It Always Rains on Sundays (33 page)

Gabriel meantime was in his element, preening for all his worth.

Not that it pleased everybody, in fact one or two people thought he'd overstepped the mark. ‘I thought we'd elected a committee for that kind of thing' I heard someone remark. Others agreed, and voiced their opinion. ‘Trust his lordship, bit ostentatious to say the least.' ‘One thing for sure, I didn't vote for him' the first man persisted. Even so, we're always crying out for new blood. Anything that attracted new members is a definite winner, full marks say I.

He waited for silence.

Next thing you know he's stood up on a chair, waving a piece of paper. ‘Now, regarding the rules' he bellowed. ‘Quite straight forward, one poem, repeat – one poem only from each bonafide member of the Poetry Society.' He paused ‘Ha ha' (somebody had reminded him). ‘Hah, yes, indeed. Anything at all, blank verse,
or rhyming
, of course' he added. Everybody laughed, again his face went serious. ‘Also, also that each piece shall not exceed more than fourty lines' his gaze swept around the whole room ‘Repeat, fourty lines in total length, and also that each individual entry must in fact be totally anonymous' he paused ‘Consequently' he continued ‘it therefore follows, in that case a pseudonym is required. Tom, Dick or indeed, Harry (there he stopped himself just in time) ‘or women, of course. Indeed, most certainly. We must not forget the ladies, must we' he laughed easily.

Everyone clapped, then started talking excitedly among themselves. Finally he stepped down, he bethought himself ‘Oh yes, adjudicators, I was forgetting. I repeat, three, quite independent judges to be announced
at a later date – sealed envelopes please to Caroline Sneggs. Thank you everybody.'

Gabriel drained off his glass, then retook his seat, smiling around to loud applause. All of a sudden his hand goes up, he'd just thought of something else. What now I thought. This is the trouble, once he gets the floor it'd take a bazooka to shift him. ‘Oh, by the way. That's if you will allow me. However, on this auspicious occasion I would also like to donate a further cash prize of a thousand pounds out of my own pocket.' Everyone cheered. He waited, savouring the moment – (I was expecting to hear trumpets) then he says ‘The fortunate winner to donate it to his or indeed her favourite charity' he concluded, he sat down for the last time. Again there was loud applause from the whole audience.

Show off or not, even so it was a nice gesture most people thought. There's always the odd one or two.

‘Trust old money-bags' the man behind me piped up, the woman next to him was quick to agree ‘You watch, we'll never hear the last of it' she hissed. Others nodded and shook their heads.

After that we all broke off for refreshments (no Alison, of course). That meant we had Betty Duff in charge of things. Don't get me wrong, I mean old Betty's lovely in her own way. Whereas I'd not go as far as calling her bawdy exactly. Personally speaking, she is a bit inclined to be rather loud for my own particular taste. Also, she's prone to come out with the odd innuendo at times (“You're like me, you like a big one don't you Colin?”) So, okay you might get a larger wedge of home-made
chocolate cake I daresay – all the same for what it's worth I can quite easily forgo that, also that almighty big boomy, “HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH, HEH!” ear-piercing, cackling laugh of hers come to that. Not only does it totally destroy the ambience generally, it also has the knock-on effect of starting up Gabriel's dogs off barking too.

Time for the last item on the agenda, for what's called ‘Open Forum,' usually ten minutes or so of juvenile nonsense and general silliness. Or, it could even stretch for half an hour, it depends – a waste of time totally if you ask me.

First chance I get I usually try to sneak off.

First off, some idiot suggested yet another bus outing down to Stratford Apon-Avon to visit Shakespeare's birthplace and Ann Hathaway's olde-worlde thatched cottage.

God, not again I'm thinking. I looked at my watch, I'm yawning already.

Gabriel nodded, then looked at his hands (no doubt he'd be thinking the same as everybody else). ‘Committee' he murmured. After that he invited ‘questions from the floor.' No surprises there, mostly it was concerning the just announced poetry competition. The first question came from Ted Dyke, from the Parks and Public Gardens Department. He stood up twisting his cloth-cap, he wanted to know a bit more in depth information regarding the money-end of the prize. ‘Er. Mr. Chairman' says he ‘er. Um. This, um prize-money
you have so generously forked-out, out of your own pocket. However, my question is a bit more basic I suppose – will it attract income-tax?'

Nobody listens – it's for charity.

Gabriel stared, then shrugged. ‘Not in your case, Teddy old chap.' Everybody laughed. Some people, right. It might, that's if you happened to win it you daft twat I almost said – no doubt, also the Guinness Book of Records too in your particular case I shouldn't wonder. He's no chance, it takes him all his time to string a sentence – let alone writing the bugger down.

Then somebody called out ‘If it's a pen-name, how will you know who's won it?' No answer (what a tosser). He fielded the next question that no-one could hear. Betty Duff giggled, then covered her mouth with both hands. Then Ted Dyke again. ‘Mr. Chairman, about this wonderful silver trophy, are we allowed to keep it?' he wondered. Gabriel nodded, affirmative. ‘Indeed – good question Teddy, the fortunate chosen winner will in fact hold it in his or her possession for one calendar year only' he stated. Like I said, he's no-chance. He should stick to what he does best if you ask me, namely growing prize-dahlias and chasing Betty Duff round his allotment I thought. He sat down.

I looked at my watch for the second time.

Finally Betty Duff herself stood up, she touched at her hair, then giggled ‘Will it be in the local paper with a picture?' she enquired.

Again everybody laughed. She sat down, then giggled some more.

Soon after that the meeting broke up. Gabriel stood over by the door, grasping hands with the chosen few, saying his goodnights. Everybody congratulating him – no doubt feeling really pleased with himself I expect. Then when he saw me, he says ‘Off already?' I'd hung back, hoping I might've got away with it. He said ‘A few of us are having a bit of a night-cap' he gave me a wink.

Most people had already left.

‘Maybe some other time – I'm having an early night' I said.

Think what you like I thought. He leaned closer ‘Aw, too bad' he lied. Don't worry I know him of old, he'd be after the latest gossip no doubt. He put one hand on my shoulder, then he said ‘Oh, by the bye I happened to run into Cynthia. They all came into the Golf Club a couple of nights back, the whole crowd of them. American's I believe. She looked positively glowing. In fact I told her so – hope you don't mind?' He was waiting for me (I tried to step around him). He laughed, ‘My words they certainly know how to enjoy themselves don't they?' he added.

What's it to him anyway?

‘I'm surprised I didn't see you.'

‘No, you wouldn't – I'd something else on, that's why.'

Mind you, I'd all on not to swipe him one I'll tell you.

We both heard it at the same time, you could hear dogs barking in the far distance. His face crumpled. I put my hand to my ear. ‘Oh dear' I said ‘going by the sounds of it I rather think you're dogs are on the loose.' I tutted. ‘Some idiot must've left the gates open I expect.'

‘Oh noooooooo!' he wailed, charging out into the darkness.

Serves him right I thought. No doubt thanks to him I knew I was in for yet another tossy-turny night.

*
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*

8:00pm. What's wrong with people? I've had a really horrible day (as if I haven't enough to worry about). On top of everything else nobodies speaking to me. What happened is (some person UNKNOWN) has inadvertently blown-up the communal electric kettle at work. Oh, big deal I thought. Trust Thelma, making things worse, then she's going around telling all and sundry it's my fault. Only, now she's saying I've forgot to put any water in it – WHY ME!?

You should see some of the looks I got – talk about daggers.

It just shows, mind you that's the trouble with people, if they can't have a cup of tea on the hour, they go all to pieces – it's big sulks all round. Later on, Shiraleen Kelps came round with a tea-cup, making up a collection to buy a new kettle. In point of fact I put in a pound coin myself (albeit v.reluctantly I might add). I only hope that it isn't misconstrued in any way whatsoever as an admission of guilt, that's all.

Some good news at least, more on the positive side of things. Ms. Walker's returned safely back to the fold. Luckily, still unmarried, with love-bites on her neck. So, that's something I suppose. Old Docket's over the proverbial moon, he's ecstatic. Just to show his gratitude he's sent a box of After Eight mints to each and every member of staff, also a card wishing everybody a Merry Xmas and a v.prosperous New Year (bit premature or what?) There you go – I think his mind's going.

After that the festivities continued unabated, they all had a big party. Everyone drinking endless cups of tea (christening the new shiny kettle) dunking half-coated chocolate digestive biscuits. Everybody swapping jokes, laughing like drains. LEAVING ME OUT I MIGHT ADD.

Miserable sods. ‘Where's mine?' I said.

*
*
*

8:00pm. Manky post to say the least (one miserly letter). Well, call it that. Do I want a jolly postman?

‘Why not own your very own Happy Postie, ten inches high and always a cheery greeting – you'll smile at his cheeky workworn boots and cocky tilted cap. Owning a pewter postman – he's bound to bring a pot of good luck to your domicile.'

Oh, superb (what's a domicile?) Oh sure – which jolly postman's this? Ours is a right miserable sod in no mistake – and he always leaves the bloody gate open.

Another long, v.dull, v.boring day at work – it wouldn't be so bad if I could look forward to a bit of stimulating conversation. Mother's big news of the day appears to be confined to the wheelie-bin going walkies yet again. She's even suggesting we start keeping it inside the house. I broke off eating my supper ‘You'll be the laughing-stock of the whole street mother' I said. Finally, just to appease her I even tried phoning-up Councillor Kyte, his wife answered (no surprises there of course), it's like trying to speak to the sodding Pope. It turns out he's at a party conference in Blackpool. No, I thought it won't be that when he's wanting my vote will it.

*
*
*

Some chance trying to get on with my own life – (I mean I do try). Mind you this is a small town, you're bound to run into people I suppose. What happened I'm waiting at the Bridgend traffic-lights, minding my own business. All of a sudden, next thing you know. Who pulls up in the next lane but Cynthia & Co, her and her red-headed new boyfriend, no less. You should've seen them, preening away for all their worth, driving around in their fancy chrome-laden pickup truck, the pair of them waving like loonies, both wearing these yucky, bright red T-shirts, that said “WE-ARE-AN-ITEM!” (Oh pleeeeze). Talk about rubbing it in, right. You'd've
thought two people living in sin they'd want to keep it under your hat – I know I would.

Don't you worry I looked right ahead.

They shot off like a bat out of hell. Though, if you really want to know what pissed me off even more (apart from the corny way they both looked at each other, so lovey-dovey I'm meaning). What made it even worse is seeing both my kids riding in the back, sitting on top of a brand-new queen-sized mattress. What would you have thought (this is in broad daylight don't forget). That'll be Cynthia no doubt – just like she's always wanted, getting her own way as usual I expect. MINE'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH I SUPPOSE.

You could tell they were really embarrassed by the whole thing.

God, it breaks your heart – both kids gave me a kind've, half-hearted wave (who can blame them?) Not to mention the danger. Maybe it's me, you read about things all the time, accidents I'm meaning, kids flying off the back of pickup-trucks. ‘Hey, what happened to the kids? – dunno. I heard a scream.'

‘You tell me –
I was too busy looking at you honey-bunny.'

‘Hold on a sec I'll look in those trees back there.'

Cynthia couldn't care less and that's a fact.

So, what happens next, that's what's worrying me. Me and the home-wrecker I'm meaning, (I just wondered that's all). There's only one way because of the river. What about schedules, what happens next – do we get pally?

Oh sure, I can just imagine it – I can't wait. Old Redtop, same routine every day, both waiting at the traffic-lights:

‘Hey. Hi there.'

‘Hi – nice day.'

‘You bet.'

‘Good to see you again.'

‘Hey, me too – another day, another dollar, right?'

‘How, how's things with the wife? Okay I hope?'

‘Aw. Well, so so I guess. You know what I'm saying?'

‘Don't worry I know, bit moody, right. Tell me about it.'

‘Don't get me wrong – early days I guess.'