It Always Rains on Sundays (39 page)

He's had me in his office a couple of times, advising me what to say in front of the committee – he means well I suppose. It's all a question of keeping positive, ‘Look at Thelma' he keeps telling me. Mind you, he's right in a way, she's always happy as a lark. She sings around the place like a linnet from morning till night (either that or whistling). I don't know which is worse. We are a Library
after all. Most times we usually end up out on the roof smoking Monte Cristo cigars, taking turns, potting golf-balls into an upturned waste-bin.

9:00pm. Mother's just gone off in a bit of a huff. She had a fine brace of rather nice smelling freshly baked fruit pies inside her basket. She thinks I don't know (distributing food to the local poor and needy is my guess). ‘Blackberry or gooseberry?' I queried. Her face stiffened, she went out without speaking. She slammed the door behind her, rattling the Staffordshire china dogs up on the sideboard.

Mind you, you have to smile.

What happened Thelma baked some fruit pies. She gave me the choice, rightaway I said blackberry. Somehow or other I don't really fancy Eric's gooseberries, they're the size of tennis-balls – it works out one to a whole pie.

God knows what he puts on them.

This is what she's like. Mother's face dropped a mile, nor it seems did she appreciate the goat-cheese yogurt Thelma had also kindly sent her either. Indeed, very po-faced, according to her the pies were under-baked (“It's barely seen the inside of an oven” she sniffed). Also, in her opinion, for what it's worth it was a month late for what she termed ‘proper blackberries'.

Next thing you know the ovens on full-blast, she's baking like a mad thing.

Cynthia's as bad (if not worse), the night before I'm on the phone talking to Lucy. Cyn grabbed the phone –
making out how late it is (10:00pm that's at the most). ‘It won't be that when I'm trying to get her up for school will it?' she yelled down the phone.

This is when I happened to mention about the pie I'd sent her. ‘Oh, good, so you got the homemade pie okay?' I said.

‘From your dear mother. Old mother Hubbard no doubt?'

Nobody ever sees that side of her, they all think she's really nice.

‘No, she did not. Maybe you should try it, it's called home-cooking.' Good answer that I thought. ‘As a matter of fact a friend of mine at work baked it for me.'

‘Don't tell me, little Thelma the pie-maker – I thought it might be.'

They don't like it when it's the other way round do they.

‘Look, I'm saying nothing, okay. Maybe, maybe not.'

‘How wonderful – are you taking orders?' she enquired icily.

It's really niggled her you can tell. ‘That good huh?'

‘You tell me, Brian got it. Then he wouldn't come out of the shrubbery.'

‘Sounds like he got the gooseberry' I said (I had to leave it outside on the front step). Natch, she always has to have the last word. ‘Oh well, of course – she'll know all about gooseberries' she said sarkily. She hung up.

*
*
*

What a day – it's been the worst day of my whole life. I'VE ONLY GOT MYSELF ARRESTED THAT'S ALL (I'm still trying to take it all in). Not only that. Even worse, I've missed my all important meeting with H&H over at County Hall, about my new job I'm meaning. WHAT JOB? – I've blown everything. It keeps coming back like a bad dream (me of all people). What must it've looked like, an innocent bystander, a senior librarian – well almost, promotion in the offing certainly. What next I wonder, a father stopping by, a few sweets and a chat with his little girl over the school-yard wall – arrested in front of the whole school.

What kind of a crime is that I'd like to know?

You're never ready are you. Next thing you know, it's ‘Excuse me sir, could we just have a quiet word?' one of them says. Luckily they were both in plain-clothes, then there's this look he gives me, this would be the rather larger one of the pair by the way. Come to think, they were both fair-sized. Oh, all very polite, of course.

Mind you they usually are right at first.

After that things started to move rather quickly. Next thing it's the old hand pushing my head down, I'm unceremoniously bundled into the back of this police-car
just like you see on TV – like a common criminal I might add. Meantime I'm whisked off at a great rate of knots to the nearest cop-shop, the Townhall as a matter of fact. Also, it might be worth a mention that to my recollection at least, just for the record the few occasions I have had reason to enter that particular establishment is for bona fide business transactions, e.g. Either to pay my exorbitant Council Tax bill, or the odd dance (on a proper parquet dance-floor) organized by the local Rotary – using I might add, the rather grander Doric-pillared, portico entrance round the front of the building.

This in itself ought to tell you something at least, be assured I was quick to mention that observation at the first available opportunity – albeit only to deaf ears it would appear. However, so be it. Fine by me, lord knows I've little to hide I'm sure. Had I known, things might've been different I'll tell you – it wasn't until later I discovered I'm being detained as a suspect paedophile no less.

Then on top of everything else, in the meantime I'm placed in what's termed ‘a holding cell' if you please – not a pleasant experience, searched (SEARCHED!) the lot. No food or drink, nothing, not so much as a cup of tea and a plain biscuit. That's for two hours at the very least.

Luckily for me I'm not the panicky type, nor am I particularly brave either I suppose. Frankly, I'd like to think I can keep my head in any given situation – under torture who knows. First chance I got I spoke to the officer in charge. Take my word, clever type, this is a sergeant – a bit full of himself ‘What seems to be the problem officer?' I enquired.

No answer – you might as well talk to the sodding wall.

Finally I said, ‘Look here, I've got a rather important appointment over the road at the County Hall, my presence is vital' I told him.

‘Shut yer bloody cake-ole' he snapped.

Don't you worry I have his number down somewhere.

This is the trouble nobody would tell me anything. All in good time everybody kept saying. That's how it works, they're very sneaky. Keeping you locked up inside the slammer hoping you'll want to get it all off your chest, confessing everything, spilling the beans kind of thing – guilty or not.

However, in due course I'm unbolted so to speak (that's after a lot of creating and rattling the cell door he added). Though, for what good that did me, apart from a rather bruised shoulder, least said I suppose. After that, then I'm passed on, this time into the presence of a Police Inspector no less. Hah, an equal I thought – let's get this whole stupid charade sorted out once and for all.

At long last we were finally getting somewhere.

So, there we were, Inspector Sinfield and yours truly, adversaries so to speak, not that it bothered me one iota. Don't you worry it'd take more than a row of silver buttons to faze me.

I waited. You could hear the clock ticking.

Finally it dawned on me, I'd an idea I knew him from somewhere or other. It turns out we both used to be in the same Rotary. Isn't it a small world – I haven't attended
a meeting in yonks. Oddfellows too come to think. Also the Round Table if I remember rightly – I had to draw a line regarding the Freemasons, right at that time Cynthia was expecting her second, if I'm truthful it was starting to bite into my poetry evenings. I mean fairs fair after all.

You can't be doing everything can you?

Something else too, it'd just occurred to me – hadn't there been some kind of minor kerfuffle or other sometime before, certainly nothing to write home about I'm sure. His then fiancé Barbara (handsome woman as I recall – astounding breasts). However, I rather think she'd been somewhat drawn to me dancing the Argentina Tango – big chaps like him, they simply haven't the hips for it, not in my opinion at least.

Even so, hardly a hanging matter you'd've thought.

All the same he didn't seem all that keen on letting on either it seems. Fine by me brother I thought, if that's the way he preferred to play his bat – so be it. So, in that case nor did I.

Hopefully that's all in the past.

And that's how it remained. Wallace Sinfield – old Wally (his name's just come back to me) my life in your hands so to speak. No wonder I hardly knew him. Indeed, not in a month of Sunday's, vast changes all round in fact. Meantime he'd put on a carcass of extra weight. Also, no longer a common or garden P.C. either of course, with a vague look and a bumfluff of an excuse of a moustache. Whereas now, instead I'm facing a large florid-faced individual with short-cropped steel grey hair, moustache like a wire-wool pan-scrubber, a pinkish,
blue-veined hard-drinkers nose, hair-backed hands like fourteen pounds of beef sausage, a brusque manner and a keen eye for further promotion I rather suspect.

He stood over by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the view (all I could see is a cement wall) – I did wonder that's all. He turned sharply, he flopped his bulky frame into his huge hanger of a chair, sending out loud protesting squeals. He opened a folder, he flashed me a cold look. I waited. ‘Mr. Quirke' he said in a grave sounding voice (no old days familiar Colin I noticed). He gestured towards a chair – I was glad to sit down. He swivelled around to face me. ‘Now, look here' he said. He looked at his hands. ‘Now look here' he repeated ‘I'd like you to put yourself in my shoes if you will.' He paused, then expanded his hands (I looked down at his immense feet) – I was tempted to say something. I decided against it. ‘A scenario in fact … (another pause). A man is observed, loitering outside a junior school playground.' He looked up, ‘Not once, not twice, not thrice, but also on numerous other occasions.'

‘Hey, wait a second' I broke in.

It'd just dawned on me, he was talking about me – I mean, okay you can see his point. His big clump of a hand came down to silence me. He stared, ‘But, also most afternoon playtimes' he said, he turned ‘Bit obsessive, no?' I shrugged.

Nobody ever lets you explain – guilty without even a trial.

He was over by the window, ‘Obsessive behaviour I'd say, wouldn't you?' He retook his seat, he looked at the
file on his desk. ‘But you don't think' – I began to say (again the big hand). ‘Please' he said making it sound like an order. ‘Not too good I'd say' he muttered. Finally he looked up, he said ‘Now, complaints come in – what do we do? Two directly from the junior school, followed by three – three I repeat, 999 emergency calls.' He took off his heavy-rimmed glasses ‘These from a rather hysterical young mother, expecting twins. “A weird, nervous man, behaving rather oddly.” He stared, ‘Odd manner, staring eyes, wearing a raincoat' he repeated it ‘Big staring eyes.'

His eyes bore right into me.

Nobody listens. ‘Look, I'm a parent, a father – I've never missed a meeting.'

He rubbed his eyes slowly, as if it was one of those days.

‘Mm mm. Yes sir, so you said' he said tiredly. ‘However I quote “When the suspect was apprehended and subsequently searched” ‘ he read out slowly.

Talk about a brick-wall. ‘Yes, was all that really necessary Wallace?' He stiffened at the mention of his name, he decided to let it go.

Instead, he returned his attention back to the open file on top of his desk ‘“When searched”' he repeated, ‘ “the aforementioned suspect was then found to be in the possession of” …' his voice trailed to a stop.

He looked up. ‘Knickers' I said. He frowned, then went over to look out of the window. So, then I said ‘How many more times? Look, I've already told that idiot earlier on – the moron with the stare.' He turned, there was a pause. He repeated it slowly ‘ “A little girls pair of white cotton knickers, with Teddy-bear motives” ‘ he said in a chant.

He sat down at his desk, he drummed his fingers ‘You follow my drift?' ‘I've already told you' I repeated. ‘Um. Indeed you have sir' he echoed. He started looking at photos, he shook his head, then tutted. I swallowed – pictures of yours truly I presumed.

No wonder I had him down as a bit of a dope.

‘Look, I'm a Librarian for Godsake' I heard myself say in a high-pitched voice.

His cheeks puffed out, he looked directly at me ‘I'm sure you are sir – don't mean a thing these days' he said with alacrity, adding ‘Not nowadays at least' he shrugged. ‘I'd a full-blown member of parliament, sitting in that very chair only yesterday – print frock, white court shoes, pearl necklace and bright red lipstick, perfume, the lot – denied everything.' He broke off, his eyes challenging ‘Everything went blank brigade.' He grimaced ‘Haunting the subterranean world of the white – tiled gentleman's urgency quarters no doubt – you with me?' I nodded glumly.

Just in time I stopped myself re-crossing my legs.

God, when will it all end I'm thinking. However, my interrogation continued unabated, the turning of the screw kind've. You could tell he was police the way he preferred talking to the back of my head (“You did – ‘I did not' – “you did – “) – old Wally, pacing the floor, right behind me, firing off never ending questions. Trying his level best, making out I'm a liar more like.

My mind wandered – pictures flashed through my mind (one thing for sure, any of this leaks out I'm a goner for sure). Mothers with placards outside the school gate
‘QUIRKEY THE MONSTER!' – ‘OUT! OUT! OUT!' ‘PERVES ARE NOT WELCOME IN THIS TOWN.'