheard Auntie Agnes exclaim in a harsh whisper onetime. Some years later he died alone in a Salvation hostel in Birmingham.

Nor was the irony lost of my mother I expect.

My older brother Alan came over for the funeral, he'd emigrated to Canada a few years earlier – with Andrea. Andrea Denshaw, my first love … God, I really loved her, or thought I did at the time:

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

And escape, to greenfields and oblivion.

Andrea's arms … Andrea's knees … (etc etc).'

How long ago that all seems, a lifetime almost. Next thing you know she goes off with my own brother. That's life I suppose, they seem happy enough, two kids, same as me. At least we still keep in touch, cards at Christmas. That's something at least.

I sat back with the sun on my face, then closed my eyes … Memories, they came flooding back, vague remembrances. Looking down on him at the Co-op
funeral parlour – he's like a stranger. Mind you, what didn't help any is that ludicrous quiff some idiot had bestowed on him I suppose.

Always a sad and morose man in my mind:

A sadder man I've yet to meet,

His own dog chases him down the street.

Thinking back (somehow or other it's as if he never really fitted in). He hated his job too, he'd worked at the same firm since leaving school at fifteen. Earnshaw Engineering & Co Ltd. 26 years on the same machine. Sometimes he'd come home from the pub maudlin drunk (basically I think family life scared him) – always making ends meet. He'd look down at his calloused hands (he'd lost two fingers in an accident in the machine-shop). He used the compensation money to buy an old Ford Zephyr car, so we all could go on trips over to the coast. One of his biggest disappointments in life is that I should want to follow him, into what he called, the same dead-end job as himself. ‘Don't waste your life' he'd tell me (Alan went into journalism). ‘Don't wait until it's too late, do it long enough, your brains taken over by the bloody machine' he warned me – he said that a lot.

Things were different then I suppose. He was right, I didn't stick it long – the mind deadening repetition was slowly but surely driving me potty, e.g:

‘Monday morning routine – a clock-watchers dream,

Machining millions of tubes to a thou.

Thinking, how life is a bitch, and how nice to be rich,

And how desperate the need for it now!'

Then when I looked up my mother's right in front of me. Her head shook, she frowned, then tutted ‘That shirts a bit grubby – it is Sunday when all's said and done' she chided. She's right, I'd forgot to get changed. ‘I've been under the car, she's started losing oil' I said. Her frown deepened, she didn't approve of that either (there was plenty of time during the week for that kind of thing). She picked at my collar, then tutted ‘Tis Sunday you know' she repeated ‘showing folk up – is that the best you can do?'

‘All organised mother – I've a woman comes in.'

I grinned.

She nodded (she didn't take me on), her sharp eyes twinkled, ‘Aye, I'll bet you have' she muttered, her mouth in a line. She'd no time for that kind of silliness even at the best of times.

Her face went serious ‘I thought it was your turn for the children?'

I nodded. ‘It is – the cars in dock again.'

I shrugged. She pulled a face.

Instead I changed the subject. ‘How's the collecting going?' I asked. I dropped two one pound coins into her collecting-tin. She made a face (always a sore point) she leaned closer ‘I've seen more copper and little bits of loose-change than enough I'll tell you.' She paused, then smiled ‘Still, every little helps, praise the lord.'

Time to make a move. She'd wasted enough time as it is.

She nodded, then touched my cheek. I watched her walk off, small shiny shoes, striding away and always with a purpose. She turned, the sun caught her glasses. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes, then that half-smile she always does ‘I'm making a proper dinner with Yorkshires, six o'clock sharp, think on.' I nodded. She'd just thought of something ‘Think on, don't forget to change that mucky shirt' she mouthed. I waved.

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8:00pm. Jamie phoned me up at lunchtime. That's a first I thought. My guess it's just an excuse to use his new mobile-phone he'd had bought for his birthday more than anything else (trust me to forget my own son's birthday). ‘I'll strangle that bloody postman' I lied. So then it turns out they'd all ended up at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. ‘Oh, Blackpool – how lovely' I said. You watch, next thing it'll be Cynthia on the phone – we'll never hear the last of it.

More bad news, old Jordan Poritt's just died – like him or loath him he'll be sadly missed (all the same he's had a good innings I suppose). Mind you, I wouldn't've known then but for Gabriel B.T, trust him to get to know before anybody else. What happened, he just happened
to call in at the Library this afternoon, him and his spotty-faced best friend, ever so lah-de-dah Adrian Topham esquire who owns the local dye-works.

Talk about overdressed – I'll say (macaroni faggots the pair of them). No wonder everybody looked. This is Mr. Dye-works, todays ensemble consisted of a bright canary yellow cashmere cardi with matching yellow checked black-striped Rupert trousers (v.tight fitting), and lemony suede calf-boots. ‘Who's the fruit in the periwig?' I distinctly overheard Rosanne Rosemary Leek the new junior girl whisper over-loudly. I don't mind admitting I'd all on not to laugh out loud I'll tell you.

There's little to choose between the pair of them.

Whereas our mutual friend, old rags and bones (‘Any old iron!') Biggar-Titte, he favoured a vision in blue, e.g. royal blue canvas shirt and matching spotted silk cravat, also v.tight-arsed blue-jeans (me too,
BLUE-JEANS –
A MAN HIS AGE!) Finishing off his Elvis-tribute outfit with a pair of tassled blue suede shoes if you please – he looked a right plonka in no mistake. Then, both expecting everybody running round after them, wanting all this personal attention.

No-chance. Don't you worry, Mr. Dye-works was v.quickly disposed of I'll tell you. Frankly I couldn't make head nor tale. My head was shaking even before he'd finished. (Something pertaining to Arabian horses?) What am I some kind of animal expert – call a bloody vet I almost said. ‘Sorry brother, next please?' I said.

They both stared. Natch, trust old B.T. to make a meal of it, about ten hours later he virtually staggered out
under a towering pile of hefty tomes, embracing the main thrust of American poets generally, e.g. Leigh Hunt. Homage to Frost. Longfellow and Pound (old Ezra!) et al. Greedy sod I thought to myself – the man's almost knock-kneed. Sooooooo, no doubt we shall be pounded into submission with old, v.boring, Ezra bloody Pound at the next P.S. meeting I rather suspect.

This is when he mentioned the sad news about old Mr. Poritt. It's the way he tells people, casual as you like. He's on his way out, then he says. ‘Oh, by the way, old Jordan Poritt's finally popped his clogs so I hear.' No wonder I stared. He turned, over by the door, so then in the next breath if he isn't inviting me over to the Grange for dinner, ‘Oh yes, I almost forgot we're having a bit of a bash up the Grange pilgrim.' He paused ‘Saturday, bout nineish' (he'd just caught his reflection in the glass door) he smoothed his eye-brows, then smiled at himself – the big tart. Don't worry, anybody looks handsome in that door (I've been caught out myself quite a few times). ‘Dress casual, nothing fancy you understand.' His smile widened, he'd just thought of a joke. ‘There again you usually do, don't you Colin?' he quipped, turning to his toothy companion.

They both laughed like drains. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw.'

Then he added ‘You and your good lady, of course.'

That might be a bit awkward I thought (it must've shown on my face). He stared, ‘Nothing wrong I hope?' I shook my head, then laughed ‘God no, we're both tickety-boo as a matter of fact' I said with alacrity. He beamed ‘Wonderful, we're all eating Japanese, that okay
with you – so, that'll be fun won't it?' Not very I thought.

‘Chopsticks?' I said. ‘I've only just got used to using a fork.'

They both looked at each other. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw' they both went.

My mind raced trying to think up a good excuse. I could just imagine it, groping around in candle-light, gnawing fish eye-balls. What finally finished it, then he says. ‘All the girls are coming – so that'll be nice won't it?' Not very I thought (eeeeek!) He meant Martha, Milly and Matilda, the joint off-spring from his various marriages. ‘Hah, Saturday, that's a bit of a toughie. Maybe not squire. Cyn's away, I clean forgot. No can do I'm afraid.' Gabriel stared. ‘Um. She's up in Edinburgh, it's a refresher course on customer management.'

Think what you like I thought.

‘Pity' says he ‘you'll be missing a hell of a good party.'

‘Um. I know – too bad.' I nodded, I made a face at the wall, making silent farting noises. ‘Too bad' I repeated ‘I know you wouldn't want me turning-up without my dear wife – you know how inseparable we both are,'

They laughed. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw' they both went.

Jordan's funeral is scheduled for Friday.

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8:00pm. Workwise, v.dull and v.boring. still no contact with DeLacey Street. Cynthia I'm meaning – what's it take to pick up a bloody phone. Let's face it, people on death-row get more conversation than I do. NO POST EITHER.

However, I think I might've solved my mail problem at least.

At lunchtime I called into the main Post Office. However, this time I went around the back to have a quiet word with one of the sorters, Calvin Cartwright. Let's face it, temporary or not without my mail I'm a goner for sure. Nice guy Calvin, I don't know why I didn't think of it before – he's an old mucker of mine, in fact, right up until fairly recently he was a staunch member of the Poetry Society. Indeed, something of a corner-stone as you might say – never missed a meeting. Like I said he was always highly esteemed in local poetry circles – you could generally count on him for a fine couplet or two, e.g:

I don't know what's upset my little petal,

If looks could get more wounding you'd be bathing them in Dettol.

That was one of his come to think, an absolute gem I thought – it stuck in my mind for ages. Unfortunately he's just going through the trauma of a rather messy divorce. Mind you, on reflection, even then you could detect fine cracks in the marriage I suppose – that and eating over at the pub (nasty business all round from what I gather) – knocked him for a six. It turns out his wife's taken him for every cent, lampshades the lot. Consequently, sadly he's gone a bit wild. Some do I'm afraid. What with all night clubbing, not to mention pole-dancers. Also, rumour has it he's well into debt with various and sundry, so-called ‘chat-up lines,' dubious personal columns and so-forth, you name it. Got in with the wrong crowd I expect. He's gone right down to rock-bottom in most people's estimation of things – it's a crying shame I'll tell you. Mind you I blame the internet – it's a lot to answer for in my view.