It Always Rains on Sundays (32 page)

Mother stared. ‘What cat – we haven't got a cat?'

Meantime I've had more time to think. Things build-up, right now I'm really angry. I can't help it, it's the darker side of my nature I expect. Right now I'm angry.

Poem: (my final goodbye to Cynthia). Boy O boy, I can't wait – even the title:

Bitter Ending

Mother, clear the small back room,

Make up my old blue bed.

I need a place of peace and gloom,

Someplace to lay my head.

I'm coming out of quarantine,

She treats me like a dog.

Our marriage has become obscene,

We have no dialogue.

Our loveless lives mock all demands

What married life should be.

Marooned on separate islands

Between miles of storm-tossed sea.

That two once loved is hard to grasp,

God knows I've surely tried.

No consequence, it's in the past,

The truth is love has died.

Let her shout, let her rave,

Let her think me unbending.

Let me leap into my grave,

Let this be the ending.

This is a real killer in no mistake – serves her right. This is going to destroy her totally. Wonderful (right on the bloody nail I'd say).
‘Let this be the ending,'
then there's the ‘
rave
' and the ‘
grave.'
Finally, the ‘
leaping into the grave.'
It must go at once, there's no time to lose – this very night. POSTHASTE WAS THE CRY!

4:45am. Mission accomplished – signed, sealed and personally delivered by the shakiest hand that ever stabbed a pen into an inkpot I can report: (e.g.)

Out through the sky-light, off witches leap

Slide down the drainpipe and away down the street.

Dead of night, no time better – and off I did trot. Whatever it takes, five miles, ten miles – following the cats-eyes, stealthily moving from shadow to shadow,
avoiding the drunks and singing night-time wanderers, sharing the small hours with bobbies and burglars …

God, I felt better already, smooth as clockwork.

Tell a lie – just one small incident on my way back. What happened, there's this police-car over the road, he stopped. O – o I thought, here comes trouble. He slid down his window ‘Having a little walk are we?' he calls out. So, where's the crime I thought to myself. I went over, ‘Yes, that's correct officer' I told him politely ‘That's not a crime, surely? I'm a librarian' I said.

He pointed (I could see him looking). ‘Not at all sir' says he ‘you do realise you're wearing your dressing-gown and house-slippers I suppose?' I looked down – he was right. You feel really stupid. He laughed ‘Wee Willie Winkie are we?' he asides with a smirk, then added ‘Bit cold don't you think?'

Oh droll, how very droll I thought.

However, he's civil enough, you can't fault him on that. This is when he invited me inside the police-car. Fine by me, it's very interesting – up until then I'd never actually been inside a police-car in my whole life. Even more so when you've got someone like this affable police-sergeant explaining all the gadgetry and what have you.

It just shows you haven't always to go by the uniform have you.

Nice bloke. Fair to say we both got on grand, it turns out we've a lot in common, pretty soon I'm telling him everything. All about my own troubles, also about
my urgent errand (I avoided using the word poetry as such). Instead I said ‘letter.' Really speaking, sometimes, I find if you start spouting about poetry most people seem to have a tendency to look at you rather oddly in my experience. However, I made sure to tell him how vitally important it was to draw a line under the sordid episode once and for all.

Then it turns out by a strange coincidence he'd got enough of his own matrimonial troubles. Indeed, he'd recently been through the trauma of a rather messy divorce himself. It just shows, isn't it a small world. He was full of sympathy in fact. He slid down his window and lit-up a cigarette (considerate that I thought). He shook his head, then blew out smoke. He leaned closer ‘It looks as if you and me are both in the same boat brother' he empathised.

God, not another I thought.

‘Oh, don't say that. Thankfully we've not come to the divorce stage, not as yet at least' I half-laughed. (If I'm truthful, already I'm wondering if maybe I've acted a bit too hastily.) I'm starting to have second thoughts already.

He nodded, then kind've half-smiled to himself. ‘People do strange things sometimes' he ruminated thoughtfully, flicking his ash through the opening. ‘I hate all women' he said.

This is the trouble. ‘She's easily led is Cynthia I'm afraid.'

He gave me a funny look. He flicked out his tab-end, then closed the window. After that we started back – wasn't that nice, him offering to give me a lift home I'm
meaning. He was a fast driver. Somehow or other I got the distinct impression he was rather angry, it got pretty scary at times I'll tell you. ‘Women', he growled in a gravelly voice, he smashed a big fist, hard, one into the other (for what seemed a long moment he lifted both hands off the steering-wheel). I stared – the car took a worrying sharp veer towards an on-coming milk-float. He grabbed the wheel just in the nick of time. His eyes lit up ‘Bitch. Sometimes I wish
I had strangled the bitch
. She made me life HELL' he snarled. ‘Oh dear' I said.

He stared right ahead. ‘She made my life hell' he repeated angrily, his eyes flashing. His foot hit the pedal, we shot forward, tyres squealing into the next sharp bend. Finally, much to my relief he pulled up sharply underneath the dripping railway viaduct at the end of Stoney Bank Street.

I climbed out of the car, it felt good to stand on terra-firma I'll tell you.

We both stared out at the steep cobbled-stone street, under the orangey-glow from it's one solitary lamp, dotted with wheelie-bins. His eye-brows lifted, he seemed surprised (I don't blame him). ‘You live
here?'
he asked.

‘Don't worry, it's only temporary' I assured him at once. Then found myself adding ‘I own a really nice detached house and a half-acre garden with fine lawns' I said.

He nodded, then shrugged – it could've meant anything.

‘Well, thanks for the lift officer.'

His face stayed impassive. ‘Kids?'

I nodded ‘Mm, two, one of each. I'm very fortunate I know' I told him, retying my dressing-gown, ‘Jamie, he's eleven, he's the eldest. Then there's little Lucy, she's the baby. Everybody calls her a little princess. I usually carry a photo – I only wish you could see her, she's six – or so I'm informed.'

He nodded ‘Sounds great – me too, used to more like.' His eyes danced crazily, his voice went really bitter ‘That's when she lets me see them, the miserable cow.' He laughed without humour ‘The bitch moved house without even telling me – these days mine have to carry a picture, that's just so they'll know me. You'll come to it brother' he warned me darkly.

‘Gosh' I exclaimed. I swallowed. ‘That's really awful.'

He looked at his watch, then started the car. So, then I said ‘Hopefully not in my case at least – Cynthia isn't like that.' All the same it'd started me thinking, mind you it doesn't take much. He nodded – I waved him off.

*
*
*

6:15am. Mother was full of praise for once. She stood in the doorway, still wearing her dressing-gown, her arms akimbo ‘By Jove – you're up bright and early Sunny Jim' she exclaimed (there's a first I thought). ‘That's more like it, it's nice to see you with a bit of a spark for a
change. That's the way, crack on, get that fire going' she chirped.

I hadn't the heart telling her I haven't been to bed yet.

God knows why she gets up at that unearthly hour, creeping about the place (she made me jump a mile) it'd made her day you could tell. She'd a busy day ahead, it turns out she'd volunteered to wash the surplices for the Platonic Brethren Male Voice Choir (60 voices!) She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, singing Jerusalem.

Right at that time I was knelt down in front of the hearth, scrabbling inside the ash pan, trying to find my gold wedding ring – I've changed my mind. Thinking about it, theatrical gestures are all very well and good – where's the point if nobody else knows about it. However, I did find it eventually (albeit a little scratched), otherwise none the worse for his little adventure.

So much for sentiment I suppose.

Something else for the old knick-knack jar I expect.

Mind you, I don't know why men bother, you can generally tell if you're married or not by how downtrodden and miserable you look.

Meantime, I've been having second thoughts about that poem I wrote, Bitter Ending. (Big mistake – capital M). Our marriage is worth much more than that. We were as Tristan and Isolde, destined by fate to be together, always, spending our twilight years in happy harmony, living in a pink pebble-dash chalet bungalow over-looking Filey
Bay. Alas – whereas now, all I see before me is darkness and a lonely future, fishing for sprats off the end of the pier – talking to myself.

Instead I'm sending her another one, e.g:

Send out for Mr. Strawberry

Send out for Mr. Strawberry

Entertainer for the kids.

Have him blow some raspberries,

Dance about in silly wigs

I'll have him paint my face for me,

I'd make a first class clown.

The part I play so easily,

I'm known all over town.

Her perfume on the pillowcase,

Her hair's still in the comb.

I close my eyes and see her face,

No message on the phone.

‘Well, bye' she said – ‘we've had a laugh.'

Took her things like she'd no time to lose.

All I have left is a photograph,

And the heel off one of her shoes.

I'm hoping to exchange it for Bitter Ending, I'm dropping it off on my way to work. without her knowing. What I'm really hoping is, Cyn seeing the error of her
ways, kind've truce, a reconciliation, – dump the home-wrecker I'm meaning before it's too late.

*
*
*

6:30pm. Home early, his lordship has commanded a Poetry Society meeting (at v.short notice). This is what he's like – expecting everyone just to drop everything as usual. Thelma declined – she's too busy she said in a hoity-toity kind of voice (I wish I'd never even mentioned it). Oh, please yourself I thought.

*
*
*

Workwise-okay I suppose. Just after lunch we got invaded by a disorderly crowd of aged citizens from Norah's Nursing home, (why do deaf people always have to shout?) What with wheel-chairs and Zimmer-frames, then everyone needing to use the facilities at the same time, pushing and shoving. Everybody yelling like a load of loonies – up to me I'd ban the lot of them, sine die.

Finally I'd to come away – it was starting to work me up.

Instead, I left it in Thelma's capable hands. I made a hasty retreat down to the basement with my newspaper.
(I must've dozed off). Next thing you know it's turned four o'clock. There's Thelma with a nice cup of tea and a big wedge of homemade blackberry pie – bless her.

Ms. Walker's been in the news again, the latest is she's absconded to Gretna Green, her and young Arthur Tasker (the tattooed skinhead) the caretakers youngest lad – an under-taking of marriage over the Smithy's Anvil no less. So, we'll see, really speaking, I'd've thought she's under a big enough cloud as it is. That time she ran off with those ruffians from the fairground – they found her living with seven dwarfs in a trailer-park north of Scotch-Corner.

Old Docket's beside himself (so much for her nine p.m. curfew I thought) – dicey to say the least. Not surprisingly her guardian has given her the ultimate Scarborough warning, next time he's threatened to completely disown her.

About the Poetry Society meeting – okay I suppose. New poems of note (no doubt there were the odd one or two). Unfortunately I missed quite a bit of it. More Mondeo trouble I'm meaning, I ended up rather late. Don't ask, she's over-heating. I saw Gabriel B.T. give me a look as I came in. Well, it's hardly my fault is it – I did apologise.

Gabriel was just about to make an announcement it turns out. ‘May I have your complete undivided attention everyone' says he. Everything went quiet – just for a
second I caught his eye (Alison? God, I hoped not – my stomach churned like a cement-mixer). He waited, his face went serious, then relaxed into a kind of sardonic smile, ‘A poetry competition ladies and gentlemen' our worthy chairman announced. There was an audible gasp from the whole audience. He was enjoying the attention, he nodded at his cronies seated around the table. He cleared his throat, he said ‘I wish to announce that forthwith we are to have our very own poetry competition' he repeated. He paused to let it sink in. ‘Which' he went on ‘shall henceforth be known as the Middlemoor and District open poetry prize.'

He took a big drink from his glass.

Next thing whole room erupted with loud spontaneous applause. He nodded around, there's nothing he liked better than to be centre-stage (why hadn't anybody thought of it before?) – a few cheered. ‘Thank you, thank you' he said.

Bulls-eye, what a brilliant idea everybody thought.

Somebody unveiled a large silver twin-handled ornate cup. There was a big gasp. Gabriel held it aloft for all to see (more applause). ‘Also, a trophy – a worthy winners cup, open to all' he proudly announced. He turned it slowly around to show the whole audience, he pointed ‘ “The-Middlesmoor-and-District-Poetry-Prize' he sang out with a didactic flourish of his pencil. Mind you I had to agree, a fine trophy to say the least, indeed it wouldn't've looked out of place at a major league football final.