It Always Rains on Sundays (36 page)

HAVING A THING

When I think, all those years at the Library,

Wasn't life, well – so terribly dull.

And now it's precisely the contrary,

Now it's so terribly full!

I'm having a thing with a colleague at work,

It's a secret between our two-selves.

When we pass on the stairs, we raise eyebrows and smirk.

Sometimes we kiss through a hole in the shelves.

He's a gem, he's a treasure – he wears spotted bow ties,

Small jokes, somehow he's really fun.

We go out on the roof and we shout at the skies,

Now I'm sad when the day's work is done.

What we have, it isn't what's called an affair,

It would spoil everything calling it that.

For one thing he's married, I'm more than aware.

There again so am I come to that.

It just shows – at least somebody likes me!

*
*
*

8:30pm. Home late! I've been giving Thelma a lift home. What happened, at lunchtime she went out and bought
herself a new fancy standing-lamp for her front room. (not a thought about getting it home, of course). Personally speaking I think it's bloody yuccy – I wouldn't've given a tin shilling for it. Maybe that's me, so much for impulse buying I thought. Mind you, anybody that can buy a five-foot tall Italianate nude statue of a pair of lovers – I'll bet that raised a few eye-brows going home on the bus. So, what with picking Max up from the vets, then having to contend with two buses. However, she was very grateful you could tell.

Talk about the back of beyond – I'll say. Thelma's place is further out than I thought, way out over the moors – what with a big excitable dog and a standing-lamp. It ended up, we'd to travel with both windows wide open. Max's head out of one, the lamp out of the other.

‘You're a real star' she kept saying.

‘Don't mench – it's the least I can do' I assured her.

Finally we pulled up outside a huddle of ancient farm buildings. You could hear the wind sweeping across the bleak moorland hills, keening through the straggle of bent hawthorns.

There was a man working at the far end of the garden (I assumed it must be Eric). God, he's a size. He's as big as a barn-door, indeed a man of fearsome build (where's the other guy?) the small man with gardeners round shoulders I'd met that time? I waved. We unloaded the car.

‘Are you coming in for a cup of tea?'

‘Nah, better be heading back' I said.

‘Will you find your way back?'

I laughed. ‘No prob' I cried into the wind.

Don't you worry I didn't hang about.

Letters (postcard only): From Alison, presumably happily ensconced, living in the Mallorca sun. Some kind of commune in this crumbly old farmhouse. Inviting me over for a visit. Good idea – maybe I will.

Letter (two): Big salvage bill from the local Council Authority. ‘FINAL WARNING!' (this is the red one) – it's about that old rust-bucket of a so-called car fat Frank loaned me, that time the Mondeo had to go in dock. PAH – DO YOUR WORST!!! I cry.

11:00pm. Mother's just had her ladies in for choir practice. They were just packing-up (chance for a gossip more like). “Oh, what a friend we have in Jesus”. I just caught the back-end when I rolled in from the pub. Everybody donning thick dark, same colour coats and dull hats over steel-grey tight perms.

Mother held centre stage as per usual. Talking about yours truly – who else? ‘Say what you like' I over-heard her say ‘they had a good, strong, happy marriage before that Wanker came onto the scene.' It went quiet (she gets a bit mixed-up). No doubt she'd be meaning Kevin Ranker, Cynthia's new boyfriend I expect. They all filed through, crowding into the hallway. ‘Well, I know one
thing' she continued ‘it's making an old woman of me I can tell you' (
old woman, how old does she think she is?)

There was a chorus of general approval.

‘Good evening ladies' I said, edging my way through (trying to hide my six-pack under my coat). My head caught the birdcage. Billy squawked loudly in protest, mother's eyes flashed. ‘Well, you look a bonnie sight in no mistake' she spat out, her voice thick with disgust. No wonder everybody stared, shaking their heads, murmuring their disapproval. I nodded. I bid everyone goodnight. Some bloody Christians I'm thinking.

Message on my mobile from Lucy. ‘It's me, Lucy. Daddy, what's a pillock?' she enquired (there was more). ‘Mummy's got a new tattoo on her bottom, it's a secret' she added in a whispery voice. What would you have said?

I finished off my last can of beer.

2:15am. Can't sleep – I'm having a really bad night. Lucy I'm meaning – I hardly see her. Only now Cyn's making out I'm picking her up from school too early, the latest is she's started sending the home-wrecker in his fancy pickup truck. Don't worry, all I do is make sure I turn-up before him.

Sometimes I go over at lunchtime, that way we catch up with all the latest news over the school-yard wall.

Only, now I'm really worried what's going to happen
in the future. Sometimes kids get awfully confused. They have their own way of dealing with things. All the signs are there for sure (rejecting their own parents I'm meaning). Who can blame her, don't be surprised, that's all I'm saying.

‘Hey, wait a sec' she'll say – ‘I have a life too y'know.'

Well speaking for myself Lucy baby. I just want you to know, I'm always here for you, no matter what, okay. Daddy loves you a whole mountain, he pretty much understands everything you are going through right now – just try to hang in there honey-bunny, right. I'm just hoping that one day, when you're all grown-up you will understand. Poem (this is for Lucy):

Oh god above who smiles on some,

I hate my fam-i-ly.

I'd like to choose another one,

Take pity Lord on me.

Jesus Christ (what did I tell you) – it's even worse than I thought. What next I wonder? Boy, this is an eye-opener in no mistake. Only, now it turns out she doesn't even like us (she's pretty mixed-up you can tell) – she's even talking about dumping the both of us. Sorry, but I have to blame Cynthia, after all she started the whole thing, am I right? And that's only the first verse: (verse two):

Mother's dyed her hair again,

She's shortened all her skirts.

She's only got herself to blame,

She knows it never works.

Who can blame her – all of a sudden there's this complete stranger waiting outside the school gate – scary too, right. (‘Anybody seen mummy? – I've lost my …') ‘Oh, sure, no problem,
don't cry little girl
. She's right over there sweetie-pie, the lady with the purple-plume honey, the woman with the ridiculously short skirt.'

No wonder they get dizzy – same goes for dramatic changes of hair colour too. Let's face it, pelmet-length skirts on mothers of a certain age, it's a definite no-no. Don't worry, I'm with you 100 per cent on that one Luce. (verse three):

By choice my chosen family

Would have me and just my dog.

A tree-house in some big old tree,

And a pond to keep my frog.

Holy smoke, now she's wanting to live up in a friggin tree for chrissakes – she disowns the pair of us. Oh God, that's terrible. It breaks your heart (bad enough she has to go outside the family). How bad is that? It just shows (she's a sensitive kid). Oh Lucy, believe me – I know just where you're coming from honey. So, who's she put the finger on, Cynthia who else (it stands out a mile). Hard to imagine, right, turning against her own family, this small defenceless little girl…
this poor orphan kid
. Don't worry, Daddies coming sweetheart – hold in there honey-bunny, okay.

3:15am. Looks as if I'm in for an all-nighter. Oh, by the way Lucy, baby. Look, sorry, about the dog, okay. Only, I've been giving it a lot of thought. Take my word Skippy, having a dog around the place – we've already been there, it would not help the currant domestic situation one iota – sorry chief. No-way. Daddy did not promise you anything – remember Tommy the tortoise? We dug up half the street, he could be anywhere. Sorry to be such a grunge sweetie. Let's face it honey-bunny, we bicker and bawl at each other – a lot. Take my word – dogs really hate that.

Daddy loves you high as the sky, he'd do anything to make you happy – I know what would happen:

“Somebody walk Bruce.”

“I walked him yesterday.”

“No, that was me – it's your turn.”

“It's raining, I'm not going out in the rain.”

“It rained yesterday too – all day.”

“Daddy, he won't walk Bruce.”

“Did anybody remember to feed the dog?”

“Uh uh. I fed him yesterday.”

“QUIET! That goes for both of you, okay.”

“He's making me go outside in the rain.”

“Daddy, walk Bruce. Oh, did you remember to feed him?”

Let's face it, these kind of people, they aren't fit to cohabit with humans, never mind animals. Who needs an unhappy dog around the place, on top of everything else, right. Bruce goes, sorry, end of (Bruce is a stupid name for a dog anyway) – scrub the dog I say. Though, if I'm truthful. What I'm really hoping is. Some day, in the
faraway future, when Lucy is all grown-up kind've. She'll come up to me, she'll give me a really big hug, she'll say “You know what father – you were right all along. One thing for sure, you're a good man, you always did your level best to keep us together as one united family. GOD BLESS YOU FATHER.”

Don't worry, (I know it's hard) – try not to hate your mother too much (basically she's a decent woman) – well some I guess … There's still time Cynthia. DUMP HIM BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!

4:30am. Look at the time – I've been cruising around in the Mondeo. Next thing you know I'm over at DeLacey Street. I can't help it, it's hard to explain, it's as if being pulled by some kind of invisible magnetic force.

Everything bathed in silvery moonlight, so peaceful … gazing up at the night sky, filled with myriads of tiny stars … thinking of happier days, in times of yore kind of thing.

That's another thing, I miss the garden too.

God, I only wish you'd've seen it, it makes you weep.

My pride and joy once upon a time, some idiots been having a go at cutting the grass (it's a bit hit and miss to say the least). They don't have a bloody clue some people – diagonal cuts,
both ways
this time of year. Thought everybody knows that. That'll be the home-wrecker I'll bet, what a dickhead, right.

This is when I noticed the old Victorian garden seats been painted too – puce (that's a god-awful colour I
think). Same looney that did the grass I expect. What's wrong with normal garden-green that's what I say?

Do all Americans have trouble with CO-LOR I wonder?

Something else that saddened me too, then, just when I'm leaving, in my head-lights I spotted a line of washing hanging out on the line (all night I'm saying). Cynthia I'm meaning. She's letting herself go more than ever I think.

6:00am. Poem: (sadly, this is obviously the product of a tormented mind!) – no doubt having to face up to grim reality, the realization of a bleak and lonely future:

SEMI-DETACHED

Odd to wait at this front door,

I have to stand and knock.

But then I had a key before,

And now she's changed the lock.

She likes to keep me waiting

Like some salesman at the door.

Her small way of stating

I don't live here anymore.

Looks like the park's out for the children,

I'd hoped it wouldn't rain.

Can't fall back on ‘good old Nan,'

They made that very plain.

At least she keeps the garden neat,

There's a freshly painted garden seat.

Oh, and the washing on the line,

And two men's shirts not mine.

*
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*

8:00pm. Work-wise, a pretty uneventful day all in all. (I wish I could say the same for Cynthia.) First thing, she's on the phone haranguing my poor old mother, bless her. Unfortunately, she caught both barrels at once (as luck would have it I was in the bathroom, otherwise engaged). By the time I got downstairs my poor mother's in shock, she's shaking like a leaf. I sat her down on a chair, ‘God, help us, she's of't solicitors' she gasped out. Luckily, this is when my first-aider course kicked in. Rightaway, I made her some strong coffee and toast (I'd pushed the toaster down twice, hoping the smoke might distract her).

Don't you worry, she might frighten an old lady, but not me. ‘Oh, is she indeed, we'll see about that – leave this to me mother' I said. Trust Cynthia (up-ing the dramatics as usual I thought). It turns out, it all stemmed from my impromptu nocturnal visit the previous night. There again, as to why exactly she was gawping out of
her bedroom window at that time of night? Maybe we won't ask eh? More to the point, why she had to get the police involved I don't know – it ends up there's three police-cars, they're blocking off the whole cul-de-sac, not to mention a van-load of Alsatian dogs running amok.

Fancy, telling somebody she has a lunatic son too – making out I'm some kind of a mad prowler. What a story-teller. “I was in mortal fear for my life” now she's saying – and her with that great red-headed lummox in the house. Mother's face was drip white – you could tell it'd upset her. Finally I'd to run round and fetch Auntie Agnes to sit with her before I could go into work.