It Always Rains on Sundays (4 page)

Just as I thought she'd no answer for that one – she flounced out slamming the door behind her.

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2:30am. Look at the time, Cyn's just got in, I could hear her, thumping her way up to bed, waking the whole house. There's me wide awake, tossing about on a rickety camp-bed all night – dawn about to leap over the window-sill … No doubt she'll be straight off to sleep the minute her head hits the pillow.

3:15am. Just thinking. Cyn I'm meaning. I was just wondering that's all, all alone in that double bed upstairs … would she have need of me? There again, maybe not (she thinks I don't know) all that sexual machinery she keeps stashed away in her bedside drawer, sex aids I'm meaning. Nah, no chance – why risk it.

8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY (nice and sunny for a change). Another long (v.long) dull day at work – (no, I mean really dull). That's libraries I expect – books in, books out – same boring routine day after day. This is the trouble nothing ever happens. What if say, old Docket was suddenly discovered having oral-sex with Ms. Walker his flat-chested P.A. behind the Social Services section? Or, maybe Kirsty and Shiraleen, caught inside the lift in a passionate embrace?

There again all this scorching hot weather we're having, that doesn't help – not when you're stuck indoors
all day. My mother phoned me this morning (this is at work I'm meaning) the times I've told her about that. How many more times – it's only for dire emergencies I reminded her.

There was a pause. ‘This is a dire emergency' she assured me.

She's in desperate need of some fresh yeast. It turns out it's the Annual Sisterhood Tea, round at the Salvation Army hut. They've sprung it on her at short notice. Fair enough. Mind you I'm always a bit wary. I could do with my mother, somehow or other there's always some strings attached. Next thing, then she's telling me it must come from Ivy Crow's stall, right at the far end of the Market-hall. ‘Oh, and a bottle of malt vinegar' (I was right). ‘That's if it's no trouble, it's next to Trotters tripe stall. Tell her your Ada's lad, she'll know who you are then' she added.

Pretty soon I had a list as long as your arm.

There was a long pause. I was hoping she'd finished (old Docket's just about due on his morning rounds). Suddenly she said ‘We're all in for an Indian-summer by all accounts – it was on the six o'clock news this morning.' ‘That'll be nice mother' I said. Another pause. ‘Too hot for me, that's for sure. You watch, next thing they'll be a shortage of water' she told me in a whiny voice.

This is what she's like, I could just imagine it, fire banked up on the Yorkshire-range, the whole place red hot ready for baking. Mind you she's right, if the sun's out two days on the trot, it's panic-stations – next thing you know they're dipping the water supply.

‘There's more than you sweltered' I said.

She'd just reminded me – that gave me an ideal opportunity to tactfully mention not to knit me anymore woolly jumpers for work. Don't get me wrong, I mean she's got a heart of pure gold, no question about that. She will insist on always adding a row of bloody bells right across the front. Frankly, most people that work in Libraries are not that famous for wearing jazzy jumpers all that much. This is what I said, ‘Look, I know it's all very clever mother. I'd be much obliged if you'd leave them plain in future.'

There was a pause. ‘There supposed to be sheep' she said tartly.

‘It's far too hot for jumpers.'

She laughed that high-pitched cackling laugh of hers ‘Heh, heh, heh, heh. Well, take it off you simpleton – have you no sense?'

She has no idea (simple she says). Isn't it obvious I'm right in the middle of a domestic crisis. Only, now the latest is Cynthia's even boycotted doing the ironing too. There's no way I'm sitting at my counter in a non-ironed shirt. Anyway, that's her department. She must've been reading my mind. ‘Oh, by the way, I haven't seen hide nor hair of those grand-children of mine much lately.' There was a pause ‘Nor that wife of yours either come to that' she added not without scorn.

It isn't as if they get on that much anyway.

Least said on that one I'm thinking. Just in time, I'd spotted old Docket making his way down the last flight of stairs. Though, if I'm truthful I was glad of the excuse.
‘Look, I'd better go – I'll call you later mother.' I hung up.

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Oh, wait – this is news. Looks as if we've acquired a new assistant Librarian. Thelma Clegg (um, I know – another woman) – as if we aren't outnumbered enough already. However, what is interesting (well it is in a way) she's the same woman I met over in the park that time, her with the deaf dog – isn't that strange? Turns out she's the replacement for that Harper woman, her that's just left, the one that finally got herself pregnant using I.V.F. (six years!) rumour has it she's been holding on for a council house in a better catchment area nearer the school. Mind you, old Harper got away with murder if you ask me – most afternoons she had her feet up in the ladies rest room (that's when she decided to turn in). Maybe it's me – we are supposed to be a Library after all.

This is my trouble, I'm too easy going – people soon take advantage. So, we'll see, she's on temporary loan from the main Calderford branch (mind you I'm a bit down on women in general I have to admit). Though in all fairness she seems competent enough, another attribute is she appears to be able to talk and get on with her work at the same time. So there's a first I thought – as to whether or not she's worth training-up. Maybe we'll hold fire on that one for the time being at least.

Then just when I'm in the middle of my afternoon tea-break my mother phoned me again (that's twice now
in the same day), her excuse this time was to thank me for fetching her shopping from town. All that and there's nobody home. I'd to leave everything outside on top of the coal-bunker (then you're worried about the cat). It turns out she's having a bath – she'd left the back door on the sneck just in case. She was running late, back from her meeting round at the Salvation Army hut (a bit of a crisis in fact). Some joker had super-glued the front door key-hole again. It was her turn to slide down the coal-shute.

Suddenly she said ‘How's things on the western-front Sonny-Jim?' then added ‘Is there anything you want to tell me about?'

‘What's all this mother?'

‘Lady muck. Cynthia I'm meaning – what's upsetting her this time?'

‘Upsetting?' I said vaguely.

‘You've been sleeping downstairs on the camp-bed, so I've heard.'

Say little I thought. I made light of it ‘Well, that's news to me mother I must say.'

There was a pause. ‘Oh, that's funny. That's not what Ivy Crow on the market's just been telling me – according to her you're not even on speaking terms. You haven't exchanged so much as a civil word in over a month. You've been sleeping in separate beds so I hear.'

Something must've slipped out – people catch you off-guard. Same at work, it's surprising, everybody's starting to notice how down in the mouth I've been lately (I mean I do try). That's why I'm always so careful what
I say to people – call me old fashioned. What goes on in the privacy of your own home is pretty much sacrosanct in my book.

Suddenly she said ‘What do you think of the eclipse?' You're never ready are you (she has me dizzy at times). What eclipse, has there been another and I've missed it? Just to prove my point, then she said ‘There's half a dozen fresh loaves here waiting. That's when madam's a mind to call in. Either road they'll go in the freezer.'

Some hopes, not much chance of that I thought.

Finally mother said in a small voice ‘I've prayed for you all night son.' I nodded. ‘Thank you mother' I said. A pause ‘Maybe you ought to try it Colin?' she hung up.

Then when I looked, there's old Docket, he's stood there right in front of me (he creeps around the place like an adopted cat). He crooked his finger, ‘Colin – a word' he says. God, what now? As things turned out he only wanted to borrow a chair to stand on to open the window – I did offer.

So, okay, not that it matters I suppose. All the same it doesn't look good does it?

11:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). I'm having an early night. Frankly I don't know how much more I can take. Cynthia's unpredictable mood swings I'm meaning. What started it off, I'd had a note from Gabriel B.T. marked ‘urgent' regarding a reconvened Poetry Society meeting for tonight. Too late (I saw her look) I'd been searching high and low for my brown tie ‘The one with the key-holes?' I said. You ask one simple question. No
answer, instead her eyes stayed glued to the TV screen (The High Commander of the Remote) – I don't get a look in, her choice or nothing. I forgot we still weren't speaking. She smirked, ‘That's for me to know and you to find out' she declared smugly, sliding a chocolate caramel into her gaping mouth. What's it take to be civil, right? Talk about childish (that hairs still there I noticed). I'm hoping it's the start of a full-blown beard. It'd really suit her I'll bet.

I went to answer the phone.

Wonderful – all that and the meetings been cancelled yet again. Biggar-Titte, no doubt – trust his lordship to stick his oar in. After that I retreated into the conservatory for a bit of peace and quiet (it wouldn't be so bad if I had a bit of privacy). I'm a man who likes to pace about at odd hours of the night. I've been on about curtains for yonks.

Finally I heard the TV go off. ‘A good wife would sew curtains' I yelled. No answer – I repeated it. Instead she stuck her head through the serving-hatch, making farting noises.

This is what I'm up against.

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Letters. (one only): Eeek! More bad news. Heartbound, that's back again. ‘Worth watching – original angle' it says. Well, that's something I suppose. There's a blow, I'd high hopes with that one too, returned from Village Crys (no constructive critique as such). So be it – we battle onwards and upwards. We northerners scoff at first
fences such as that. Good old Yorkshire-grit I'm meaning, we're stoic, our determination is legendary. WE NEVER GIVE IN THAT'S WHY.

Not to worry. Luckily I've a plan B, instead I'm sending it off rightaway to Faber & Faber in London (that screechy-voiced woman) she sounded most amenable over the phone – her with the plummy accent. Only trouble is I've completely forgot her stupid name. Margo Glitch (or is it Miriam?) maybe Gulch. Dutch or maybe Clutch? I can hardly call her again, you look really stupid.

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8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). ATE AT PUB! Big rains all day – roads flooded. What's happened to that so-called Indian-summer I wonder? Cynthia still isn't speaking – so what's new (looks as if some idiot forgot to buy paint for the living-room wall). Latest bulletin from the front line, hostilities prevailing, also odd sniping via serving-hatch. Living-room designated a definite NO GO area! Mondeo, she's still squeaking, worse if anything – it's doing my head in. meantime I've been on the phone to Fox's Garage, trying
to get hold of Fat Frank. Only, now they're telling me he's down in Brighton, he's supposed to be on a Customer Courtesy course – what am I a fool? Liars more like.

Letters (one): Another poem returned, fraidy so – I'm assailed from every side. Doomed by thy Fate, that's back, from Penzance Penmen down in Cornwall. Typical, if it'd been something connected with friggin lucky pixies, they'd've snapped my hand off you can bet.

Letters (two): Big bill from Dwayne the Drain, aka The Drain Doctor £360.00 plus VAT if you please. Blimey. Noway baby – he's no chance. I'm returning it forthwith, I'm demanding a complete itemised breakdown – he was only here more than a good hour, that's at the most, e.g. (A) What time he finally turned up? (B) What time
actually
down manhole? (C) What time scarpered off home – it's hardly my fault he'd to travel across three sodding counties is it?

That's not counting free gratis refreshments!

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8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Hot day – nice and sunny. Some good news at least (things are looking-up). This new assistant at work Thelma Clegg, she's turning out remarkably well! Mind you, early days as yet I suppose – not like some of those dreamy young girls they
usually foist onto me at least, e.g. gossiping all day. Also, another good thing in her favour is her avid interest in poetry (smallish world eh), and even smaller it appears. Not only that, it turns out she also aspires to writing poetry herself. Mind you most people are a bit inclined to say that I usually find. Ha ha I thought to myself (you have to smile). They always make it sound so easy.

Something else I've noticed too. SHE'S INTERSTED IN YOU.

Indeed. Like I said, she listens does Thelma, that's a rare commodity in most women these days I find. Take this morning, I just happened to mention my own particular aspirations, about getting published myself – hopefully sooner rather than later. Nor did she laugh, not like some I could mention – far from it. Rightaway she said ‘Go for it Colin – what have you got to lose. If you don't try how will you ever know?' How many right, encouragement I'm meaning, you could tell she meant it. Then I remembered about those famous poets, each with some kind of disability – it makes you think. ‘Ha' I said half-jokingly ‘one thing for sure, if it means having a leg off as a perquisite to getting myself published, in that case maybe I won't bother' I laughed.