It Always Rains on Sundays (38 page)

He was over by the window. ‘You're not married are you Austin?' He swung round, making his chubby cheeks wobble over his bow tie ‘Noooooo-way. God no'
he answered at once. Least said I thought. Time to go. ‘Adios my capitano' I said.

You could sense his relief. His head shook ‘Batri bony, ets berry, berry dicky' he said (“Matrimony is very tricky” I think). Indeed it is O wise one, not to mention a bit one-sided I'm starting to think.

Meantime Mr. Nose-routine made a grab for another hankie, ‘Tee ou bayta' he called out. He sneezed one final time, enough to shake the windows.

Things could only get worse. Some joker had stuck a half-eaten chicken-curry over my windscreen. What's wrong with people? (I'd half expected a parking ticket). ‘FUCK YOU. FUCK ALL OF YOU' I yelled out. Everybody turned, then stared.

I drove off in hot-blood in search of a car-wash.

All this happening, it'd made me later than ever – I'm supposed to be meeting up with the kids outside the multi-screen. No wonder they both looked pissed-off. Just to make-up for it I gave them first choice. So then we all ended up going to see Dance with the Dead, (as things turned out I slept right through) twice-over. Finally we were all escorted out under hard looks – people were complaining about my loud snoring.

It goes without saying, they both enjoyed it immensely.

This is another thing too. Only, later when we all got back to DeLacey Street, nobodies home. Cyn's next door at Avril's house – so what's new. One consolation, I don't
have to make stupid conversation with YOU KNOW WHO, that's something at least.

However (much to my amazement), the first thing I see is Grandmother Clough's antique mahogany sideboard, stuck outside in the rain. That's bad enough, though, what really saddened me even more is how it'd been vandalised. The whole front is smashed to smithereens, chicken-wire nailed over it. Some prize idiot must've decided to turn it into a rabbit-hutch. ‘PETER'S HOUSE' it said.

Hard to imagine, right. This is a fine (was) piece of cherished family furniture don't forget. I just stood there amazed. Lucy thought it was great. ‘Uncle Kevin made it. Mummy said he was very clever. I think so too, don't you Daddy?' I nodded glumly ‘Oh neat' I said. ‘His name's Peter,' she enthused. All of a sudden she bundled it into my arms. I fondled it gingerly – then handed it back.

Frankly I could've wept, all that family history, ruined – lost forever. Cyn really hated it, she made no bones about it. She'd've turfed it out years ago. Her and the home-wrecker are both as bad, no doubt he'd've been acting under orders I expect. Lucy must've sensed my mood. ‘It's just until Uncle Kevin gets some more wood to make a proper one' she explained.

I nodded. She tugged at my sleeve, wanting to be off. She sprang up for a kiss, next moment she'd gone, melting into the darkness (‘Byeeeeeeee!'), eager to join her brother into Avril's house next door. Who can blame
them. These days Jamie's over there all the time. Only, now the latest is Clyde the Wallet's been treating himself to a full-sized snooker-table. This is what I'm up against – it's to go in the new ballroom-sized conservatory they've just had built.

I took one last look. Brian stared quizzically inside the improvised rabbit-hutch, then at me. ‘Quite a wizard' I said. ‘Quite a wizard' I repeated.

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8:00pm. When will it all end? Mondeo's playing-up again! Cynthia's only just returned my call (I've been trying to phone her all day) about the sideboard/rabbit-hutch fiasco I'm meaning. All she wants to talk about is herself as usual, I'd all on trying to get a word in edgeways. They'd all been to this brand new mega-sized shopping mall called the BIG DOME. ‘You should try it sometime. They even have this big indoor funfair – the kids really loved it' she enthused.

How would I know, the kids are always with you I thought.

‘Dome. Right, I think I've heard of it.'

‘No. Dome. D.O.M.E.' Cynthia corrected me.

‘Good idea, maybe I will.'

Next thing, if she isn't praising the home-wrecker, about how absolutely, fantastically wonderful he is with the kids. ‘Somehow or other he just seems to have this knack. They think he's wonderful.'

I tried changing the subject. ‘Look, about the rabbit –?'

‘ – Even Lucy, he's so patient. You know what I'm saying.'

Meaning I haven't I suppose. ‘Really? Listen about the – ‘

‘Just so long as Kevvies there to catch her – she'll ride on anything.'

‘Wow. That's a real eye-opener, how about that!'

‘Uh uh. You'd be really amazed, funny that. Everybody's commented how well she's doing.'

‘Cool. That's awesome, that's pretty remarkable, glad to hear it. Look. Cynthia, while I have you. Look, about the sideboard?'

She repeated it. ‘Side-board?' There was a pause. ‘My Grandmother Clough's antique, mahogany sideboard. Outside in the rain I'm meaning, it looked kind've damaged, y'know.'

‘Side-board?' her voice went higher ‘That old thing?' She let out a snorty laugh. ‘God, it's a positive eye-sore' Cyn exclaimed.

‘It's an old family heirloom. It's worth money – or, was more like.'

‘That old thing?' she yelped incredulously.

‘It was worth money' I repeated. ‘Onetime, a man told me it had great potential value, a rare collectable item he said.'

‘One thing for sure, he isn't the same guy I saw. This man I mean laughed out loud – it wasn't worth thirty-bob, this guy told me' Cyn sniggered.

Sniggerers are really the pits I always think.

How I kept my temper I don't know. ‘You think?'

‘I don't think, I know. He wanted twenty-five pounds to take it away.'

‘You must've been talking to a real dope – it's a rare item. Five generations, that's almost two centuries of Quirke's who have lovingly polished and cherished that old piece of furniture. Now look at it, it's completely ruined.'

‘There's me thinking how poor we were.'

Pure sarcasm. ‘What am I supposed to tell my mother?'

‘Tell her the Queen commandeered it for Buckingham Palace' she tittered.

‘My mother loved it. One thing for sure, a rabbit-hutch was not part of the plan I'll tell you now.'

She'd no answer for that one. I'd just thought of something. ‘Look, don't throw anything else away, okay.'

‘Like what for Godsake?' she said in a flat voice.

‘Just don't.' Cynthia in this mood, you just never know, ‘that goes for anything, books – my first edition Robbie Burns for one thing, I can't seem to find it anywhere.'

‘Don't worry. Black bags – that goes for everything.'

Had I heard her correctly. ‘Rabbie Burns – he ends up in a black bag?' I queried.

‘Don't worry. Top of the garage, he's safe and dry. Then what's new – just like you' she laughed.

Everything is just one big joke to some people.

Something else too ‘What about my stones?' I said.

Don't say she's dumped those too, all my shore-pebbles, keepsakes I'd collected from exotic climes and faraway shores. I'd left them up in the attic for safekeeping, each one carefully numbered and tagged – I was expecting the worse.

‘Well, put it this way, the ceilings still sagging I'll say that much.

Always the joker, right.

‘Look, don't touch a thing I'll send somebody round with a van first thing tomorrow, okay.'

‘Make it a big one – one thing for sure, it'll be nice to see daylight.'

After that it went quiet. Then Cyn said, ‘After all you were in sole charge of Ben. You forgot to feed him, am I right?'

‘That's a lie, I always fed Ben, six times a day – that's at least.'

‘So, instead you overfed him. Same verdict, sorry.'

‘Ben was a hundred and six – pets die, I'm sorry too, okay.'

‘Put it this way, Lucy was very upset.'

‘That's why you thought you'd chop up the furniture, right?'

‘I've already told you, it was a dire emergency.'

‘You should've called me. I'd've made her a new one.'

‘Oh sure – and pigs might' Cyn sniggered.

She always has to have the last word.

‘Oh yeah, going by Red-tops handiwork, pigs might not either' I yelled.

I waited. No answer. Too late she'd hung up.

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8:00pm. Mondeo – she's still over-heating! (I've promised myself an early night.) My new workout routine is almost killing me. First thing I'm over at the park jogging round the lake (THREE TIMES!) – that's before I go to work. Trust Cyn & Co to turn up. Natch, old beacon-head, the Red-giant leading the way out in front (size fourteens flapping, frightening the ducks). Talk about a show off – I'll say.

Mind you it's alright for him he hasn't a brain to carry.

Jamie waved, then grinned, he looked pretty embarrassed by the whole thing if you ask me. He stuck two fingers up – I'm hoping that implied they'd just completed two full circuits of the lake (I gave him the benefit of the doubt). I returned his wave.

Cynthia stared right ahead, making out as if she hadn't even seen me, her and Avril lagging miles behind, both gasping for breath. Avril did give me a nice smile (these days she grins at everybody like a mad thing), I'm putting that down to Botox as much as anything else. Mind you, if I'm being truthful I could hardly tear my eyes off her newly acquired bosoms, leaping about
uncontrollably, like two ferrets in a sack looking for a way out.

No sign of Lucy. I headed for the pond, I found her, happily poking about with a stick. She's like me, both thinking the same thing – there's more to life than running around lakes. It was nice to have a bit of time to ourselves for a change.

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Letters: (one) Mangy post! More poems returned. Betty's Black Cat, that's back yet again, from Tipperary over in Ireland. Only it turns out they're only wanting, what they describe as ‘witty limericks.' Fair enough – mind you I really detest limericks, they're puerile and childish if you ask me, e.g. “There was a young lady from Hull, who went for a ride on a Bull” (etc, etc). Oh, very chortle provoking I'm sure. Standards Colin, you are a poet first and foremost – worth bearing in mind,
never prostitute your art kido
. Next thing you know you're on the steep downhill slope bordering on vulgarity, then where will you be?

Letter: (two) There's a blow, my rather lengthy narrative poem questioning the existence of God – that's also fallen on stoney ground too I fear. Pity that (42 stanzas!) It just shows. I wouldn't mind I was up three consecutive nights on the trot with that bastard. Returned from Retreat House Saltburn-on-sea. However, also enclosed is a rather charming handwritten letter from one Ms. Elpeth
Maud Hoveringham. Apparently she's something to do with the Bible Society of Sisters I gather.

‘My words you do appear to be troubled and down in the dumps. You must persevere – try to keep a grip on your inner-self Colin. Always remember, when things seem awry and everything's in darkness. God is with you, quite often you will find that prayer is in fact the only answer.'

How sweet, taking the trouble to write (lovely handwriting) I don't mind saying, I'm rather touched, she sounds really nice. It makes a refreshing change – better than the usual ‘lick it and stick it' brigade that's for sure, e.g. “Tell him to sod off!” Only, now I'm thinking, maybe I should've turpsed it down a notch or two, e.g. “Since life, nothing more can supply than a few good fucks and then we die … “ (etc, etc). John Wilks 1763-1821. Lovely lady all the same, finally she concludes (somewhat prudently I thought) by giving me the hot-line telephone number of the local Samaritans. It just shows, wasn't that thoughtful.

Lunchtime a few of us went over to the pub (Kirsty and Shiraleen's wedding ceremony – so-called). Somehow or other it all reminded me of Stonehenge. You could tell they'd gone to a lot of trouble. They had this kind've indoor tent, with a kind've improvised, flower-decked maypole arrangement with coloured ribbons and lots of flowers. You could hardly move, bride and bride, both
wearing these long white diaphanous gowns with garlands of marigolds (care of the Parks Dept). Everybody prancing about, dancing to this really weird music, clashing cymbals and whatnot. Much to everyone's surprise, even Aubrey Docket put in an appearance. There he is handing out all this sagey advice, about always pulling together (“Always be one hundred per cent true to one another” says he). What stopped me I don't know. I'd all on not to laugh I'll tell you.

What a corker I thought. Boy, the stories I could tell about him. Trust me to say the wrong thing. ‘So what happens now? Do we call you Mr. and Mrs. or what?' I asked the happy couple. They strode off without speaking to join in the clog-dancing.

Meanwhile of course, Friday looms ever closer. If I'm truthful, I'll be a lot happier after my crucial meeting with H&H. (Harry Heptonstal and Harry Moldgreen) over at County Hall about my new job. It's a big responsibility after all. You only have to look at old Docket (he's fifty-nine!) It just shows, I had him pegged, going on seventy at the very least – not that I'm having second thoughts or anything.