It Always Rains on Sundays (37 page)

Somehow it still bothered me. Then all the time I'm driving to work my mind was in overdrive. Who could blame me – no wonder I was worried. Once Cynthia gets her teeth into something she's like a dog with a rag.

Onetime someone just happened to step on her big toe at work – pure accident. Anybody else, they'd've let it go, forget it kind've. Not Cynthia, she took it right to the very top, litigation, the full monty – anybody who'd listen. Finally it ended up in the small claims Industrial Tribunal, they awarded her seven hundred pounds, plus costs, a month off work – not to mention a new pair of shoes.

However forewarned is forearmed as they say. That's why, just on the off-chance at lunchtime I called round
to have a bit of an informal chat with an old school-buddy of mine, a solicitor friend, Austin Bland over in the High Street.

Good idea, why didn't I think of it before. What are friends for, right? One thing for sure I knew I could count on him no matter what.

Luckily for me I'd timed it just right, he was sitting at his desk with his feet up, trying to snatch a quick bite to eat inbetween appointments. Mind you, that in itself is a good sign I always think. Busy people – they are always in demand am I right?

‘Hi there!' I said. Austin looked up as if he was going to smile, then changed his mind. He frowned, then stared at his newspaper. ‘Go away' he mumbled – always the joker did I say.

Maybe I'd spoken too soon.

Unfortunately, as things turned out, old Austin was right in the middle of one of his well-known heavy colds. (Mind you, he's overweight by a ton, that doesn't help any either I suppose.) That's all I need. I waited, hoping he could feel me staring down right at his head.

Finally he looked up, ‘Ullo. Molin. Mud tpee na' (huh?) ‘Uk. Am rada dizzy' he growled. “Go away I'm busy” I think he said.

Suddenly he sneezed into his hand, groping around for another hanky.

My heart sank, now I was here I wasn't too sure. Somehow or other it isn't how I'd imagined it. What I needed right now is somebody really bright with a razor-sharp mind, preferably with some good sagey advice. Not
some shiny-suited fat oaf with dandruff, stuffing bagels into his mouth at thirty second intervals.

However, needs must. I raked over a chair. ‘Five minutes top' I said a bit over-brightly. He cleared his nose with a Kleenex. I waited.

Finally he said ‘Mooding mouse I dear?' he mumbled. I stared (“Mooding mouse?”) Oh, ‘moving house.' I get it. Ha ha. Ha ha – good joke, that's something I suppose. This is what he's like.

Talking was going to be difficult, that's to say the least.

Humour him I thought. ‘You are funny Austin, remind me to laugh.' More to the point, he knows already. God, is nothing sacred.

Why be surprised, it's a small town – news travels fast.

Heavy cold or not it hadn't affected his appetite – he chewed on regardless, steadily working his way through the contents of his lunch-box the size of an average garden hut. Let's face it, this man didn't inspire anybody. Too parochial by far, more suited to ‘sign on the cross' conveyancing ‘a true bungalow' more likely. Give him a knotty problem such as mine, e.g. – a v.highly sensitive marital situation, requiring tipy-toe, on the spot quick-fire judgement, he'd be scratching his head I'll bet.

Too late I was already here, I might as well make the best of a bad job (germ bugs or nay) not to mention six flights of stone steps and both wheels on double-yellows.

I pulled my chair forward.

So then, in plain layman terms I started to tell him about my side of things. I outlined my case (an open and closed case for the plaintive as I saw it). That said I didn't
dive in too deeply at first, not at this stage at least. Indeed, very early days as yet to be fanning out all my cards I'd've thought. Even now (looking on the brighter side of things) chances are it may yet all come to nought. Don't you worry, as far as taking Cynthia back, and all will be forgiven. That's quite another story, we'd cross that particular bridge when we came to it. One thing for sure it'd have to be on my terms at least. Now that I had his undivided attention I wasted no time. After that it virtually poured out. I had things to say and eager to tell it. I told him everything. ‘Boy, I could really tell you stories about that woman, things you'd hardly believe – oh, you bet.'

He stared. ‘Now Austin, how am I placed exactly?'

His hand went up to stop me, ‘Duck, tor poo bake, porry.' Something about being too late as far as I can make out (between us we'd invented a whole new language) – what day did he speak English I wondered?

Once I got started, it's as if I couldn't find the brake. In broadish terms I tried to explain the precarious state of our marriage (hopefully impartially – I'm not a vindictive man, it isn't part of my nature). That, nutshell-wise, things were pretty desperate, in fact unless things didn't dramatically improve, e.g. DUMP THE HOME-WRECKER pronto, in which case we were heading for mighty big rocks, putting it bluntly, unless somebody chucked me a rope, chances are that our betrothal alliance was just about ready to go arse over tit.

Having somebody on my side for a change – I felt better already.

I waited (he was just mopping-up after a rather forceful sneeze). He said ‘Dike do ded – on door darse imb abraid.' (‘Like you said – on your arse I'm afraid'). At least I was getting some straight answers that's something.

Maybe I should come back at another time.

Meantime he'd run out of nose-fodder, in a frantic search he started to pull out drawers. He sat up holding an empty box, he looked close to tears. Don't worry he had my fullest sympathy, I'm not much fun with a cold myself. Even so, to say he's supposed to be a professional man he was far too preoccupied with his stupid nose if you ask me. Finally he had to give it up as a bad job.

Taking pity on him I tossed over a couple of tissues.

‘Pants kid!' (‘thanks kid') he gasped. He cleared his nose – it sounded like coal from a scuttle. He gave me a watery smile. ‘Oh, bats etta' he said. He shook his head ‘I ot to be in ded wit a dot doorta ottle' (‘in bed with a hot water bottle' I think). Maybe I was starting to get the hang of it.

Poor bastard, he was dying right there in front of me.

I picked up from where I'd left off. ‘You have not even heard the half of it my friend, not even by a country mile' I said.

Again, his hand came up ‘Door dife … (‘your wife'). He paused, his voice came in disjointed gasps. ‘Door dife Tintia (this is when he dropped his big bombshell). ‘She was in here first thing this morning.' He nodded slowly, giving it time to sink in. Curiously enough this time his voice came loud and clear. ‘Only, she gave me the
common courtesy of making a proper appointment with my secretary' he added, blinking his wet bovine eyes behind his round glasses.

No wonder I stared. What a bitch, right. All the lawyers in town she has to choose him – of all people. Come to think it's just the under-handed sneaky trick she would do – just to get at me. I could feel my anger already (who can blame me). I wouldn't mind Austin's my friend not hers, we go right back to school-days – in actual fact Cynthia despises the fellow, always has. She says he leers at her, she mentioned it a couple of times,
maybe I should tell him
?

It showed on my face I expect. He shrugged, then pushed back his glasses ‘Book, Mowin – my dads are dies' (“Look, Colin – my hands are tied”) – as far as I can make out.

It would've been far easier passing notes.

We exchanged looks. He blew his nose – surprisingly enough he could be really bright (without a cold that is). He cleared his throat, his face went serious, he said ‘No doubt you are already aware I can't act for both of you.' Tell me some news I thought. Suddenly he sneezed, he searched his pockets. He dived into another drawer, he came out holding a fresh box of hankies, his face jubilant. His hands worked frantically, tearing it open, he cleared his blocked nose. He smiled ‘God that's better' he declared ‘Now, if you don't mind, I'm very busy, please go – go away, dares a bud dap.'

‘But you knew I'd be giving you a call' I said.

He sat down, cracking his knuckles. He shrugged
‘Well, I am on the phone' he muttered somewhat smugly. His face brightened ‘Look, I have an idea – what about one of the partners?' he suggested. ‘Mrs. Tabbs is free I believe – you're lucky, she's just come back from maternity leave.' He beamed ‘Great idea – she's a real cracker-barrel, especially when it comes to matrimonial matters.'

No wonder I stared – is he serious?

Oh sure. I could just imagine the scene in some far distant courtroom. Mother's stick with mother's, am I right – no thanks buster. Oh sure, visitation rights – forget it, (seeing my kids for one thing). Once every leap year more like. I wouldn't even be in with a shout. Not to mention her taking me for every penny I haven't got. ‘Another fucking woman? Are you kidding, no thanks. Quirke verses Mother fucking Earth more like' I yelled.

Suddenly we were interrupted, a stern-faced, smartly dressed woman strode in from the adjoining office. She glared (Mrs. Tabbs presumably), she leaned over Austin's desk to switch off the intercom, then left without speaking. She closed the connecting door with a thud.

I shrugged. Austin absentmindedly tore a big chunk out of another bagel, staring after her mid-chew – our eyes kind've bumped.

He wanted me to leave you could tell. He went over to the window staring down into the street, searching his pockets for another hankie, without success. ‘Mowin pie dads par died' (“my hands are tied”). He repeated it twice. Instead I tried talking to him, man to man. ‘I thought you were my friend – we were at school together' I said in a wheedling voice.

He spoke to the glass ‘Mowin, how benny bore timbs, pie dads are died.' I said. ‘Maybe you heard, I'm back at home living with my mother – you know Stoney Bank Street by any chance?' He nodded, come to think of it he should do, he'd been there often enough when we were kids.' Then added ‘It's right next to the railway viaduct, trains keep you awake – I have to read the timetable before I go to bed.'

He swallowed the last of his bagel, then nodded.

‘Aussie, look at me' I said. ‘I'm almost fourty years old, with a dicky hip. Right now I'm sleeping in a really scrunchy back bedroom with Dumbo the Elephant curtains and flaky paint and a flaky mother. I'm living out my final days with a dotty Salvationist. I'm living on the edge of a knife, hymns galore. You can hear everything – trains keep you awake. Can you imagine that? (actually he could, his mother and mine both attended the same church) – his is even worse than mine.

‘Tough' he said. He came over looking at his watch. ‘Tough' he repeated with finality, he snapped the lid down on his lunch-box. He supressed a sneeze. ‘Oh, by the way you're fourty-one brother. You're the same age as me, there's a week between us both – to my favour,' He sneezed ‘That's if I remember correctly.'

‘What's age matter? I'm as good as dead anyway.'

He sat at his desk, trying to look busy. Don't you worry I hadn't finished – not by a mile. ‘You have no idea baby. You bet it's tough. I pass my lonely nights, all alone in my little cobwebby attic room, writing ‘Dear Home-wrecker letters for fucksake.' No answer – you'd've
thought he'd've been interested. Then I said ‘Hey, this guy of Cyn's, he's an American.' I stared right at his head. ‘Um, so I've heard' he answered in an either way kind of voice, still fiddling with his nose.

‘You bet it's tough. Red-hair – maybe you heard about that too?'

He made a grab for another hankie, then sneezed.

‘No, I mean really bright, y'know. Wait till you see him, he's a picture. This is what surprised me in the first place. Cyn really hates red-hair in any shape or form, always has. Ask anybody you like – top of her list. That's women for you I guess – you can never tell.'

He made a big thing of looking at his watch. He stared ‘Ib por deddy pold do Powin, pie dads are died.'

I laughed coldly ‘Once upon a time we had a very, very happy marriage. Ask anybody – remarkably contented in fact, two great kids. People used to envy us you could tell, complete strangers. When we were walking in the park people would stop us, complete strangers. “Gosh, you're a happy family in no mistake, I can tell. Sorry to trouble you. Do you mind if I take your photo?” they'd say. It's happened quite a few times.'

Austin sighed, then he pointed to the door. He grabbed my arm, he escorted me over to the door ‘Pees bo. Ib berry diddy Mowin.' I grabbed the doorpost, I said ‘Ten seconds, okay. This is a true story, here's another thing too. She proposed to me don't forget – I have nine witnesses. Cynthia practically begged me to marry her. Ask anybody you like, right up until then I was a happy, carefree bachelor about town.'

He gave me a final push – I held on to the door post.

He walked away. ‘He's a loser, no job, no money – he's living off her. He's a gigolo with tin cups for cowboy dancing.' I said.

He turned ‘Do don't doe dat, dis all in door ded.'

‘Don't sleep-overs count?'

Just as I thought he'd no answer for that one.

He sat down at his desk, he took off his glasses, then rubbed his eyes – for once he spoke loud and clear ‘Look, I've got work to do, okay. Anyway, you don't know that, it's pure conjecture.'

‘Cyn keeps him, end of. Take my word. Hey, remember to ask him about your fee too – me, I'd be worried already' I jeered.

‘Towin pees!' he cried. He blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

‘Don't boo berry im'b bowing' I told him. I stopped over by the door. ‘Hey, and driving he's even worse – he drives on the right' I sniggered. ‘Hard to believe, right. Don't get behind him, it's fatal. I've seen faster drivers going into the fucking Crem – you'd think he'd died at the fucking wheel.' He tried pushing me out, I kept my foot in the door. ‘Oh, listen. That's another thing – just wait till you hear this, now the latest is the idiots painted my Victorian garden seat too. A collectors item, it's bright yellow – how about that?' He stared ‘What colour's yours, only I'm interested.'