It Always Rains on Sundays (7 page)

SOCIAL WELFARE

Hello: Brenda Thrush – yes, I am a bit pushed,
For my sins I'm with Social Welfare.

We're the people you call when you're backs to the wall,
At rock-bottom and blinded by despair.

There's a man on Leeds bridge tied himself to a fridge,
He's about to launch himself into space.

If I said I can't go, that'd make three in a row.
Frankly my department can't stand the disgrace.

When you work for the city, there's no time for self-pity,
What comes in, it's all part of the pledge.

When you've a drug-happy bloke with a headful of coke,
Three guesses – who talks him down from the ledge?

Had to break off Lucy's been sick!

Meantime I've been feverishly working on another poem. I'm trying to finish my epic-length, Sharp Cry in the Wilderness (looks like I'm in for an all-nighter). One man's lone fight against bigotry and tyranny, set against the dramatic back-cloth of wild, windswept moors and bottomless bogs. I'm hoping to send it off post-haste to
Neddy Ludd over at Otterbank Chase for the annual Cragtales poetry competition. Last time he was v.encouraging when I sent him my Robin Hood trilogy, e.g. ‘sterling stuff' ‘rich pickings' (etc. etc). They don't say that to everybody you can bet. ‘Shows remarkable promise' he said.

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9:45pm. (CONSERVATORY). NO DINNER. Looks as if Cynthia's stopped cooking period. This place is like Ramadan (only with us it lasts all year round). Luckily I've already eaten over at the pub. They were having a big retirement party for Selwyn and Hetty, it turns out they're planning on running an ostrich farm someplace in North Wales. They'll both be sadly missed – now everyone's worried who's taking over the pub.

Nobody tells me anything, more surprises when I got home. There's this big barbecue party going on. All this really loud music – complete strangers, about a thousand people, dancing around on my front lawn, playing infantile games, chasing each other with wet sponges. What next I cry – oh pleeeeese! I had to go inside the house before I was sick.

No signs of Cynthia, the only person I knew is Avril, new boyfriend in tow. He looked like a Russian folk-singer if you ask me, kind've gypsyish, masses of jet-black hair, gold earrings the lot – weird to say the least. Then, when I look there's this brand new powder-blue, top of the range B.M.W parked-up right in front of the house. Looks like her insurance money came through. This is what I said to Cynthia later. ‘New car I see?'

She flashed me a cold look ‘What's it to you – who are you, the taxman?' She turned, over by the door ‘Her life, okay,' she warned me darkly.

I stared.

Maybe she's right – I can't help it (believe me, I'm trying to like her). There's this picture that stays in my mind. Sunday morning everything's peaceful. Avril's young husband Eddie, high-up in his micro-light plane in an empty blue, cloudless sky. Everything happened so fast (the whole streets out) one minute he's up there, graceful as an eagle, circling the church steeple. Next thing you see he's falling – he dropped like a lead brick, killed outright. This is all when it gets a bit bizarre all these hectares of empty space, he landed in the middle of the local cemetery. Finally, he was laid to rest less than twenty-feet from the exact spot from where he landed.

Somebody said he ran out of gas – it happens, it's a complete mystery. Then, a man on higher ground, he said he hadn't enough height – he thought he'd clipped the church spire. Maybe we'll never know. Misadventure they said at the inquest, it was a pure accident. No surprises there of course. It was a real tragedy. Eddie and
Avril, newly-weds almost, they made a fine couple, everybody said that. The funeral was the biggest thing ever, the whole town turned out, the streets were lined all along the route, folks wanting to pay their last respects. Not surprisingly Avril's grief was really enormous – she was inconsolable in fact.

Like most people I felt really sorry for her – right at first that is.

Question: Tell me I'm wrong, how many young widows do you see openly flirting with some guy she's only just met up with at the funeral of their just buried husband, right – me too. Not too many, right.

This is a true story. Cyn and Avril, (this is the week after the funeral), they were gossiping over coffee – inadvertently, I just happened to over-hear them through the serving-hatch.

Poem: – this is the day of the funeral… a cold winters day, grey overcast sky, drizzling rain (what's a funeral if it doesn't rain?). Middle distance, the cortege, a long line of slow moving limos. Cut to C/U (close-up) on a small group of sombre-clad mourners – much weeping and wringing of hands. Cut to: twiggy black branches of the wintry trees, trembling in the wind, pointing down, like accusing fingers on a certain man who shall remain nameless – enough to know he turns out to be a bit of a heel. Finally. C/U on Avril, all dressed in black, her face covered by a veil. They all file into the room where they're holding the wake …

Funeral Games

We we're on our way back.

He said: ‘You should always wear black' –

What a thing to say at a wake.

At the funeral tea he sat next to me,

Just sat there munching his cake.

Well, did I lie? This is Avril (this is on the day of her husband's funeral don't forget). This guy's a complete stranger – one cold look he'd've been destroyed totally. Not this baby, no-way – she can't help herself. Instead, there she is, she's giving him the glad-eye:

On the Monday he rang, he said he had this great plan,

A meal perhaps, theatre he thought?

She said, it wasn't the time, she had to decline.

Then he mentioned the tickets he'd bought.

Oh sure, I'll bet (imagine, cheapening herself like that) TROLLOP. No wonder Cyn's influenced. Next to her my wife's an innocent – leastways, she used to be before that brazen hussy came onto the scene.

Anybody else they'd've left him munching his stupid cake I'll bet.

Theatre we adored, though we'd seen it before.

Then on to a club for a drink.

We walked by the river, he noticed my shiver.

Then back to his place for coffee did I think?

Coffee hardly but tasted. He said ‘Young widows are wasted'

And could he be more than a friend? I said

‘Well, thanks for the drink – a taxi I think.

It's high time that I was in bed.'

He said ‘You can sleep here, you've nothing to fear –'

So I picked up my coat and I fled.'

Course you did Avril – if you say so. Take my word, the woman's a slapper.

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7:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). What a bitch – I've just found my mail under the doormat (
that's again – one had a perfect imprint of Cynthia's trainer!
) Oh, isn't it a hollow marriage when there's no trust between us. I wouldn't mind, one letter especially, from Gabriel Biggar-Titte. He's postponing tonight's Poetry Society meeting, yet again. Pompous oaf, why he can't simply pick up a bloody phone like us lesser mortals I don't know. Typical, that's just so he can use his personal monogrammed-headed note-paper I expect – I wouldn't mind I'd come home
especially early. God, he does pamper himself, only now he's saying he's got a heavy cold – hangover more like. Chairman indeed, it's high-time he was brought down a peg or two – him and his stupid hyphenated names. Where he gets all his airs from I don't know. Even my own mother, she remembers his old grand-dad, ragtatting round the local streets with a piebald pony and cart, yelling out ‘Any old rags and bones!'

You can still see the sign painted on the big mill chimney ‘BIGGAR & TITTE & CO LTD!' (‘MUNGO AND SHODDY MERCHANTS' it says). Albert Biggar, him and his brother in-law, old Teddy Titte. They were rag-tatters for three generations – the whole family in fact. They were a right pair of old twisters by all accounts.

Don't you worry, there's more than me not too happy about it. Mind you, come to that there's no earthly reason why we can't hold our monthly meetings right here at DeLacey Street – where's the problem? Indeed – food for thought at least. Why should we all be beholden to that superannuated, stuck-up twerp, (just because he happens to live in a big house with a cattle-grid). So, okay, a few odd adjustments maybe – stacker-chairs cost little (after all the acoustics in the conservatory are second to none) – I'll vouch for that. Fair enough, that Put-u-up bed would have to go for a start (temporary or not). What purpose telling the whole world about our sleeping arrangements. No doubt Cynthia could easily handle the refreshment side of things I'm sure. There again, thinking about it maybe not (sleeping dogs and all that) a bit unwise at this particular moment in time perhaps.

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Looking on the bright side however. I can report that this new assistant of mine, Thelma Clegg is pretty top-notch. She's proving to be a bit of a godsend in fact – I'm hoping she'll stay. Just by chance, I happened to come across her personal file up in Docket's office (not that I'm one to pry of course) – call it curiosity. Hopefully I've better things to do with my time. Anyway, for what it's worth, she is in fact
still
married apparently, but are now unfortunately living apart.

Eric, say no more eh, he works on the railway in the capacity of a track-inspector by all accounts (a bit grandiose that I thought), in my day they always called it a wheel-tapper, but there you go.

Maybe it's me, somehow or other I got the distinct impression there's little to salvage. These things happen I'm afraid, it's very prevalent these days unfortunately. However, no children from that union were mentioned, that's a blessing at least. It's the age were living in, it's just something you have to accept I suppose. It also mentions he's a keen gardener – well, more than that he's won a load of cups and what have you. Now I think, I recall Thelma mentioning it – it appears he's one of these idiots who's whole life seems to revolve around the cultivation of giant-sized cabbages and so-forth. Frankly I don't blame her, the point's lost on me also – people's mouths are only so big after all.

This is the trouble, hobbies are one thing – if you're not careful it can soon become an obsession, before you know it, it can take over your whole life.

Poetry's different, it's a gift to the whole nation is poetry.

One good thing at least, it's given me more time to work on my new poem I was planning on using for tonight's Poetry Society meeting, e.g.:

The man with the limp

All heard his approach the man with one peg,
Three flights of cold stone he dragged his bad leg.

Enigmatic title that I thought, nice couplet too – it gets you curious rightaway. Mind you if I'm truthful I think I might've painted myself into a bit of a corner somewhat (I'm glad now I've looked), crux of the matter being, finding something that sits more comfortably with the word
mist
– only you'd've thought there's got to be a better word than ‘pissed.' There again, on reflection, it might well prosper by omitting stanza eleven too – on second thoughts there's no point making him into a drunken sot to boot (not on top of everything else). Let's face it the poor sods more than enough on his plate already, dragging his club-foot around the place if you ask me.

Meantime I've been phoning-up Councillor Kyte again about our missing wheelie-bin. That's gone walkies yet again – is nothing sacrosanct? His wife slammed down the phone (‘Ees avin is dinner – he'll call you back'). Liar – it won't be that next time he's stood out on the front steps begging me to vote for him will it.

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11:00pm. What next I cry – they've only rechristened the pub that's all. Instead, now they're calling it Tony's Tavern, that's going to take a bit of getting used to I thought. Especially all this time calling it Richard the Lionheart (or, Big Dick's as most of the locals call it.)

Though to be fair our new hosts seem friendly enough. ‘Welcome to Tony's Tavern!' (two guys – hm?) ‘Hi, I'm Tone and he's Leslie,' colourful to say the least. ‘Call him Les. You watch he'll have you in stitches, he's a real scream I'll tell you.' Leslie giggled, then winked, ‘You're in for a good time I'll promise you that.'

So, we'll see, it's early days as yet I suppose.

Foods not too bad either – a big improvement on Selwyn's so-called cottage pie. (‘Watch out for the thatch' heh heh) – at least the gravy moves about. Mind you, microwaves can be a real killer sometimes – (I finished off with treacle-tart). I burnt my tongue on the bastard.

Let's face it I hadn't planned my whole night staring at custard.

‘What's the temperature after boiling?' I complained to the glum fat girl who was serving. (They always have an answer.) ‘If you want me to blow it for you, that's extra' she retorted sarkily, turning away to the next table.

Then, just when I'm leaving I bumped into Avril from next door (heard her more like). She was sitting three booths away – I'd know that stupid giggle of hers a mile off. She waved me over, she insisted I have a drink. She
was with the same hungry looking gypsy-guy I'd seen before (then they say nothing lasts). She insisted I have a drink. His size was deceiving, he'd a handshake like an orang utan. He grinned, displaying two colours of fierce looking teeth.