It Always Rains on Sundays (47 page)

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9:00am. DAY OFF WORK. Letter (one) recorded delivery, plus parcel. From old Herbie Tribe. How wonderful, I've won a poetry-prize!

Dear Colin: I've been trying to contact you (I've lost your phone number). Sorry to hear your that marriage appears to have hit a bit of a buffer old chap (needlessly to say Cynthia wasn't much help either), least said eh? No doubt this bit of news will cheer you up I daresay. I took the liberty of submitting a couple of poems on your behalf – as things turned out I was right. It just shows. Somehow or other I'd an idea they might just fit the bill (quite frankly you startle me at times) – mine got nowhere by the way. Enjoy, hope we'll meet up sometime over the Christmas
holidays? Love of a friend (and fellow POET!) Herbert Tribe (prof)
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PS. Find enc/letter on behalf of trustees, also presentation silver ink-pot & quill pen (isn't it bloody tacky – useful cheque though, £500.00). At least now you will have something to stick on your mantelpiece. That's presuming you still have one that is! H.T
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‘The Maud Mary May-Hopkinson duo-prize for short-rhymed poems is awarded bi-annually. It was established in 1936 by the widow of the midland industrialist, the late Sir Harry Hopkinson (Bart) fundamentally in order to help and sustain poor working people (inc. manual workers) that share his passion for poetry, and who, chiefly because of environmental issues might easily succumb, “their work falling by the wayside”, stipulations are, firstly that poems shall not exceed more than twenty lines in length, and also presented in pairs under the banner title ‘Anthem to the workplace.'

My God! It just shows, two simple pieces, THE BLUE MAN. Mind you I've got Thelma to thank for that, she gave me the idea in the first place. That, and ROLL ON FIVE O'CLOCK. There again, that one goes back yonks, a life-time almost. Bored out of my mind working on a lathe in the machine-shop, parting tubes all day. Staring at the clock – waiting for home-time:

From the machine-shop floor, you can just see the door

And escape, to green fields and oblivion.

Imagining the two of us there and the sweet rushing air,

Andrea's arms, Andrea's knees holding tight to the pillion.'

Ho hum – so much for young love I suppose (young and carefree), nothing else to worry about than deciding which shirt to wear. That and keeping-up H.P. payments on an old second-hand Triumph 350cc motor-bike.

Finally, I'll be able to tell people I'm a published poet.

11:00am Nobodies interested, full-stop. I've tried phoning Cynthia (she wouldn't even pick-up the phone). You can tell how desperate I was, I even phoned Thelma's house, then when a man's voice answered. I must've panicked – I think I said his boots were ready to pick up from the cobblers. I slammed down the phone. You feel really stupid.

Too late, then I remembered she'd gone over to Clitheroe to visit her sister Pauline. I grabbed the phonebook (no luck I'm afraid). I've covered the whole of Lancashire, Clegg, Clog, Clap, Clit, Clutter – you name it. Mind you there must be hundreds of bloody Clegg's in that neck of the woods. What if it'd've been a dire emergency? I wouldn't mind, afterall she is down as a Library key-holder. No, I don't suppose she's even thought about that scenario of things you can bet.

I'm dying to tell somebody my good news.

What's wrong with people? In desperation I've even tried phoning my mother. She was round at Auntie Agnes's having her hair done, ‘Who is it? Speak up – who is it?' she kept saying (she'd forgot to plug in her hearing-aid). ‘Auntie Agnes, good news – it's me Colin. Tell my mother' – I yelled (‘Who is it?') Hard to believe, two centuries almost of accumulated wisdom, you'd think one of them at least might've had the gumption to turn off the fizzing hair-drier – it was like shouting into a cement-mixer. ‘Tell my mother I've won a big poetry-prize. I'm going to be published at long last' I hollered. I waited. ‘WHO IS IT?' she parroted. ‘One of those funny phone-calls' I heard her say. Again I gave it up as a bad job. I hung up.

At lunch-time I called in for a quick bevy over at Tony's Tavern. Who should I run into but Jamie's headmaster Roger Braintree (there's a bit of luck I thought). Things were looking up, nice fellow – I'd only met him once, v.briefly (12 seconds to be precise). That said, I couldn't take my eyes off his mighty beard – (a pound to a shilling, I'll end up calling him Mr. Bush). So, what with that and his high piping voice (in my notebook I've put ‘Met Jamie's headmaster R.B. – make good ventriloquist!') As things turned out he's a top-notch fellow. It does no harm to fraternise I always think – I brought him a Jack D on the rocks. We both got on grand.

Then it turns out we have quite a bit in common (he's also a big lover of poetry). Well, in a way. Medieval
Gregorian chants actually. Fair enough, each to his own I suppose. Even so, all fine and dandy, right up to then. Lo and behold, who should pole in next, but Gabriel (gobby) Biggar-Titte. That's all I need. Taking over as per usual, rightaway ordering more drinks for one thing (‘Make that a double Tony my love – that's no way to treat an honoured guest') says he. Don't you worry he saw me look.

Trust that oaf to stick his oar in.

Rude sod – I felt like swiping him one I'll tell you.

So, then it turns out, Medieval Gregorian chants are right up his street wouldn't you know. LIAR. Natch, so after that all we can hear is him, ‘How wonderful, how perfectly lovely – AB-SO-LUTELY' he kept saying in a loud put on la-di-dah voice. Either that, or about getting published, that's all he ever thinks about. ‘Are you published yet?' he said that quite a few times come to think. That's just so he can say, ‘OH I AM.' Twat I thought.

He's got a bigger head that Flamborough if you ask me.

This is what he's like. Don't you worry it was right on the very tip of my tongue I'll tell you. ‘Oh, by the way chaps. I'VE JUST WON A BIG POETRY-PRIZE MYSELF AS A MATTER OF FACT.' I should've said.

What stopped me I don't know. ‘YOU DID WHAT?' he'd gasp. It'd be worth it just to see his stupid face.

Next thing you know if he isn't inviting him up to the grange for canapés and drinks (– ‘and your good lady wife, of course') says he. That's so they can peruse some rare slides he'd acquired, reputed to have originated from some
ancient monastery over in Italy someplace or other. No mention of yours truly getting an invite I noticed.

No wonder I'm amazed – the guy is unbelievable.

Not long after that I finished off my drink and left them to it.

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Thelma was different again, of course. She was over the moon, it just shows. ‘You've won a poetry-prize!' she almost screamed. Rightaway, she gave me a v.big hug, followed by what turned out to be a rather prolonged, fumbling wet kiss – if I'm truthful I think it surprised us both.

Typical, trust old Docket to walk past just at that precise moment.

He stared ‘It's Thelma's birthday' I said.

I showed her my good new letter. She read it twice-over, just to make sure. ‘Tell nobody – keep that under your hat' I warned her.

That said, these days Thelma's far more preoccupied with her own life, in fact it'd be fair to say I'm pretty much on the back-burner of things. What's happened, the latest is she seems to have acquired herself a new admirer (well of sorts). Oliver Gott, he's of German extraction (they met up at her Spanish-class). It turns out they're both members of the same Operatic Society – he's quite a bit older from what I can gather. That's according to Dec Tasker the caretaker at least, head turningly, so I hear – it's a bit like taking your old Dad out for a pint, so Dec said.

Frankly I couldn't've cared less. Let them get on with it I say.

No wonder she's no time for poetry (not that she's ever struck me as the flighty-type). It just shows, you think you know people. That time before, her and that I-ty chap of hers, next door. Then, there's that French-polisher guy inbetween, who wears a toupee, him with the goatee and the lisp. She's quite the metropolitan gadabout these days – that didn't last long either come to think.

They think I don't know, they go down to the basement to practice duet arias – it's driving Declan right up the bloody wall. What makes it worse she keeps bursting out into song all over the shop – ‘Songs from Yesteryear' she calls it.

All this attention, I think it must've gone to her head.

‘You should see him wearing his tails and crimson cummerbund,' her eyes twinkled ‘he reminds me of Richard Tauber – he was my mother's favourite when I was a girl.' Thelma gushed.

She's in her own little world half the time.

‘Really?' I said dully.

What had I said, this set her off yet again “Marta, how your eyes shine at twilight” she burst forth lustily in a high-pitched voice. No wonder everyone looked. I stared – we are a Library after all. I'd no option but to ask her to curtail it somewhat. Somebody had to say something, so then I said. ‘Look here, who's this Marta, Marta you keep singing about anyway?'

She gave me a look, then went a bit sheepish ‘Me' she
exclaimed, ending in a giggle ‘it's my maiden name, it's German. It's a song from the show we're doing – Ollie sings it to me.' Ollie now, is it?

This is the first I'd heard. Anyway, I had to ask ‘You never said – about being German I'm meaning?'

She shrugged, then giggled (sometimes Thelma had a way of looking a bit simple, I've noticed it a lot lately). ‘No, well. Only partly, my mother got a bit over-friendly with a P.O.W, he stayed on after the war – she worked in the canteen' then added coyly ‘He's a lot older' she whispered.

‘Hah.' I nodded – least said on that one I thought. She must have a thing about older men. She struck a pose, both hands clasped to her bosom, she burst into song yet again, ‘Marta, how your eyes shine at twilight' … I waited, hoping she'd finished (she hadn't) ‘with your fragrance de – vine' she went on. Somebody had to say something.

‘Thelma, you've two customers waiting' I said.

When I got home mother was in the front room with her feet up, her eyes were glued to the TV screen watching an old black and white movie. ‘Guess what mother' I announced ‘I've just won a big poetry-prize' I waved my good-news letter. ‘Mm, that's nice' she murmured vaguely one eye on the screen, delving deep into her hand-bag searching for a lost sweet.

She couldn't have cared less you could tell.

‘Good eh.' She nodded, then torpedoed a fluff-covered throat lozenge into her gaping mouth. ‘Where's
all those horse-men, wearing feather-hats gone to?' she queried. I stared at the flickering screen. ‘I think you might be meaning Four Feathers mother – this is Four Fathers' I said.

She nodded slowly ‘Oh lovely.'

I went through to the kitchen. ‘Are we eating tonight or what?'

‘Top of the oven, between two plates' she yelled.

10:30pm. OH FINALLY. At long last Cynthia's answering her phone (it'd be easier to phone up the friggin Pope I'll bet). I'm dying to tell her my good news (not to mention landing my new job). She'll be over the moon, (or so I thought) – wrong, I couldn't've been more wrong. Rightaway, as soon as she knew it was me she let out a big groan, ‘AW. WHAT NOW?' My heart zonked right down to just about zero.

That's what she's like – I'm wishing I hadn't even phoned.

‘We're going out – we're running late as it is'

So, what's new (I looked at my watch). Mind you, these kind of people, they live in their own hedonistic private world most of the time. Life's just one long party to some people. ‘Hey, guess what – just wait till you hear my news' I said.

‘Look, will this take long? I'm expecting the sitter any minute,' Cyn said sharply.

I laughed for no reason. ‘Sitter, oh right.'

Already, she's making me nervous (I could feel my
stutter coming on already). I can't help it ‘Long? Hell no, just – hey' I took a big breath ‘W-w-w-what – wait, just wait t-till I t-tell you my news. G-guess, guess w-w-what Cynthia. No well, w-w-what it w-w-was' I counted to five, then did it backwards.

‘Hell, spit it out for Colin, for godsake!' Cynthia spat into the phone.

That's all it takes – imagine, saying that to a born stutterer.

Trust me to catch her at a bad time.

‘Look, I have to run – we're running late already. We've been invited over to Leonard's house.'

She meant the Mayor's house no less. My, my, we are climbing the social ladder I thought. ‘Wow – the Leonard's house eh?' I took a deep breath.

She was really excited you could tell. ‘They're picking us up in a private limo just about anytime. There's a big marque and fireworks, and a live band and everything. Something really special and a proper sit down meal with knives and forks.'

No wonder she's in a bit of a state.

‘Jeepers – knives and forks! Cyn, listen, a couple of seconds, okay. Well, there's a couple of things. About my new job, then the other thing … H-how's the kids by the way – both okay I hope?'

‘Look, I have to go, Kevvy's back with the sitter. I'll catch you later, okay?'

‘Sitter? Oh right – listen, five seconds, okay. You'll laugh when I tell you – you'll be over the moon. No, well, w-w-what, what happened is. Listen, about my – ‘

Her voice blasted right into my ear. ‘I'LL BE RIGHT THERE HONEY.'

I gave it one last shot ‘Wait. Cyn, you'll be really impressed – this won't take but one minute, even less – no, w-w-w-what happened. You'll be amazed.'