It Always Rains on Sundays (6 page)

There's no holding her these days – she's out of control. She's trying to speak nicer too, her voice is softer – sexier too. One thing she's perfected already is speaking in quick breathy gasps – I can't wait. Something's working, going by the mighty turnover of boyfriends, surreptitiously leaving the house most mornings.

Finally, what did it for me, they both lit up these long black cigarettes with gold tips, the pair of them, languidly blowing out avenues of acrid blue smoke that smelt like smouldering rags. That's all I need, never so much as a thought about poor little Lucy's bad chest. Mind you, that's Avril yet again – Cyn had given up. It just shows – now she's going through nine hundred a day I'll bet – that's at least.

This is when I had to come out – the whole place was like a kipper-shop.

Lucy said her pet rabbit Ben needed fresh straw. Frankly I was glad of the excuse I'll tell you. It was nice to get outside into the fresh-air, at least the rain had stopped.

After that I thought maybe I'd make a start on trimming my ten foot topiary golden privet hedge – my pride and joy. Somehow or other I always find it rather calming. Not long after, Mr. Heap from over the road came over, trundling his old wooden wheel-barrow loaded with garden tools. He just likes to watch I suppose (his Alzheimer's getting even worse you can tell) a keen gardener himself once upon a time. Somehow or other, for some unknown reason his unwavering stare was really starting to get to me – if I'm truthful I was making
a right old tit of it. I wouldn't mind, that's a job I usually love doing. Somehow I wasn't in the right mood one bit.

Finally, I sent him home. ‘Go home Horace' I said.

He stared gently. I repeated it ‘Go home Horace, there's a good chap' I called from my lofty perch. I watched him wondering off over the road (un-heeding of traffic) trundling his old wheel-barrow, garden tools rattling. He turned into his own gateway, his wife waved ansiously from the front porch – it's sad. I waved.

It started to rain. I sat in the conservatory staring at my reflection in the glass. I tried writing, again I hadn't the right mood – I ended up doodling a diggy poem about Avril next door:

Avril, Avril – are you on the pill?

How generous you seem with your favours.

Cars pile up your drive – we see them arrive,

You might at least think of your neighbours.

Finally the rain stopped, the sun slanted through a break in the clouds. I decided I'd take the kids over to Stoney Bank Street to visit their grandmother. Much better than being stuck in doors all day, a walk in the fresh-air, it'd do us good. Just because me and Cynthia have had a bit of a tiff, there's no reason depriving the children of a happy family outing I thought.

Their faces dropped a mile. You'd've thought she was Cruella. ‘Oh nooooo!' they both moaned – this is a lonely old widow-woman (I hadn't even mentioned walking) dying to see her grand-children. No, they'd far rather
watch gremlins on TV, stuck in their rooms all day. That's Cynthia, poisoning their minds – spoiling them rotten, coercing them with lurid promises of Chicken-lickin nugget suppers and such like. This is what she's like.

As things turned out maybe it's just as well – I came back even more depressed than ever. There's nobody home (that's what it looked like), curtains drawn – the whole place looks deserted, strange I thought. I knocked even harder – still no answer, also the side gates bolted. I'm starting to get a bit worried. You start to think all kinds of things. I remembered the door-key hanging on a string behind the door. I ran round the back, then clambered over the wall.

I made my way through the semi-gloom into the living-room. There's an eerie silence, the fire had sunk to almost nothing, it was grey and dead looking. That's a first I thought (even the clock had stopped). Mother was stretched out on the sofa, she fitted exactly end to end, stiff as a poker, covered by a thin cotton sheet, the final clincher was the damp flannel over her face – I saw it move. I sighed.

At least she was still alive.

Typical I thought. Next thing I did I swept back the heavy pullons, exploding the whole room with golden sunlight. Mother turned away, shielding her eyes. ‘Nay, nay' she protested. I waited. ‘Mother …?' I said. ‘Nay, nay' she repeated in a pained voice as if struggling out of a deep troubled sleep (over-acting more like) ‘Is that you Sonny-Jim?' she whispered wheezily speaking through the flannel. I looked down at the small quiet form. Her Salvation Army uniform lay neatly over the chair, small
black polished shoes next to the hearth, tights in a ball where they'd landed.

More for something to say, I said ‘On your own mother?'

I waited. Her accent broadened, ‘Aven't seen nowt nor nubdy, not sin cock-crow.' I nodded, she was using that needy voice she puts on, the one she always uses when she's feeling a bit sorry for herself.

I looked at the empty plate. ‘Have you had anything to eat?'

‘Eh?' there was another long pause, it came out slowly, a voice crying out for sympathy. ‘I managed a cracker or two first thing' she croaked. Her even breathing lifted the facecloth in small puffs. She started a pretend cough, that turned into a real one.

I fetched her a glass of water. ‘Mother…?'

She pulled herself up, blinking against the light, she took a sip. ‘I've put the kettle on' I said. She nodded, then sank back into her pillow. ‘This is the trouble' she moaned ‘it's keeping it down, that's my problem.' She replaced the damp cloth over her face, ‘I think I might be festering for summat' she whispered weakly with what might've been her last dying breath.

I shook my head. I looked down at her, still as death, trying to look small – yes mother I thought, you might well fester I thought. She put me in mind of old Joseph in Wuthering Heights, only just about female. I'd just thought of something, ‘Where's Auntie Agnes, isn't she about?' I asked her. No answer. She only lives a couple of doors off, it'd be a rare day if she didn't call in at least.

Everything started to make sense, I'd just remembered she'd gone off for the day on a bus trip over to the Yorkshire Dales, chances are mother had been invited too. However, mother being mother, she likes to be cajoled a bit and made a fuss of – only this time it hadn't quite come off.

Typical I thought. All this ‘theeing' and ‘thouing' too. What's all that about, she only talks like that when it suited her. One thing for sure, there isn't much trace of a broad Yorkshire dialect when she's on the phone, speaking to Mrs. St, John Goldthorpe, her bridge partner who lives in the ‘true' bungalow with the bay-windows opposite the church. You'd think she was reading out the BBC six o'clock news.

My eyes rested on the bulging black bin-liner I'd brought with me – I'd been rather hoping she'd've chased an iron over a few selected shirts. All the way walking over the moor I'd visions of home-made chocolate cake, it'd be just like old times. Just the two of us, cosily ensconced in the back place – putting all the world to rights over a mug of tea.

I thought she might've had a stew on at least.

Her voice startled me. ‘Where's her ladyship – she's not with you then?' she enquired pointedly. I shook my head (her mind must be going too). Cynthia's social visits to Stoney Bank Street were sparse and few these days to say the least. Christmas Day afternoon, a flying visit – an hour at most.

What's happened to her broad accent I wondered?

Humouring her, I said ‘Kids cried to come, there's no money for shoes.'

She lifted the flannel. I'd forgot, she's little time for
humour at best. ‘There's plenty folk in this world far worse off than you my lad.'

‘I'm just keeping out the way of the bailiff' I said.

She sniffed, she preferred to talk about Cynthia ‘Still, what else can you expect from a Lowmoor Lightowler' she chuntered.

She loses me completely at times.

Instead I changed the subject. ‘You missed your service, it's not like you, not going to the Sunday morning service mother.'

‘Am going tonight. God willing I am anyroad.'

I heard the kettle switch itself off.

‘I'll make you a cup of tea. What about your dinner?'

Again she'd faded. I waited. ‘Nay … I'll appen not bother.' She sighed, she covered up her face with the damp flannel. ‘Don't worry about me son' came a faraway voice.

I nodded. ‘Not like you mother' I said.

Indeed, far from it. Summer or winter, her daily routine seldom ever varies, she's up at six, chores done – washing hanging out. Everything ironed, airing-off on the clothes-horse in front of the fire by mid-day. That left her afternoons free for her various charity work. Meals on Wheels, you name it. That's on top of helping out at three charity shops, that's not counting her all night hospice vigils.

I didn't stop long.

She saw me pulling into my coat. ‘Colin? (cough). Are you still there son?' (cough, cough – big sigh). She pulled away the flannel. ‘If it's no trouble, do you think you could make me a nice cup of tea – oh, and a piece of lightly
buttered toast? That's if it's no trouble' she trailed off. She fell back, head lolling (it's as if the whole thing exhausted her). Her eyes closed, a blue-veined hand groped around until she'd located the flannel. I went in with the tea-tray (she liked the attention). She managed to sit up, after that she perked up quite a bit. ‘Right mother, I'd best get myself off. It's a fair old walk after all.'

Her eyes glinted, her toast stayed in mid-air. ‘Oh, the vixen' she exclaimed. ‘Don't tell me she's left you without a car?' I shook my head. ‘I just fancied the walk' I said. She's always on the defensive where Cynthia's concerned. I'd already mentioned I was having problems with the Mondeo. Her mouth stayed in a line. ‘That's your trouble Colin, you're too soft.'

I opened a window. ‘You're missing the best part of the whole day.'

She scowled ‘It was raining stair-rods earlier on.'

‘Right, I'll be off.' I picked up my bag of washing.

She smiled thinly. ‘If that's what I think it is you'd best leave it. Pick it up tomorrow on your way home from work appen?' I nodded. I was over by the door ‘Best close the curtains too – I'm half-dressed.' She saw me look. ‘It's July mother – the suns cracking the flags.'

Finally she said ‘Seeing you got your coat on you may as well fetch me a bit of coal, prop that fire up a bit' then added. ‘There's a service on about now – if it's no trouble, maybe you could turn the television on for me. It's a bit high church but it's better than nothing I suppose.'

She gave me a gummy smile. I went outside to fill up the coal-scuttle.

*
*
*

8:30pm. (CONSERVATORY). Looks like Cynthia is going out again, line-dancing I rather suspect, not that there's any mystery about that. She was in earlier on, ‘I'm going out with Avril' she announced airily looking at her reflection in the glass, mouthing her cherry-red lipstick. She dabbed at her mouth with a Kleenex.

At least she was speaking – almost chatty in fact.

There's news I thought. ‘Mm, yes – that's what I thought' I murmured over my newspaper. She was wearing a bright-red satin shirt with silver spangles, encrusted with rhinestones and a white leathery fringed skirt (remarkably short I thought) finished off with the perquisite red and white spotted neckerchief. Also silver-tassled spike-heeled cowboy-boots. That's unless maybe she's planning on taking over the lead in Oklahoma – funnily enough I'd just been reading about it. They were putting it on at the local Congregational Chapel.

She gave her hair a final circular squirt with the hairspray.

You could tell she was in a good mood. ‘I've looked in at the kids, they're both okay-dokay.'

‘Oh sure. Last time Lucy was up half the night with gripes' I muttered to myself.

She let it go. ‘We're all going over to the Old Corral' she chirped.

‘Well, dang me' I almost said – I'm dying to laugh.

Once was enough for me. What happened is Avril ‘lost' her car-keys onetime – drunk more like (on top of
the off-side wheel as things turned out). Sooner you than me I thought. This big mass of excitable people, everyone wearing fancy cowboy outfits. Everybody singing along to this really loud music, marching straight at you (‘Don't tell my heart – my achy-breaky heart') it's really scary. Then, all of a sudden they all about turn, they do the whole thing again – only in reverse.

Don't go without a big stick that's what I say.

Cyn looked at the clock, then checked her reflection one final time. ‘I won't be late – well, not that late, it all depends.'

She saw me look. ‘Don't mind me I'm only the babysitter' I thought aloud.

She turned over by the door. ‘Don't try to be clever, it doesn't suit you Colin' she said in a flat either-way voice. She stomped off in her high-heeled boots, her white Stetson hat bouncing jauntily on her way out.

I heard the front door close with a thud.

2:30am. (CONSERVATORY). Look at the time – I haven't been to sleep yet! Cyn & Co, they've just rolled in. All you hear is wild shrieks of laughter, car-doors slamming – waking up the whole neighbourhood more like. Next thing they'll be partying all night. Loud music blasting out – never a thought about the poor neighbours. No wonder everyone's nerves are in shreds – I'll say.

I've just spotted Ms. Thrush, our over the hedge neighbour, wandering around her back garden in her night attire, hugging her cat, talking to herself. I could
see the red glow from her cigarette, three puffs and it's off. Poor soul, my heart goes out to her.

3:15am. Poem: (as yet untitled). I'm dedicating it to Brenda Thrush our angst-ridden neighbour next door.