It Always Rains on Sundays (53 page)

Finally (much to my relief) he managed to shut them off into another room.

Right at first I'd all on trying to convince the idiot I wasn't from the media. He fixed me with his piercing stare, he laughed coldly, ‘Okay, let's have it. What are you, local or national? No doubt you'll be wanting to take photos I expect?' Okay, I knew he was a bit looney – this guy's unbelievable. I shook my head, ‘Me – no-way' I said.

His mad eyes bore right into me, he laughed wildly, throwing back his head ‘Oh, they all say that' he cried. ‘Don't you worry, others have tried and failed miserably. I'm telling you now – I'm impregnable' his eyes lit up, he smirked secretively. ‘Be warned my friend – I shall say this but once. Those dogs haven't been fed for two whole days – barring a sheep's head a piece' he laughed mirthlessly.

Too late, I was already here – THINKING WHERE'S THELMA?

Luckily, this is when Thelma decided to show-up. I'd spotted her a bit earlier on behind the frosted glass (or her brightly coloured pom-pom slippers at least) dancing about nervously. Then when she saw me she almost dropped down in a dead faint – her hand went to her mouth. I smiled weakly. ‘Hello Thelma' I said.

She stared, ‘Actually, I'm from the Library' I heard myself say in a squeaky high voice. I gave her a small
wave. She stood behind her husband, (she pointed at the wall-clock). She's right it was rather late I suppose, she clutched her dressing-gown, ‘Oh, my word. Oh-if-it-isn't-Colin. Mr. Quirke from the Library?' she chanted. She began making wild faces, one hand working across her throat, making a cutting motion. ‘Oh, I expect you have an urgent message, perhaps, ay?' I shook my head.

Meantime Eric, still very much on the defensive, divided his attention between the both of us. She laughed hysterically ‘Something to do with work I suppose – nothing-wrong-I-hope?' she chanted, still using the same disembodied voice. She stared (she was waiting for me) ‘What-could-it-be-I-wonder? (
that couldn't wait until tomorrow at work?)
her face said. Why was Thelma speaking like a thespian?

‘Urgent? Well, not exactly – I was just kind've cruising around.' They both stared ‘All of a sudden I just saw your house,' I said.

Everyone turned to look at the grandfather clock.

She's right – who else would venture out on a night like this over those bleak, god-forsaken moors – only an idiot. Just to remind me a gust of icy cold wind whipped off my cap, chased by a few odd flakes of flurrying snow.

I turned-up my coat collar.

Suddenly Eric stuck his head out of the door, craning his neck, looking furtively up and down the dark deserted moorland road. He shot out a calloused hand, pulling me indoors. He smiled for the first time, displaying several spikey teeth ‘Eric Clegg.' I nodded. We both shook hands.
‘Colin Quirke' I said, running to retrieve my cap from the middle of the road. He bolted the door, then turned the key.

I trooped after them, dogs sullenly following closely at my heels, watching my every move. (No sign of Max, still fast asleep I expect). Eric's high-pitched voice resounded along the low-ceilinged, stone-flagged passageway (– they didn't get many bona fide visitors.) ‘Not at that time of night at least!' he called out. ‘Not in winter' he added.

We all laughed. After that things lightened up considerably.

We sat out in the large, beamed, kitchen cum dining-room in uneasy conviviality, huddled in front of a pot-bellied stove, making desultory conversation about the changeable weather. This is when Max decided to make a belated appearance, boisterous as ever. ‘Lookout. Here comes trouble' they both chorused. Rightaway he came up to me wagging his tail. ‘He likes you' Eric commented. I shrugged, ‘Oh, I like dogs' I said.

Thelma shot me a look. ‘I'll make a cup of tea' she announced.

‘He needs more than a cup of tea' Eric said in a flat voice, staring at the glowing stove. Thelma fetched two glasses and a bottle of brandy, without smiling. Eric was a pipe-smoker, the whole place reeked of it. Inbetween silences he sucked at his pipe and thought deeply.

Mostly I was fending off stupid dogs, three moody monstrosities with crazy eyes and lolling tongues, dripping gunge all over the place. Every now and then he
half-raised himself from his rocking-chair to reprimand the dogs, ‘Down Striker, down … DOWN. Gypsy, what have I told you?' ‘Jack. DOWN – how many more times. BASKET' he yelled.

Then, after a pause, he said ‘Library eh?'

I nodded ‘Yes, that's correct.'

Thelma laughed for no reason ‘We're a team, aren't we Mr. Quirke?' I nodded. Another silence. Already we'd run out of things to say. Meantime he busied himself at the stove – he rattled it constantly.

He saw me looking, he rested his poker ‘That fire hasn't been out in over twenty-one years' he stated, pointing with the stem of his pipe. He paused, then added ‘Well, not properly it hasn't, has it Thelma?' he half-turned, as if looking for confirmation. ‘Is that a true statement or not?' he asked her. She nodded.

Thelma was a bag of nerves. ‘Um, that's correct, twenty-two actually, come January' we all nodded. ‘Only to clean it out of course' she added quickly, flashing him a quick smile – you could sense the atmosphere.

They'd had the same conversation before you could tell.

They exchanged looks. ‘Wow' I said ‘that's really amazing.' There was another long pause. You could hear the grandfather clock out in the passage, steadily ticking away. Eric re-lit his pipe, then rocked gently. His pipe came out yet again ‘Well, this is what I said – only to fettle it out' he reflected. So, then I said ‘There's a pub on the other side of town called The Naked Man. They say the fire's been going over a hundred years. That's at least, or so they say.'

Everybody nodded, then stared at the stove.

Eric pondered it over, he crouched down in front of the hearth, he picked up the poker. He took out his pipe, then muttered ‘He means The Naked Man I expect' he turned ‘Or, so they say' he said doubtfully – ‘or, so they say' he repeated, not without scorn.

Thelma gave me a look, it could've meant anything.

Too late I'd already said it. Why didn't I just go?

‘I understand they burn peat – does that make a difference?' I offered vacuously.

Meantime Eric busied himself at the stove, flames roared up the flue-pipe. He nodded ‘Pull your bloody socks off would that bugger' he announced, his eyes fairly glowed.

Some confrontation I'm thinking.

More for something to say (change the subject I thought). Instead, I thought maybe I'd ask him about his hobby – how come he managed to grow things to such a gi-normous size? (Big mistake – capital M.) Thelma laughed hysterically, squirming in her seat. ‘Oh dear, you mustn't ask questions like that?' she whooped.

Luckily I must've caught him in a good mood.

He re-lit his pipe for the umpteenth time ‘Hear that Thelma?' he exclaimed between puffs. ‘It's more than any hobby my friend' says he. He laughed coldly, he pointed his pipe at the large trophy display on the sideboard – the whole wall was covered with framed photographs taken at various shows up and down the country. Large ornate silver trophies jostled for space on top of the mantelpiece. ‘We can but try – it's just
something you're born with I suppose,' he conceded modestly, throwing one leg over the other. He turned to Thelma ‘Next stop Shepton Mallet, well hopefully at least, eh Thelma?'

She nodded ‘Well hopefully' Thelma agreed, smiling thinly, sipping at her tea.

Thelma had already told me. He meant the World Annual Vegetable Show, this being the mecca for all like-minded contenders it seems – his ultimate goal.

Thelma pointed frantically at her watch, hoping I'd take the hint. Eric drew thoughtfully on his pipe, he nodded towards the window, ‘Snows on its way' he announced bleakly.

Don't you worry I couldn't get away fast enough I'll tell you. Let's face it, any chance of getting myself snowbound for the night with old Eric and Thelma was not a priority. Same goes with Thelma, she almost ran to fetch my coat, clearly the prospect of me finally taking my leave seemed to perk her up no end.

Outside it was blowing a gale. I looked worryingly up at the flurrying snow, already, pea-sized hailstones were rattling the shed roofs. However, much to my surprise Eric would insist on giving me the grand tour. I buttoned my coat and turned-up my collar. Thelma trotted on in front holding the lantern, ‘My words we are honoured' she cried out over her muffler.

We finally ended up in the top shed. He insisted on showing me his special trophy-room, shelves with rows of yet more fancy cups, adorned with clusters of rosettes of past honours. ‘Awesome' ‘Megga' I kept saying. Right
at the time I was staring in wonderment of a large model of a 400 pound pumpkin.

‘My God, how do you grow them to such a size?' I blurted.

They both stared. Thelma tutted ‘Oh dear – you mustn't ask those kind of questions Mr. Quirke' she said gravely. ‘Hah, I was waiting for that' says he re-lighting his pipe. Not that there was that much to see, everything was in the very early stages of preparation – secret formulas garnered over a whole lifetime. He blew out a thick plume of pipe-smoke. Still undecided, he recovered his plant-beds with sacking. Finally turning, his eyes narrowed ‘Not press? You're positive about that I take it?' He looked at Thelma. She shrugged.

‘No-way. I work up at the Library with Thelma – ask Thelma?'

He turned to face me, he'd come to a decision, his voice dropped to a whisper ‘What if I were to say …
sheep's urine?'
Eric's grin widened, he nodded, he touched the side of his nose with his forefinger, then winked. ‘Oh, right' I said (not that much to be honest). Thelma shrugged – I think by now she was past caring. She trudged back towards the house, shouting at the dogs.

Soon after that I headed back over the moor, deep in thought – a wiser man hopefully, driving into a white-out of blinding snow.

*
*
*

6:30pm. Home early, there's a Poetry Society meeting on – (I'm really looking forward to it). Hopefully Thelma's condescended to make an appearance too. I keep trying to reassure her ‘You'll make lots of friends – look at me?' I said. ‘That settles it. I'm definitely not going' she told me. Oh, very droll I'm sure.

That's if she decides to turn-up (weather permitting of course). First thing this morning, I looked up at the grey, snow-laden sky. Mother was just fetching in a line of washing (they were frozen like boards) I pointed, ‘Looks like we're in for a bad winter' I said, pulling into my galoshes. Mother scoffed ‘Don't be so soft' she said scathingly, wiping a dew-drop off her nose-end with her coat-sleeve. She turned ‘If there's ice in November to carry a duck, they'll be nowt all winter barring slush and muck' she chanted.

So much for the old weather-woman of the north I thought later.

As things turned out I was right, its snowed non-stop all day, by home time the car-park was blanketed in a foot of snow – I'd a job on finding my car I'll tell you. Too late, then I discovered I'd been digging out the wrong car. Mind you, old Docket was v.grateful at least, he couldn't thank me enough. No problem I said. You feel really stupid.

11:30pm. About tonight's Poetry Society meeting (we've had a lot better turn-outs). Mind you, I'm putting that down to the bad weather as much as anything. Thelma made it after all – so now she's a bona fide, fully signed up member (so that's something at least). We're always on the lookout for new blood so to speak. All that worry, then it turns out she's staying with a girlfriend of hers in town. You'd've thought she'd've mentioned it – I know I would. Play it cool I thought. That's all it takes with some people – next thing you know you're a couple. Like I said, I just kind've introduced her around to a carefully chosen few as it were. ‘And this is a work colleague of mine from the Library.' I said ‘Thelma's like me, she simply adores every aspect of poetry, don't you Thel?'

Though, if I'm being truthful – I'd have to say she didn't exactly sparkle – far from it in fact. Frankly, she was a bit disappointing (most of the time she just sat there like a lump) with her mouth agape, he added. Mind you, she can be awfully slack sometimes if she's that way out I've noticed. Then, when I'd the temerity to draw attention to it she went into a almighty sulk. She told me she didn't even want to come in the first place. This is what she's like – well, nobody's forcing you I thought to myself.

In my notebook I've put: ‘Items of note (in a word – none) rather sparse and v.few I'm afraid, originality bit thin on the ground, v.predictable – mostly spurious verse! As indeed they were mostly. However, Lizzie Shaw came up with a new one. Well, I liked it – and, at least it was rather jolly!

My shoes are too tight – here I am Friday night

All dolled-up and no place to go.

I was off on a date, but it might be too late,

Mind you he's a bloody good liar is Joe.

The man's too cute by a half – he'd sell his boots to a dwarf.

Mind you, I'd have a thief any day to a liar.

So I think I'll stay in – least that's without sin,

Just sit here, mapping my legs by the fire.

(etc, etc and so-forth).

Next thing you know we're assailed by Percy Goodlad's impromptu, (v.theatrical) allegorical narrative poem (bit iffy most people thought) – well part of it at least, e.g:

Cuthbert the Ready

Choose me! Choose me! – the maidens flock,