It Always Rains on Sundays (3 page)

Mind you, if it comes to that there's always my mother's place – she'd never refuse me a home-cooked meal, that I do know. Maybe I might've done if she didn't get on my tits so much. Finally I ended up making myself fish-fingers and chips. Where's the problem?

Okay, maybe the kitchen got a bit coughy, so what –
now I come to think, we need a new battery for the smoke-alarm.

Such a glorious evening I decided to walk over to the Memorial Park (it seemed a pity to waste it indoors). Lots of people had the same idea, families mostly, kids playing ball games. Somehow I really envied them in a way. I made a bee-line for my favourite seat under the willow tree over-looking the lake, watching the ducks – it's a good place to think.

There's a small plaque, inscribed ‘Love from all the Bedlove family – Gilbert and Mavis married 68 years. WE LOVED TO SIT HERE' it says, sure makes you think doan it.

Cynthia liked to come here too at onetime – alas, not anymore.

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Looking back, what really started it all is when I wrote that poem all over the living-room wall that time. Cyn was on a girl's night out with Avril next door. So, what's new, this is the third night in a row. There's only so much you can take, right (all this silent treatment) it's driving me mad.

No doubt also having consumed the big half of a full bottle of Jack Daniels, that might've helped some. Next thing you know it's happening, it's as if I can't help myself (black-marker pen too). I'm appealing to her the only way I know how – big black letters – bold lines right across the chimney-breast.

Shout at me! Shout at me!

Curse me down the street

Slam every door, walk out on me.

Call me fool to all you meet.

But, not silence, please – not silence.

Wonderful. Oh, the release – I can't explain. I felt better already. Once I got started I can't get it down fast enough. Words, words, exclamation marks, marching across the magnolia-wash wall – like daggers, by now the sweats pouring off me.

‘Now madam, speak to me you stupid cow!' I cried.

Scream at me. Scream at me

Exclaim I'm just a savage.

Spit out you hate the sight of me

Flounce out with bag and baggage.

But, not silence, please – not silence.

Why hadn't I thought of it before, all this pent-up frustration. I'd opened up a new bottle – I took a big gulp. After that it poured out, it came out in a flood, words, words, they came fast and furious, as if in their eagerness not wanting to be left out …

Rave at me. Rave at me,

Take me unawares.

Cry out how much you're sick of me,

Then kick me down the stairs.

But, not silence – not silence.

My eye caught the time (almost 2:00am). ‘Cynthia, where are you, you bitch?' (Line-dancing, I assumed, what else). She might walk in any minute – it must be finished no matter what!

Hurry, hurry – I was filled with a kind of feverish excitement. Hurriedly, I began taking pictures of the wall. I was fast running out of space (more space was the cry). Next thing the sofa went back, the TV cabinet got sledged up against the skirting-board. Finally the gilt-mirror – a wedding present. Some effing marriage I snarled. I tossed is aside, luckily it bounced onto the cushions. I swapped pens – I don't know, I just did. Now I'm using red, bright red for passion I expect – also bigger letters:

Stare at me. Glare at me,

Let's have it in the open.

Out with the drawers, throw pots at me,

Dance on the plates not broken.

But, not silence, please – not silence.

Not silence … please, not silence,

Don't deafen every word.

Sorry melts the hardest glance,

Such sweetness in one word.

Finished at last (I took another big swig from the bottle). I stood back to survey my handiwork – I felt pleased. ‘Okay baby pick the friggin bones out of that' I exclaimed.

All of a sudden I felt drained. I flopped back onto the
sofa, I also recall feeling a bit queasy too come to think. From what bits I picked up later Cyn finally landed home around 3:00am – that's late even for her. It turns out they'd all been over to the coast, this big jamboree get-together line-dancing event or other over in Blackpool (‘the whole gang')on a specially hired bus. There's a big crowd of them, they all dress-up, wearing these stupid cowboy outfits. What usually happens is they all end up at Avril's house having a last drink (to wind down Cyn calls it). Keeping the neighbours awake more like.

She was greeted by complete chaos. Ride of the Valkyries blaring full-blast. Every room was flooded with lights (every night of my life I have to go round turning off fourteen lights) by this time both kids were downstairs, wide-awake eating a concoction of chocolate and pizza.

Though, what made it even worse is finding me comatose (drunk out of my head more like) wedged between the sofa and the fireplace – also I'd been sick all over her favourite Moroccan bought expensive handmade rug. Finally, just to top everything, in the middle of all this the lights fused. We were in total darkness. Not that I heard a thing, by then I was past caring – what she thought of my handiwork in the living-room I don't know. It ended up Cyn & Co all going over to Avril's place for the night (for their own safety). So, that means even the kids aren't speaking to me either – trust her to make it even worse. What doesn't help any, each time I go into the living-room – it's still up there, kind've taunting, leering at me, just to remind me.

Nobody listens. Cynthia going on about it, it only makes things worse.

I've already told her I'll paint over it.

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This is when I had to swap seats.

What happened, this smelly old tramp decided he'd sit right next to me. Don't ask, somehow or other I just seem to attract people. ‘Fine evening?' I said. Too late I'd already said it. He said his name was Mark Twain (I'd already noticed his shiny-nebbed cap). ‘Oh?' I said. He said he was seventy-six (he looked older), he'd worked on the river all his life, man and boy he informed me. His stare was unnerving, one eye was covered by a black eye-patch. I glanced across, his grey bristled chin worked furiously, chewing on something out of newspaper – it smelt vile.

All of a sudden he farted loudly, sending out small repercussions to my end of the seat. Finally, he spat out, rattling the bushes – he glared. This is what finally decided me to make a move.

Instead, I found myself another empty seat over by the bandstand. Normally I don't mind, observing people I'm meaning. Indeed, to a true poet, odd characters such as that, they intrigue me (the poets extra eye as it were). Sometimes that's all it takes, that tiny seed of an idea, they're like gold, often blossoming into a great poem. Actually, as a matter of fact we covered that particular aspect only last month at our last Poetry Society meeting. No doubt trotted out yet again (for the umpteenth time)
by our venerable chairman Gabriel Biggar-Titte. ‘Remember people, be sure to glean every inch of the field, it's always the inconsequential, that kernel of an idea – ignore them at your peril' says he. Pompous oaf, you'd think we were all a bunch of idiots to hear him talk. He's a bit too full of his own importance if you ask me. Ask anybody you like, not that anybody likes him that much anyway.

There's one here didn't vote for him that's for sure.

Mind you he is right in a way. That said, as regards our aforementioned gentleman of the road character. However, I decided it was a bit of a non-starter on this occasion. Meantime something else caught my eye. I've jotted it down in my notebook (that's another of his lordships old favourites). Always carry a notebook just in case.

I've put:

‘Man Rescues Dog … on a low lichen-covered escarpment wall – a sleeping black dog, shiny of coat, made dozy by the sun (is) suddenly startled by a v.loud report (gun?) of car back-firing over in the High Street, consequently v.alarmed, falls off wall, rolls over and over, gathering speed down grassy knoll. Finally comes to abrupt halt, hard against a tree – result, shakes himself on groggy legs, shoots off at full speed, in turn clearing boundary wall in his stride – in turn causing havoc in busy High Street traffic.'

Luckily I managed to grab hold of its collar. MAX it said, also an address. One of those large Victorian villas
opposite the park gates converted into apartments, it was pretty close by. An old work colleague of mine lived there at onetime (we used to enjoy the odd pint or two after work). Happy days, before I was married of course.

Eventually the door was opened by a nondescript dark-haired woman wearing a dressing-gown (this is after my third knock). ‘I'm doing you a favour here' I almost said. She smiled, showing lots of white teeth (pity about the little round-glasses). ‘Sorry, I was in the bath – the door-buzzer doesn't work either.'

‘I think this might be your dog, he was over in the High Street.'

Not the brightest thing to have said I reflected later, by this time the big black Labrador is jumping up, slobbering all over her for all his worth. She gave him a big hug. She couldn't thank me enough. She shook her head ‘This is the trouble, he's rather deaf I'm afraid' she told me sadly. I nodded, you just never know do you, he can't help being deaf. I was starting to thing Max was a bit stupid, whenever you called him, all he does is cock his head and look at you blank.

Time to go. I gave Max one final pat. She smiled (she looked different again without those stupid round glasses). We said our goodbyes. Walking home through the park, I tried to think up an idea for a poem – try as I might, there's not that much you can put in a poem all about a deaf dog – you are a bit limited after all.

There again you can't expect to find ‘nuggets of purest gold' out of everything.

8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY, nice and sunny. MONDEO RETURNED – mint con (well hopefully at least). Good news, bad news in a way – only now for some inexplicable reason she seems to have developed this rather persistent squeak. You tell me – it's a real pain to say the least. Meantime, just in case I've been trying to contact Fat Frank over at Fox's Garage – no joy I'm afraid. He's away, his brother Lolly picked up the phone, ‘It's about my squeak' I said, according to him Frank won't be back for a whole week at least, he's in Birmingham (since when did car mechanics hold seven day conferences). Sure – pull the other one I thought. Finally I phoned up his house – his wife's really nice. We've spoke quite a few times. Rightaway she completely agreed, squeaks can be a real nuisance sometimes. No problem, even when she'd to get out of the bath-tub to answer the phone – she's as sweet as pie. She promised me faithfully, she'd tell him the minute he gets back. Meantime I've been cadging a lift with Dec Tasker the caretaker in his cronky ex-post office van. Talk about boring, next time I'll walk. All he ever talks about is his rotten fish-tank – fish with names? (I don't know which is worse?) Frankly I'd rather listen to my squeak.

Mind you if I'm truthful I've been bored all day. Why
be surprised, what else can you expect working in a Library all day. It isn't as if there's anything to look forward to coming home either. I've been looking for my post. What a bitch – I've just found Gypsy Jack, it was stuffed behind a radiator out in the hallway. Cynthia, who else? I don't know what made me look, I fished it out with a coat-hanger (I'll swing for that woman one of these days).

Three months that's been off – or so I thought. I wouldn't mind I was counting on that bastard for this year's Shakespeare Literacy Festival down in the West Country.

This is the trouble, at onetime poets were v.highly regarded. Not like now – they look at you as if you're some kind of oddball. Sir Walker Scott, people of that ilk, he'd have a turret in some old castle to retreat to for some peace and quiet you can bet. Not like yours truly, coming home to an empty table. Mind you, not that poets requirements are much, their frugality is legendary, a crust of bread – the odd flagon of wine maybe.

Luckily for me I've already eaten at the pub on my way home.

Cynthia's lucky, in days of yore they'd've burnt her at the stake more than likely – no wonder the nunneries were choc a bloc.

9:00pm. God, I really love this house – another glorious evening, the dipping sun flooding the whole garden in golden light … I've been giving the lawn a quick once-over with the mower (the smell of cut grass, it's intoxicating!) There's a unique greenness about English
grass I always think. All around I'm assailed by summer fragrances, summer flowers, scents of roses, hollyhock nodding … so peaceful, a bower of utter tranquillity … I've started a poem:

SUMMERS EVENING … (A FRAGMENT)

Oh, little house on DeLacey Street,

Safe hid midst deep suburbia.

Gay borders, flowery-tubs doth compete

With porch – a garland of wisteria.

Nah, maybe not – what a pisser! (I've kicked it into touch). This is the trouble, my minds all over the place. There again you can hardly be expected to be churning-out tip-top quality poetry in the middle of a domestic upheaval. Cynthia's just been in – you could tell she was in one of her moods. She poked her head round the door, she was brandishing the frying-pan I'd used the day before (I must've caught it a bit). ‘Stupid sod!' she yelled at the top of her voice. Big deal, an accident. Too late, I tried to think of some smart comment. Next thing she'd chucked it clean through the window out into the garden (luckily it was open). ‘Oh, grow up' I said – ‘well, what else do you expect. Some wives cook for their husbands.'