It Always Rains on Sundays (34 page)

‘Right. Good lay huh?'

‘Aw, y'know. If I'm truthful I've had better.'

‘Too bad. Listen, have you tried the black mask with the strawberry jam?'

‘Why, no. Can't say I have.'

‘Do it. It didn't come from me, right.'

‘Hey, maybe I will, thanks brother.'

‘You're welcome – not that it'll make a whole lot of difference, heh heh – remember to look out for the pips. Have a nice day.'

That's all I need, the whole idea is untenable.

Only, now i'm not too sure. Frankly, what she sees in the fellow I don't know. So, okay he happens to be a smidgen taller than me – big deal. So what, fine by me, also he's got a pretty good range of white teeth. Then there's his dimpled chin (I admit that did worry me some). Though now i've had chance to study him in the cold light of day, for what it's worth, in my opinion, from then on the competition narrows rather considerably
I'd've said. Unfortunately for him, what lets this man down mostly is the size of his nose – let's face it, it really is some hooter. Looking at him from the side elevation it reminds me of a ski-jump. Take my word, long noses are not all that fashionable in England right now. Who knows, it might even turnout to be his Achilles-heel. Cyn I'm meaning (big featured, that's all I'm saying). Has she had the chance to take it all in. Jealousy doesn't even come into it. I'm basing it on pure fact – not to mention YOU KNOW WHAT, his big mop of bright red hair. Ugh. Not to mention those big splashy freckles, right.

Cynthia phoned me up at work. Don't you worry I kept it light (I'd an idea she might). ‘Town Library. Colin Quirke at the helm. Why not call in, take a book home – impress all your friends, heh heh, How may I help?'

She hates it when I'm in a really good mood.

‘Don't be a prick, you prick – it's me Cynthia.'

‘Hah, Cynthia, it's you. I thought I knew those dulcet tones of yours.'

‘Listen, about those stupid poems you keep sending' she said sullenly. I pretended to be surprised, ‘Oh, thaaaaaaat?'

‘It's stupid and childish – mind you what else can you expect.'

‘You humble me, the pen is mightier than the sword, right?'

‘Not if I stick it up your stupid nose.'

By the sound of it she wasn't in a joking mood.

‘Maybe next time I'll be talking to a lawyer, okay. No more poems or else. Leave me alone' she warned me darkly.

Oh sure, what about her and Red-top, wherever I look they're always right behind me. This is what I said. ‘That reminds me, did I happen to see you by any chance?'

‘You know you did, we were right next to you.'

‘Gosh, yes – new bed on the back, right?' Rightaway she let out a snorty laugh, it was more of a snigger. Has she no shame. ‘You looked like a carnival-float.'

There was a pause ‘Speaking of carnivals – I was admiring your new outfit' this time a definite snigger. Looks as if she doesn't like my new rigout either. Too bad, it's all part of my big plan. In my notebook I've put:

‘FROM THIS DAY FORWARD I'M LOOKING TO THE FUTURE. CYNTHIA & CO ARE HISTORY, they are as of a foreign country. As far as I'm concerned the past is the past.' For a start, get myself into perfect shape (e.g. lose 14 lbs!). Already I'm timing myself jogging around the park lake (24 mins. 29secs. I make it). Hopefully this will improve dramatically once I get laces for my new trainers.

She was waiting for me, I said ‘From now on the old Colin is medieval history. Don't worry it's surprised quite a few people already. “Clothes maketh the man” I believe the saying goes.'

‘I bet you're the talk of the ladies room' Cyn snorted.

Oh sticks I thought.

Mind you, Thelma's another, the first time she saw my ‘NEW GUY – GO FOR IT!' new outfit, she almost blew a fuse, e.g. Brown-humbug striped jacket and mustard chinos (she really hated my wrap-around shades) – and that's curious, because on Gabriel Biggar-Titte she enthused mightily as I recall. This is the trouble with some people, they think you can never change. In fact the only thing she really approved of is my yellow spotted bow tie. Say little I thought. Not that she's what you might call the height of fashion exactly, she always wears the same dull cardis, flopping around the place in old worn-out flip-flops.

‘No more stupid poems, okay' she repeated.

Something lighter I thought. Instead I thought i'd mention my rumoured promotion at work. ‘Just don't be too surprised, that's all I'm saying, okay.'

‘Oh sure, in your dreams more like.'

Typical, I might've known, ‘Oh ye of little faith – that's what a little bird told me anyway.'

‘Talking to birds, what else do you expect?'

‘This is your trouble, always smiting people's dreams.'

‘You've been saying that for the past ten years.'

‘Take my word, okay – keep it under your hat. Docket docks at Christmas, tell nobody, okay.'

Then, just as a parting shot, I said ‘Tell that stupid boyfriend of yours most people around here drive on the left. That goes for riding in the back of pickups too – my children's lives are at stake.' I waited. No answer. Too late, she'd hung up the phone.

2:30am. Look at the time! God, I'm weak – one lousy phone-call, I go all to pieces. I've been over at Tony's Tavern having a couple of jars with some of the lads (drowning my sorrows more like). Looking around me I counted nine of us propping up the Dark-room bar. What a pathetic bunch to be sure, drunk, dejected and divorced, each and every one of us. What a bloody shambles – not a happy marriage between the whole lot of us – maudlin drunks more like.

Mind you, some were worse than others. Luckily for me I called it a day after six pints – at least I knew my way home. However, what made it worse, I'd lost my latchkey, I'd to knock my mother up out of bed. I stumbled inside, bumping my head on the bird-cage. Peter the budgie screamed blue murder. Mother's face said it all, ‘You're just like your father, only worse – you're not even worth a tin shilling' she muttered scathingly.

She slammed her bedroom door with an almighty big thud.

3:00am. I knew I was in for a bad night. Bad dreams I'm meaning. Horrid – I tried to push it out of my mind. In my sleep I met up with my whole family in town. They completely disowned me, even my own kids ignored me (how bad is that)…
‘Who's the bum with the scraggly beard?' ‘It's your father dear, stride over him. I think he's sleeping.'
They crossed over to the other side of the street – has the woman no heart? ‘WHAT AM I TO DO? WHAT AM I TO DO?' I wailed.

Mother hammered on the wall with her shoe – that's what woke me. Nobody understands.

My trouble is, I just can't accept that it's all over between us. It's as if my whole world has collapsed like a pack of cards – all I can see before me is empty desert: Meals on Wheels and a lonely old age and loose fitting dentures, and a permanently damp crotch.

3:30am. I've just been looking through my Memory Box, reading old poems. Oh God, it breaks your heart. Oh, happy days, eh – photos of the kids (happier days, in times of yore) when we were all one big happy family I'm meaning – I wish.

Poem: (this is Jamie, his first day at school).

PLAYING IN ONES

My new school is fine, I had a good time,

Mum dropped me off at the gate.

I like alright, at least I think that I might,

It's too soon to say that it's great.

When the bell goes for lunch, they all play in a bunch,

I'm sorry to sound such a moan.

But, of the people I've met, no-one's spoke to me yet,

I can't wait till it's time to come home.

You can't join into games when you don't know their names,

They all seem to have fun by the tons.

And from my point of view it's no fun being new,

So, in the meantime I'm playing in ones.

This is another – this is little Lucy. Her first time going to the corner-shop on her own:

GOING TO ALASKA

‘She's not going to Alaska' I heard my wife say.

One little girl, head-full of curls,

Be-hatted, be-mittened, because of the cold,

‘Hold tight to your purse and be sure that you pay.'

She's not very tall, for her age she's a bit small,

Just a stick of a thing with a mischievous grin …

Don't fuss her so – it isn't as though –

She isn't a baby anymore … and yet? and yet.

Cynthia, who else – I swear that woman has a brick instead of a heart.

*
*
*

8:00pm. No doubt my mother thinks me something of a
card. ‘Ay, the devil!' she whooped (first thing she's in my room opening the curtains) – blasting me with daylight. I was fully dressed from the night before (I didn't tell her I hadn't even been to bed yet). ‘Aren't you the joker, getting back into bed with all your clothes on' she exclaimed.

I've hardly slept – I've promised myself a v.early night.

Luckily for me old Docket's been away most of the day. There's a big meeting over at County Hall. Don't you worry I'd already checked it out with Dec Tasker the caretaker (he knows everything).

Later on I managed a couple of hours sleep down in the basement. Trust Thelma to wake me up. She plonked herself down on an up-turned box, she's as bright as a new button. She offered me a pork pie, I shook my head. Next thing I hear, she's belting out Delilah, keeping time, banging her heels against the box. I stared, she broke off peeling a banana ‘Don't you like people to be happy?' Thelma said petulantly.

‘Happy, yes.'

Nobody understands. Anybody with even half a brain – you could see I was worn-out. Not long after that she went straight into ‘Diamonds are a girl's best friend' – I wouldn't mind, she isn't exactly the best singer in the world either.

Two hours later she's back, shaking me to bits just about – telling me to wake up, Mr. Docket's office,
rightaway, it's very urgent. Trust him to turn-up (I checked my watch). THEY LIED. Talk about the Scarlett Pimpernel – he turns up like a bad penny. They're searching the whole building looking for me.

Then it turns out, all he wanted is somebody to play a game of pool.

Things could only get worse, when I got home my bighearted mother, she'd given my much looked forward to evening meal to TWO tramps, (Mark Twain, who else). He nodded, then grinned, displaying a few odd brownish, spikey teeth. Just to rub it in, this time he's brought his shifty looking mate along as his dinner guest.

My mother looked on, arms akimbo, brimming over with benevolence. They could both eat for England the pair of them I'll tell you. I nodded at the empty pie-dish. No doubt she'd see I wasn't best pleased.

‘We have dinner guests it appears?' I almost snarled.

‘Nay, nay' my mother protested, wiping her hands on her pinny ‘You wouldn't begrudge a poor man a good dinner inside him, surely to God.'

My stomach growled hungrily. ‘Only if it's mine' I said bitterly.

Auntie Agnes popped her head round the door, ‘Oh, I didn't know you'd company Ada' she apologised at once. Some company I'm thinking. ‘Come in, come in – the more the merrier' I cried (she was carrying her knitting-bag, ready for a chat). ‘I hope you've brought something to eat in that bag' I said hopefully.

Mother turned from poking up the fire, she tutted ‘Take no notice Agnes, he's just sulking for fear he might miss out on a meal for once in his life' she said, waving the poker.

‘No he isn't' I said sulkily.

Both men finished clearing their plates, spoons swinging in unison, then wiped what was left with the last crust polishing off a whole loaf of bread. Mark Twain grinned, then wiped his mouth with his shirt-sleeve. His companion belched loudly, his eyes greedy for what comes next. I stared, my attention caught up by two pairs of misshapen boots steaming inside the hearth, no doubt belonging to the dirt-ingrained feet, with yellowy overgrown toenails, sticking out from underneath the table – I shuddered.

My mother sighed world-endedly ‘You'd be a lot better person with the Holy Communion inside you if you ask me' she prophesied darkly. Auntie Agnes nodded her head. I shrugged. ‘Just don't expect me to wash their sodding feet, that's all.'

I stomped off upstairs to my room.

Letters: (one). Eeek! More poems returned. Fanny's Favourite Fan, that's back again I see. Also (same post!) Donald's Dilemma (dam, dam). Mind you, in all fairness, on reflection I rather think I might've painted myself into a corner somewhat with that one. Original idea all the same – a bald-headed barber, insanely jealous of anybody with a good head of hair. (Bulls-eye, magic I'd've thought.) If I'm
truthful I think my main trouble appears to be finding a good word rhyming with ‘scissors.' Let's face it you can only use ‘quivers' once. You don't want to look stupid do you?

Letters: (two). Jeepers. From Edna Batte (Mrs.) at Torchlight Publications (London) beseeching me to reconsider A.S.A.P. What a cheek! ‘Don't let the fruits of your God-given talent wither on the vine. There's still a chance we might just squeeze you in at a pinch.' Nah, I think not dearie – if I was to squeeze anything it'd be her scrawny neck.

*
*
*

8:00pm. Look at me. Saturday night, I'm bored out of my mind (no, I mean
really
bored). I'd been looking forward to having the kids. I'd planned everything (taking them to the zoo for one thing). Cyn phoned me up at the last minute. There'd been a change of plan, instead, they're all staying in some big swanky five-star hotel out in the country – did I mind? No doubt Clyde the Wallet will be picking up the tab as usual I expect.