It Always Rains on Sundays (8 page)

Somehow I knew it would never be a lasting friendship.

‘Good evening, I'm pleased to meet you,' I lied.

They were well into their second bottle of wine, and it showed. Avril giggled ‘He won't understand you, he's from Russia' she yelped. He grinned, then pointed to his guitar-case, then nodded. So, one in the eye for me. They both laughed.

He was a Russian folk-singer after all.

Time to make a move. Avril tried re-filling my glass, (luckily she missed) both my hands went up. I squeezed out of the booth. (‘Yes, absolutely – sure, some other time. Loved to – I'll look forward to it, you bet!') ‘Hey, love your new car, she's a belter' I lied finally.

I said I was meeting somebody in the other bar.

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And no lie whatsoever as things turned out. I'm just on my way out through the other bar (surprise-surprise) – who do I see? Only Gabriel Biggar-Titte, that's who? There he is, perched on his usual high-stool on the corner of the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by all his usual sycophant cronies. No wonder I looked, for somebody who's supposed to be laid-up in bed with a
heavy cold, this guy looked positively glowing I'd say. His big boomy voice arose above all others.

‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw,' they all went.

Some I knew only by sight. Adrian Topham for one, Gabriel's neighbour who lived up at the Old Manor House (he owns the local dye-works). Also one or two of Gabriel B.Ts business associates. Though, mostly they were horsey people. Everyone talking over-loudly in high excitable voices, with names such as Raeful and Jazz, rich folks that lived south of the river away from the town, with posh accents, part of the braying, ‘larf' and ‘barth' fraternity, (who say ‘orphan' when they mean ‘often).' Through the hub-bub you hear bits, such as, ‘Well, jest lack et old Bowis, ended ep wight on his bleddy arse in the fecking ditch!' They really get right up my nose.

Luckily he didn't see me.

All of a sudden, next thing they all started trooping off upstairs. (Round Table night I'd forgot). Pretty soon the whole bar is just about empty. Looks as if I'd spoken too soon. Gabriel stared, he waved me over. ‘WELL HELLO PILGRIM' he bellowed.

He says that to everybody.

‘So, what's new with you pilgrim?' says he in a loud voice.

I shrugged. He drained off his glass in one gulp, then said ‘cheers.' God, he's even drunker than I thought – he pointed at me then ordered another rightaway. His arm settled over my shoulder (that's another thing I hate).

I kind've shook it off without him noticing.

Anybody would think we were really big friends.
Mind you if I'm truthful most of his attention stayed on the new barmaid, not that I blame him she was quite a looker. ‘Make that doubles my dear' says he. He gave me a broad wink. She returned his smile with interest – curiously enough the ladies loved him to bits. Let's face it this guy is no spring chicken (fifty, that's at least). That said, you can't fault him on the way he turns himself out. Okay, maybe a bit dandified for my taste, (e.g.) tonight's ensemble being a chocolate box-pleated jacket and lemony coloured trousers, and yellowy slip-on shoes, finished off with a matching silk cravat and hanky spilling from his breast pocket. However, from then on it kind've nosedives – guys with silvery grey hair in a pony-tail, tied with a bow, bit iffy, right.

Even Cynthia, that one time I got her to go to the Poetry Society annual dinner – she described him as being ‘rather dishy' (whatever that means). Never again she said, ‘poetry-nuts' she called us. So, now I don't even bother asking.

He lifted his glass, we clinked glasses. ‘Cheers!' he yelled.

Meantime his eyes stayed greedily on the young barmaid. She flashed him a smile – I thought he already knew her (her names Karol with a kicking K). Finally he turned, ‘So, what kind of writing are you up to these days?' (I was sorely tempted to say joined-up). Instead I just said ‘Oh, this and that, nothing really special, y'know.'

He threw back his head, then laughed, ‘Cagey sod.'

That's another thing too, same with poetry – we've
little in common, him being a hard and fast blank verse merchant – that alone is more than enough to divide us into two different camps. Everything else is classed as doggerel-rubbish as far as Gabriel's concerned.

That's all he ever talks about, either that or getting published.

What made it worse, about a year ago him winning this really tiny, infinitesimal poetry-prize. Some obscure Poetry Festival someplace, over in Ireland – mind you we all know the Irish, they'd make a sonnet out of a sodding gas bill. After that there's no holding him, talk about letting it go to his head – I'll say. You'd've thought they'd made him Poet Laureate. All that fuss and palaver, over what exactly, a tiny cup – you'd lose it in your top pocket, it's no bigger than a leprechauns piss-pot.

Personally speaking I wouldn't've bothered telling anybody – but that's me I suppose.

He stared (he was waiting for me). Gabriel always drinks a good malt whisky, you don't ask. They keep a special bottle behind the bar just in case. I reordered trying not to wince at the word ‘large.' We both lifted our glasses. I said ‘Cheers!' (he said ‘All the best') – I don't know which is worse. What bothered me is, about tonight's cancelled Poetry Society meeting.

And, that's curious because what came out next wasn't what I'd intended. ‘How's Alison?' I blurted in what sounded like a large shout. ‘ – Well, I hope?' I added quickly. I was hoping he hadn't heard me.

You tell me – something deep and Freudian no doubt.

Luckily Gabriel's too far gone to notice, that and still
taken up ogling the girl serving behind the bar. She was melting already, over-smiling, showing lots of neat white teeth. He closed his eyes to help him think. You'd've thought I'd asked him something hard. I could've said a lot more – Alison, remember her, your latest live-in girlfriend, mega attractive (
less than half your age
) – also miles too good for you I could've added.

He nodded like a donkey, then blinked. ‘Hah,
Alison
you mean?' His face went sad (finally the penny must've dropped). ‘Um, not too good I'm afraid. Terrible bad cold. Flu, more than likely, gone right to her chest' he said glumly.

B, dong. I was wrong, it all started to make some kind of sense. It turns out it was Alison who's ill in bed after all. Bloody Cynthia (that shoeprint all over the note didn't help). No wonder I hate her. ‘I'd a bit of a job on reading your note' I told him.

Gabriel's voice went distant, chatting-up the girl – a picture came into my mind. I thought about Alison's chest (
my heart skipped a beat
). Alison, dear, sweet, gorgeous, Alison, that sweet smile of hers, her long blonde hair splayed over her pillows … ministering to her needs, sipping the iced tea I'd so carefully prepared for her. ‘
Mmmm, just the way I like it. Trust you to remember Colin, thank you – all that pony-tailed idiot can bring me is a stiff drink and the sodding racing-paper, the dopey twat.'

After that a change of scene, recalling the party last Christmas, childish games, the pair of us ending-up hiding inside the broom-closet. Her closeness, her
fragrant perfume, feeling the warmth of her body next to me in the dusty darkness … taut nipples, pushing hard against her thin cotton blouse … that one long lingering kiss … ‘DOES SHE ASK FOR ME?' I shouted loudly.

God (had I said it or thought it?) – hopefully not.

‘My shout I think!' Gabriel cried loudly, right into my ear. I stared. ‘So, Friday hopefully' he went on (I missed the first bit). I followed his gaze, still on the girl … she reached for two fresh glasses, I studied the rising curve of her breasts. ‘That's if the old girls up to it, of course' he added (Alison would love that ‘old girl' bit). I nodded (he'd be meaning the next P.S. meeting I expect). ‘Oh right, of course' I agreed at once, a bit too quickly.

Again, my mind wondered. Life's so bloody unfair at times – pure unadulterated jealousy I know. SO WHAT? Why him? Hard to imagine that's all, her adorable sweet face next to that pony-tailed oaf – he snores like a hog. Alison told me that for a fact. She's everything a man could ever wish for, adjectives galore, beauty, vivacious, intelligent (very), also she's an excellent cook –
she even writes poetry for chrissakes
. So, how come she ends up shacking-up with that prat. WHY HIM?

No prizes. Answer = ‘
because he happens to be effing rich'
came a voice.

Gabriel's voice charged into my thoughts. ‘Right, what'll it be squire – same again, eh?' I stared at my almost full glass (is he mad?) Not another drink already? This is bloody stupid, I hadn't planned on a drinking competition. I shook my head – NO!

Why so angry all of a sudden (too many drinks too fast – what else?)

Most people drink to get happy, only with me it seems to work the other way around – I get belligerent. His arm settled heavily on my shoulder, he grinned. ‘Same again, eh?' his face was too near, I could feel his warm breath – his eyes were like saucers.

He gripped my arm. I stared, ‘Well, not for me' I said. He pointed to his glass. Karol (with a kicking K) poured him another drink. ‘Bastard of a day' he suddenly said ‘mind you some days are like that. What say you Colin?'

I nodded. ‘Oh listen, poor you – call that work' I thought. He'd mentioned it earlier. Some kind of stock sale he'd been to further up North. ‘You should try being stuck in that bloody Library all day pal' I almost said.

He nudged my elbow making me spill my drink down my coat. (Oh, terrific, my suit had just come back from the cleaners) – I could've swiped him one – clumsy sod. Instead I looked at my watch, I effected a tight smile. ‘Time I was off, work tomorrow.' Gabriel nodded. ‘Well, for some of us at least' I added. We both laughed.

Inbetween he'd been telling a long rambling joke he'd overheard to the already smiling Karol, he leaned in closer, squeezing her hand, he whispered something into her ear – she was laughing even before he got to the punch-line.

‘See you later' I said on my way out.

They both exploded with laughter.

*
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12:30am. (CONSERVATORY). I've been catching up on my mail. Letter from old Herbie Tribe (my personal poetry tutor no less) e.g. “So, you want to be published in only three months!” Liar. Oh sure – seeing as how we're already into our third year of correspondence – least said on that one I think. Right Herbie, so, what news from yonder side of the fells? Strewth, speak English man! “Onomatopoeia sound manifests itself into the physical presence of the normal, fleshing out the embryonic seed into tangible thought” (huh?) What's that for chrissakes? – I wouldn't mind he knows it doesn't go in.

Either it rhymes or it don't, right.

Let's face it, I'm a bit of a lost cause (you'd think he'd know me by now). However, he likes some of it at least. Poems about the first world war I sent him – there's a first. “Quite good in parts. I particularly liked your Tales you Loos narrative poem – ha ha. Let's not try to be too clever with titles, eh Colin – it's rarely appreciated, not in my experience at least. Again, I rather liked Gallipoli, however, I'm still not overly happy about the foot – always a bit waverly in your case. However, there's rhyme enough, I like the way you get right to the throat of the action as it were.” (e.g.):

‘Who sir? Me sir? – ‘Yes, you sir.

Get over that top with your rifle!'

‘But I've just got back, you can tell by my pack.

All that gas, I've just had an eyeful.'

‘Yes, why not – do take care, humour is notoriously tricky even at best. Also, this “flaming-rope” business too. I mean, you tell me – was the gas yellow? See my drift? e.g.:

Yellowy gas rolled in like flames up a petroled rope,

Stinking mud, deep up to the thighs.

Everybody knew we hadn't a hope,

Led like donkeys, expecting to die.

‘Look, I'm sorry if it all sounds a bit nit-picky old chum. You take my point – it always comes back to the same thing. More so if you want to get published.'

Yours sincerely

Herbert Tribe. Ph D.

P.S. Incidentally Colin, I'm still waiting for poetry exercises March/April/May etc etc. is there a problem? Also, I'm loath to have to mention it again – a small cheque would be very much appreciated (postage etc etc). Sadly, Winifred's had the misfortune recently of breaking her top denture (wrestling with a rather hefty chunk of cinder toffee). Not that I'm expecting you to pay for it entirely. Alas, as no doubt you're aware the wages of writing poetry pay very little these days I'm afraid. Any small contribution you can offer (for such a worthy cause) would be most welcome – frankly Winifred
sans absentia
her top teeth, it isn't a sight I'd wish to have to get used to H.T.'

2:15am. Cynthia's just rolled in from her night out – look at the time. I haven't been to sleep yet – I've to be at work
in six hours! She'll push me too far, next thing you know I'll be talking to the Samaritans through a wired-glass window you can bet.

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8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Dull day at work (very dull in fact). Massive post (4 letters) – plus ten holiday brochures! You tell me, no doubt that'll be Cynthia I expect. Looks like Cynthia taken up jogging again. What happened is this morning I'm on my way to work. I'm in my car waiting at the traffic-lights opposite the park gates. There's this drunky old bag-lady, she's staggering all over the road. Well, it's a bit much, kids on their way to school, young mothers with prams. Then, when I look, it's Cynthia, headphones clamped over her ears, hood over her head, she looked totally knackered I'll tell you. Luckily the lights changed, I made out I hadn't seen her. Then did a sharp left.