It Always Rains on Sundays (52 page)

Then, after a long awkward silence, Thelma said ‘Did you both enjoy the show?' Nobody answered. ‘They've been rehearsing for weeks – one of the girls at work is singing in the chorus' she added chirpily.

Mother pulled a face ‘Um. Well, it was alright if you like that kind of thing I suppose' she condescended in a slow either way kind of voice, turning to look at the clock. Auntie Agnes must've just caught the back-end on
her way back from putting the kettle on, ‘Alright? It was wonderful' she challenged her at once. ‘You were full of it coming home on the bus – you were singing away, top of your voice same as everybody else, “Oh what a beautiful morning!” she burst forth lustily. ‘Oh, and those costumes, it was really wonderful' Auntie enthused.

Like I said, she was just that way out you could tell. ‘I said it was alright, how many more times' Mother chuntered sulkily, then added ‘Well, I don't know about anybody else, but I'm more than ready for a nice mug of hot cocoa' she announced in a pained voice, pulling herself up off the sofa. ‘Is that kettle on Agnes?' she called out, limping jerkily, padding across the carpet towards the kitchen. I went to fetch Thelma's coat.

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1:30pm. Mondeo's overheating! That's all I need. Half day at work! (small hurrah). Kids off for the whole day with Cynthia, her and the yankee orang-utan – no wonder I'm at a bit of a loose-end. I'd been hoping for a lie in. No chance. Omens galore, ominous hammocks of black clouds, hanging from every horizon. Mind you, I'd a feeling it was going to be one of those days when I
ricked my back earlier on, stooping down to pick up a pound coin – only to discover what turned out to be the top of a rotten beer bottle – it just shows. Mother sounded happy at least.

This is the trouble, you hear everything, singing her head off (“Oh what a friend I have in Jesus”). Then it turns out she's expecting a mysterious visitor from London. Aunt Freda-Lumb, no less.

No wonder I stared. ‘I'm making her a Dundee cake – it's called turning the other cheek.' Well, I know what I think. ‘Is that wise mother?' I said.

That settled it. After that I took myself off, out of the way. I went for a long walk along the canal tow-path (got v.wet) I'd forgot to take my raincoat.

Letters (one only): Another downer I'm afraid, sadly they've returned my narrative poem all about the Bronte's lost brother Ben – just on a hunch I'd sent it off to the Bronte Society over in Haworth. No joy I'm afraid. However, well-thumbed I noticed, also marked ‘gritty.' Well, hopefully (leastways I'm taking it as a ‘g'). Mind you, really speaking – a bit of moderate encouragement wouldn't've gone amiss, e.g. ‘original angle' say, or ‘valiant effort' or ‘v.intriguing.' What's it take to be nice to people?

So be it, however we press on with the motley – my belief in myself is ever undimmed. Might try tinkering with it, maybe bending it into a sonnet.

9:30pm. F it I cry. Nothing seems to work out – I've kicked it into touch. Meantime I've been on with another (only now I'm not too sure). AM GOING OVER TO TONY'S TAVERN

2:30am. Look at the time (nobody told me it was going to turnout to be a drinking competition). What happens is if I have something that I'm not too sure about, sometimes I kind've try it out on my friends over in the Dark Bar (the men only bar I'm meaning). You'd be surprised, at least you get an honest opinion from the proverbial man in the street.

Sometimes the critique value alone is worth pure gold.

Not only that, it's knowing you are amongst friends.

All good guys each and every one. One thing for sure they always make you feel welcome. Rightaway the minute they see me come in they make a space for me at the bar. I stood next to Harry. Harry Tatt the ex-butcher (him with the messy divorce I'm meaning) – people listen to Harry. He nodded.

‘Hi Harry' I lowered my voice, I said. ‘Look, no offence. I don't want to talk about my lousy marriage, okay with you?' He nodded. So, then I said ‘I've got a new poem, only I'm not too sure (so, okay it might cost me a few beers – so what) – it's a small price to pay I think. I unfolded my new poem, actually it's more of a kind've rehash (only, I don't call it a re-hash). That poem I wrote all about my new found Aunt Freda-Lumb that
time in London – also, he added, one-time lady-friend of my late father's I'm starting to think.

Harry's the best listener in the whole world, bar none. ‘I'm not what you'd call over the moon, y'know.' I said.

Rightaway, he nodded the sound down on the TV, his hand went up asking for quiet, conversation along the bar dwindled almost at once. ‘Listen up everybody, okay. Lend us your ears. Colin the poet!' he announced (that's what they call me – it doesn't really mean anything). Interruption: Asian Kenny, he was the only dissenter. ‘Jesus Christ, not tonight' he wails, both fists drummed the bar-top.

Harry gave him a hard look.

Kenny's drunk already (he's been drinking all day) – so what's new. Again, wife trouble, she'd left him for another man six months ago – he's more worried about the dog. Then it turns out he's had a big win on the gee-gees. He held his head between his hands, ‘Jesus Christ' he repeated. Big Oggy at his elbow lifted his glass, he glared ‘You – pipe-down, OKAY?' he growled.

Tony behind the bar topped-up the last pint of frothy Tetley's bitter, then slid it along the counter, it stopped in front of Harry the Butcher. He nodded, then drained-off what was left inside his schooner. Turning, he said, ‘Okay, whatcha got Col?'

First thing I do, I always like to set the scene kind of thing. ‘Lonely old lady, right.' I cleared my throat. ‘Look, I want you all to try and imagine, okay. She's living all alone, in this scrunchy little garretty attic, right up at the very top
of this really crumbly old house.' I paused, I let it sink in. ‘I want you to think about it – one poky, tiny window that looks out over the rooftops of London, okay?'

I looked around at the expectant faces.

Already, Patrick showed real interest ‘Oh, what part of London? I know London like my own back-yard …?' he trailed to a stop under Big Oggy's cold stare.

Sometimes that's all it takes.

Too late, after that voices came from several directions at once, ‘Loneliness can be a real killer, believe me I know.' Then drunky Kenny once again, ‘I don't wanna get old – wassa fucking point?'

‘This old woman – how olds old?' came a voice.

I pointed at his empty glass. Tony nodded, then gave him a refill.

Then, Patrick again ‘Onetime I slept in my car for five whole months – middle of winter.' I looked at Harry. He frowned ‘Hey, quiet – that goes for everybody, okay.'

Finally it went quiet. ‘Okay, here we go. Elsie, top floor back' I announced.

‘This charmless house has been my abode

Ten years – no more when I think back.

It's what they call ‘bed-sitter land,'

I'm known as ‘Top-floor back.'

Interruption: ‘What the fucks an abode?' I stared at Asian Kenny (this guy's going to be trouble for sure) ‘Quieten him somebody' I said, then added ‘Look, I'm just trying to set the scene, okay?' I picked up where I'd left off:

‘My window yawns open to the sky,

All day I watch the curtains dance.

Nothing to spend, but time itself,

A woman without circumstance.

Already one or two were a bit restless you could tell, most times they're a pretty easy to please audience, I said ‘Nobody loves her, no friends, nothing. She's very poor, no money hardly' I explained waving my pen.

‘Don't worry, I know the feeling' somebody guffawed.

Everybody laughed like morons. I waited, then continued:

‘Punjabi landlord Mr. Khan,

His kindness knows none better,

Trots furtively in stocking feet

Five flights to bring one letter.

“Call me Omar” slides Mr. Khan,

Unusual – he's always in a hurry

And now he's time to squeeze my hand

– the others stirring curry.'

Patrick again – this time a question. ‘Question?' he yells. I nodded. ‘Only, you said Freda – so, how come she's Elsie all of a sudden?' he grinned. Everybody stared. His hand came down slowly. He swallowed off his drink, ‘Just a simple question – Christ.'

‘It's poetry' I said (you could tell it hadn't gone in) ‘because it's better, that's why.' I was starting to lose them
already. ‘Look, take my word, okay. It's what they call poetic licence – also, I rather think you will find it suits the narrative.'

Harry nodded, ‘Narrative, okay' he repeated.

Big Oggy agreed, he nodded ‘Poetic licence stupid,' he shook his head.

I waited, eager to continue – by now I'm into my stride:

‘“Come, come live with me” –

His eyes cast towards the bed,

His fingers peeled at his belt

I can't think what I'd said.'

Asian Kenny drummed the counter with both fists ‘Hey, good' – (for some unknown reason he must've thought I'd finished). He started to clap, ‘You know what, that's really good' he's telling everybody. I gave him a look. Again I picked up from where I'd left off – or tried more like.

Alas, soon after that, I had to break off yet again. Pity, I was just getting to the best part of the whole poem.

This time for good as things turned out.

It turns out there's far more lucrative attractions going on over in the other bar. What happened, there's this big crowd of free-spending revellers (American's, say no more) just piled in. Cyn's crowd I'm meaning, quite a party going by the sounds of it. Mind you, who can blame them (free booze for everybody) – word had spread like wildfire. Sadly, in ones and twos I watched them trooping out, pretty soon I'm left looking at an empty bar.

My God, it's even worse than I thought. All this loud music blasting out, you could hardly move. You should've seen them, free booze flowing over the bar like a prairie fire. Everybody up dancing, yelling – all this loud laughing I'm meaning. (So, this is what's called having a good time is it I thought.) Mind you, life is just one long party to some people – not that they need much excuse anyway. They just pick up from where they left off the night before. Cynthia & Co, you could spot them a mile off, centre of attention as usual, up dancing like mad things.

Then when I look, even Harry Tatt, him and Clyde the Wallet, he's as bad. You'd think they were really big buddies, swapping jokes I'm meaning – you can hear them laughing over everything – nothings that funny.

Sometimes you aim people a lot higher, right.

Don't you worry, I didn't plan on hanging around.

Then, just when I'm leaving – too late. Who should come over but old Red-top. That's all I need. Next thing you know he's giving me high-fives, making me shake hands, he's pumping my arm like a mad thing (I don't even like the fellow). He's dying to buy me a drink you can tell.

I showed him my glass.

You'd to shout over the music. ‘No thanks' I yelled. He nodded. ‘I'm driving my car' I explained. I said ‘There's this big club over in Manchester. That's where we usually all end up – the whole gang kind've (I winked), lots of girls, that's if you know what I mean.'

He grinned his slow grin. Tell him anything I thought.

Red-top's really chatty for once. So, then he's telling me it's Avril's birthday (it turns out that's the reason for the big surprise shindig). Not only that, also, by some amazing coincidence it happens to be his too – that makes it a double celebration. Well, don't expect me to rejoice I thought to myself. You could tell he was expecting me to say ‘Happy Birthday' or something, only I didn't. Instead I just kind've mumbled (it could've meant anything). We both kind've laughed.

Luckily for me somebody called him over.

Through the crowded dance-floor I spotted Cyn and Avril sat at a corner table, both laughing, tossing back vodka martinis. Cyn kept looking over, then kind've sniggering. You could tell they were talking about me. Oh, sticks I thought.

Time to make a move I'm thinking.

Then, just when I'm leaving the music changed over to a slow waltz. (Whitney Houston, ‘I will always love you – love yooooooou'). Oh God, that's all I need. Somehow, it's as if everyone's part of a couple, smooching slowly around, pretty soon the whole dance-floor is just one mass of swaying bodies. Then when I look Cyn's dragging old Red-top up onto his feet too, followed by Clyde the Wallet and Avril, her arms draped over her partners shoulders – she's really out of it you can tell. I nodded. She smiled through half-closed eyes, swaying dreamily to the music. Cyn happened to look over (she looked happy) our eyes kind've bumped. I sighed.

Instead I took my drink over to the bar. I stood next to Harry.

‘Hello Harry' I said sadly ‘are you having a good-time?'

He nodded vaguely (he was only half-listening at best). I followed his gaze, his eyes greedily watching Avril's swaying hips. Her dancing partner looked pretty happy too, his face deep into her ample manufactured chest. Harry's lips hardly moved, ‘Good a place as any I reckon' he commented. We both nodded.

Harry had a small puppy-dog inside his coat, I happened to notice. Much taken he ogled and jiggled it about constantly. All these stupid cooing noises you'd think it was a real baby. He grinned sheepishly (he was dying to tell me you could tell). ‘It's a Yorkshire Terrier, his names Little Willie – it belongs to the lady' he told me dopily. I nodded.

He means Avril – I think he's in love with her.

I'd already met Little Willie earlier on, he was a surprise birthday gift from Tony and Oliver from the pub.

Suddenly there's this almighty big cheer from over in the other bar. Glad of the distraction, I wondered through to take a look. Everybody's staring at the giant-sized TV screen, watching this big important football game. Somebody must've scored, they're going crazy, yelling and cheering like morons. Next thing, for some unknown reason the goals been disallowed. That's all it takes, next thing arguments start. Things start to turn pretty ugly – soon they were fighting in lumps.

This is what finally decided me to leave.

Back over in the other bar I nodded at Harry (he'd lost the little dog I noticed). So, then I said, ‘I think I'm going
to call it a night.' Then on my way out, this is when I saw Avril, sitting all alone watching the dancers. Rightaway she gave me a nice smile. (I'm changing my mind about her) I'm really starting to like her. ‘Happy birthday' I said. I kissed her cheek. You could tell she'd had a few, her eyes were all over the shop. ‘Thanks Colin' she lisped.

Rich husband Clyde had bought her an expensive new watch – it looked like two shifts down a diamond mine. Thinking about it, being rich really suits some people. Avril's a born natural if you ask me. Big jewels, like sucked wine-gums shone from several fingers – red talons for finger-nails, her engagement ring sported a solitaire diamond as big as a coffee-pot lid.

She broke off playing with the puppy-dog, frolicking inside her lap ‘You know what. I'm really glad we can all still be friends,' she crooned happily (she means well I suppose). I nodded. Her attention swung back to the little dog. She lifted him high into the air, nuzzling him, then kissing him on the nose. She laughed, ‘Hey, did you get to meet Little Willie yet?' she gurgled rapturously through a sheen on shining blonde hair.

I patted Willy's head ‘You bet, we've already met' I assured her. No doubt about it, giving her the little dog, it'd really hit the bulls-eye.

She gazed down with warm affection at Little Willie, her eyes danced merrily. She sighed ‘You know what, it's pretty amazing when you think. Having something so warm and vital and full of life between your legs, I'm meaning – it's really wonderful. I could keep him there forever' she gushed.

I nodded, then shrugged. I said goodnight.

Harry over by the bar nodded (we were both thinking the same thing), he shrugged – going by the look he gave me he'd heard it too. I nodded. He gave me a lazy one-handed wave, keeping his eyes fixed on Avril's ample cleavage. ‘See ya' he said.

4:15am. I've been phoning up Aussie Bland. He was my last hope. Typical, it has to be his really frail and feeble, about three-hundred and nine year old mother who picked up the rotten phone (“Is that you Dorothea – how's Albert's bad leg?”) Huh? She wandered off to fetch him. I waited. Then I got this big wave comes over me – what's the point kind of thing. Anyway, finally, about three days later he decides to come and answer the damn phone. Just in case I disguised my voice (I covered the phone with my hanky). ‘I ONLY HOPE YOU'RE SATISFIED YOU FAT BASTARD' I cried.

There was a pause, ‘FUCK OFF QUIRKEY – pack it in, okay' he said in a loud voice (I said he was bright). He slammed down the phone.

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8:00pm. Rain all day – so what's new. More car trouble I'm afraid, she's totally kaput. Rightaway I'm on the blower, trying to contact Fat Frank over at Fox's Garage. ‘What now?' he barked. ‘You tell me squire – she's as dead as a door-nail' I said.

You could tell he wasn't best pleased. It's hardly my fault is it?

I wouldn't mind, there's a Poetry Society meeting on for tonight – I was running late already. Luckily, he came over in the tow-truck rightaway. (Bad news.) It turns out, part of the ignition-key has broken off inside. He shook his head, ‘Looks like I'll have to tow the bugger in' he sighed. You feel really stupid.

Somehow or other I didn't feel like asking him for a lift home.

Luckily for me Dec Tasker the caretaker came to my rescue, he offered me a lift in his van. However, (all to no avail apparently), just as I'm leaving I'm handed a note from rotten, stinking Gabriel B.T. – he's only postponing the rotten, stinking Poetry Society meeting yet again, the swine. Friday now he's saying. Oh superb I thought – I wouldn't mind but it's the only thing that's been keeping me going. This is what he's like. Mind you, as to why he can't simply pick up a rotten telephone like us lesser mortals I don't know. Just so he can show off his fancy la-de-dah personalised note paper I expect (two griffins indeed). It looks more like a cat with a frog on its head if you ask me.

No explanation or anything, he sent round his so-called, ‘gardening lad' as he likes to call him. Poor little
sod, imagine all that way on a push-bike in Wellington-boots, out in the pouring rain, peddling up that steep one in four hill up to the Library. I wouldn't mind he knows Declan's speech impediment by this time, surely to God. It only embarrasses folk when he starts stuttering and whatnot, getting himself all excited, spitting over everything.

To be truthful I felt rather sorry for him. (I handed over a few coins out of the fines-box.) Unfortunately, I'd run out of loose change, or I'd've given him more. As things turned out the young fellow was highly delighted you could tell. It just shows what a little kindness can do – he was off in a trice,
whistling if you please …
My words I thought to myself, there goes a happy, contented human being – indeed, pretty much a rarity these days I'm afraid. I watched him peddling off, hell for leather he goes, away down the hill. Finally disappearing into the haze. You know what, I rather envied him in a way.

Where else but in England?

Something else too. I've been having a quiet word with Thelma's new acquaintance, this German character I'm meaning, her most recent admirer – him from her Spanish-class, not that I'd wish to interfere with her personal life, of course. Who she wants to associate herself with, it's entirely up to her. However, I am rather concerned about her welfare – I am her superior after all.

What brought things to a head, he appears to have acquired this rather irritating habit of loitering about the place, waiting for her at the front counter. Okay, fair enough, no crime in itself I have to admit. Then there's
his piercing whistling to contend with too (‘Yankee doodle-dandy' if you please) – not to mention scuffing the new paintwork with his mighty clod-hopper motorcycle boots. We are a Library afterall.

Somebody had to say something.

‘Look here' I said. I spoke to him man to man. ‘Look here – nothing personal. I'm doing you a favour here squire. I don't know if you are aware, Mrs. Clegg is a married lady, savvy – get my drift? Also, I might add – how shall I put it. She's a bit vulnerable at this particular moment in time – very. Thelma's husband can be rather unpredictable at times' I said. ‘Strange to say the very least – rumour has it he invariably carries a serrated vegetable knife down his sock, be warned.' I think he got the picture.

Mind you, really, when you think such relationships, they rarely prosper into anything really meaningful – it was only teetering at best. Not to mention trekking over those bleak Pennine hills in the black of night on a motor-cycle combination in the depths of a Yorkshire winter, on those perilous moorland roads, all the way over to Manchester.

I'll give him his due he must've taken the hint.

After that I then escorted him off the premises so to speak. We walked round as far as the car park in complete silence. He donned his helmet, then clicked his heels and saluted – silly sod. (I don't know what all that was about.) I waited, holding the torch steady whilst he untangled the heavy length of chain securing his motor-cycle combination – for some unknown reason he kept flooding the carburettor, after the third attempt the machine finally put-putted into life. Just to prove my
point it'd started snowing. Sooner him than me I thought, pulling my Duffle-coat hood up against the blustering wind. ‘Watch that road squire' I shouted into the darkness. I watched his receding tail-lights wobbling off into the cold night, ‘You won't be the first late night traveller to end up in a bog out on those moors!' I called out.

Thelma waited on the front steps, wearing her big coat and bright red bobble-hat, looking anxious (no doubt she'd be wondering where her gentleman caller had got to I shouldn't wonder) say little I thought. Sometimes it's a lot easier to lie. ‘Oliver? Oliver?' I shook my head. ‘Oliver
who
?' I repeated.

We both looked up at the swirling snow.

‘Oh dear – it's a terrible night' I said.

Thelma nodded, blinking up at the night sky. I took hold of her arm, shepherding her back indoors, into the warmth of the Library. ‘Look, I'd better give you a lift home my girl – it could get a lot worse' I said with alacrity. I neglected to mention it would be in the back of Dec Tasker's old van. ‘It'll be a bit of a tight squeeze – at least it'll save you the trouble of two buses' I said.

High time for a showdown. Thinking about it, everything kind've ties in I suppose. Turning-up unannounced at Thelma's house a couple of nights later I'm meaning. Then, all the way over there in the Mondeo I'm turning things over in my mind, what I'm going to say (not a confrontational, him or me exactly) more of a, let's get it sorted out once and for all kind of thing.

That said, I knew it was a big mistake the moment I rat-tatted the front door with the rams-head door-knocker. All of a sudden I'm deafened by bells, half-blinded by flood lights.C.C.T.V. cameras, poking out everywhere you look. Somebody should've warned me – the whole place is like a fortress. This in turn starts the dogs off, barking their stupid heads off. BIG DOGS – you can see them bouncing off the door through the frosted-glass, trying their best to get at me.

It's really scary I'll tell you.

I'd completely forgot about Eric's paranoia (he's as mad as a hat), he thinks everybody's after his secret formulas, how to grow giant-sized vegetables? Somebody should tell him – we're in the middle of winter.

Something streaked through my mind. WHY AM I HERE?

Too late. I can see somebody – a man (all of a sudden the alarm stops). Eric presumably, bolts shooting back, the door opened. So, we meet up at long last – I can feel my heart thumping already. I braced myself…

Then, when I look, it isn't Eric after all – leastways it isn't the same guy I'd been expecting. This guy's little, wiry, sharp-featured with a high hair-cut and a pencil moustache. He has these intense staring eyes – he reminded me of a ferret.

What's happened to the big fellow, him with the shoulders and huge hammy hands I'd seen that time before at the horticulture show? It must've been someone else. Meantime he's fighting to hold back the dogs. Three Dobermans, solid as young bulls, with shiny
coats and eager eyes, showing lots of fierce looking teeth. ‘Don't let the boys out! Don't let the boys out! He exclaimed in a high-pitched voice.