It Always Rains on Sundays (9 page)

Letters (one): ‘Might I be interested in having a stair-lift installed on deferred terms as seen on TV?' No, but
thanks all the same – as it happens most of my dwelling is of single-story construction, which by definition could make that rather tricky. However, after pondering it over somewhat (granted it'd be dead handy for inspecting the water-tank etc) sadly I shall have to decline your ‘Once in a life-time!' generous offer. Might I suggest you contact Avril, our next door neighbour. She's up and downstairs like a bloody yo-yo, it'd save her legs a bunch.

Letter (two): There's a blow, they've returned my Hail ye men of Stalwart Courage poem, (200 lines!) No comment as such and with egg on the paper. Pity, I'd high hopes with that. No doubt that'll be that Octavia Todd-Taylor I'll warrant at Ivanhoe Press. Notts. That's because I have the temerity to point out, how come his brother in-law just happened to turn-up in every single issue? Bit peevish that I thought – narcissism or what?

Letter (three): Jeepers – another reminder from our mutual friend Dwayne the Drain (
hand delivered
!) Lucky I found it, stuffed inside our Lucky Pixie outside out back door. Cripes – looks as if he means business this time (sic).

‘About that blot dran-hol of yors kiddo I'm coming round with mi brover in-law Edgar so ya berra cof up or else. I'm warnin you now he's a wet lifter his cartrids gon agen so no way he be in a good mood. Yo people ar al alik wen yor pips get bunged up yer all ova me but when it coms to coffin up wiv the gelt ya dun wanna no DON LET ME DOWN CASH WOD BE NICE'

Letter (four): Golly, just on the off-chance I sent a bunch of poems to Torchlight Publications (London). (‘Publishers of collections of poetry' it says). From their sub-editor Quentin Pitt.

‘Dear Mr. Quirke, thank you for your letter, also for sending us some samples of your work. I write p.p. Edna Batte (Mrs) our Executive Editor, she is away at present adjudicating at the annual Ross-on-Wye Poetry Festival. Personally speaking from what I've seen so far I'm very impressed. I take it you are proposing a whole collection? THIS YOU MUST DO. However, any final decisions regarding publishing would in fact be hers alone, of course. Meantime I've been looking at my notes (they're all nice), your poem SLAG for instance, here I've commented ‘original angle' ‘evocative – in turn, airily philosophical, poignantly sad, ultimately drawing to its bitter conclusion as affairs of the heart meander their fickle course.

This stanza from the young and vulnerable girl of the title, abandoned and left all alone, forsaken by her louch and off-times abrasive lover:

So, keep my picture for your ‘Wall of Fame,'
A trophy along with the others –

You're right, love with you was only a game,
I had sex with both of your brothers.

Indeed, and yet so very honest, without a scrap of
ambiguity, every line as brittle as a ginger-snap – all the time, this inner-voice. YES I THOUGHT.

And here also (stanza sixteen) – a blazingly apt metaphor I thought.

You lied to me, you lied to me,
And now it's all over.

You said you'd put the handbrake on,
And now you've run me over.

Oh, neat I thought – I like the way its left, just kind've hanging.

Ah yes, one small word Colin (I hope I can call you that?) Much less formal I always think – about dialect I'm meaning. Absolutely, I do agree – undoubtedly, an important part of our proud and ancient heritage. I do agree it's our duty as trueborn Englishmen to preserve our native tongue – regional accents are US. Indeed (I myself hale from Milton Keyes, need I say more) e.g. ‘Owt's betna nowt!' or maybe ‘When our Willie fell int beck' say. It could in fact cause some consternation in some quarters I daresay. Again, both good pieces in their own way. However, I'm thinking more of the international market – get my drift? I can only repeat that in my opinion yours is a unique, original voice. Meantime our production team can undertake a full evaluation and in depth appraisal of your work. No doubt we shall be back in touch shortly. I shall look forward to meeting you – send more poems!

With kindest regards

Yours sincerely

Quentin Pitt (sub-editor).

p.p. Edna Batte (Mrs.)

My god – I'm going to be published at long last.

Rightaway, I flew upstairs waving my letter. I can't wait to tell Cynthia my good news – she'll be over the moon I'll bet. I'm dying to tell somebody at least.

She was just on her way down, lugging a big basket of laundry. ‘Fabulous news – just wait till I tell you' I cried out unable to contain my excitement.

I grabbed hold of her,

‘Finally, it looks as if I'm going to be published, at long last' I yelled. She couldn't've cared less you could tell. She squeezed her way past ‘Oh lovely' she said in a flat voice. Trust old cod-face to put the mockers on it.

Who else would be doing chores at that time of night.

She turned at the foot of the stairs. She was more bothered about the state of the bathroom, ‘That top bathroom is a total disgrace' she proclaimed, pushing her hair off her face (v.sarcastic I thought). ‘It's big enough to aim for surely to God' then added, ‘Where do you stand, on the bannister-rail or what?' All I can do is stare.

She pushed her way through into the utility-room.

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8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Nobodies home, no dinner either – the whole place is deserted. Brian's fast asleep on the kitchen table, no doubt dreaming of food. He blinked, ‘Dream on baby' I said. I found a piece of sixteen day, out of date meat pie in the fridge. I sat at the table listening to myself munch.

Cynthia came home with Jamie. It turns out they'd already eaten at McDonalds. Cyn was in the other room. I could see her through the serving-hatch, sprawled on the sofa with her legs up, staring vacantly at TV soaps, guzzling red wine. Let's face it our mutual intelligence gap widens by the day, pretty soon it'll be proportional to the Grand Canyon.

All of a sudden Jamie said ‘Where's Lucy?' Cyn rushed in, drink in hand. We all stared at the fridge-door – notes everywhere. Jamie's said ‘S.O.S. HELP – she's making me go swimming at the Sports Centre. I've already told her about my verruca!' Then, under it, Cynthia's note. ‘Don't forget to pick up Lucy from school after her (sic) geetar lesson.' My God, to think I'm living with a woman who can't even spell guitar.

Friday night, I'd completely forgot.

By the time I get to Lucy's school she's traipsing round following the cleaning ladies. You should've seen the looks I got – talk about daggers, by this time my little princess is yowling her head off. Finally, the only way I
can calm her down is to call in at McDonalds. I ate THREE BIG MACS.

Letters (one only). Circular for home pregnancy testing. Oh sure, AND PIGS MIGHT FLY.

9:15pm. (CONSERVATORY). Cyn's just been settling up with Dwayne the Drain (aka the so-called Drain Doctor). I've been watching them from the top bathroom window. Him and his brother in-law, BIG EDGAR – I'll say (he's built like a brick shithouse). You watch, we'll never hear the last of it. Only now she's making out I haven't the guts to face him. ‘Oh right' I said (it's hardly my fault I was in urgent need of the bathroom is it) – anyway why should I pay him. ‘You're the one that blocked it' I yelled.

You should have seen them, counting their ill-gotten gains in full view of the whole rotten cul-de-sac, the pair of them angling down the driveway at a good rate of knots, making their getaway.

WHEN WILL IT ALL END?

One good thing at least. Thelma I'm meaning, when I showed her my good news letter, she was different again. She was over the moon, ‘Oh, that's wonderful – well done Colin' she exclaimed. ‘Wait till you tell everybody at the Poetry Society. I bet you can't wait.'

I nodded. Then again, maybe not, early days as yet (small thinkers some of them). Gabriel B.T. for one, him especially – we'd never hear the last of it. One thing for sure, it'll put a few noses out of joint that's for sure. I'd been rather hoping Thelma might've come along to the next Poetry Society meeting (I've mentioned it a couple of times). She
takes far too much on if you ask me, what with dog-walking twice a day. Only now the latest is she's taken up learning to speak German – that's on top of her Spanish-class (right at the minute she's reading Octavia Paz I noticed), not to mention a home philosophy course at the Open University.

That's how it got left – please yourself I thought.

‘Well, that's up to you of course' I said.

There again, I might well go on about the next P.S. meeting – it's been postponed yet again. I'd been looking forward to it all week, Biggar-Titte, who else. What gets me, it's the way he does things. He just happened to call in at the Library to pick up a theatre brochure. ‘Oh Colin' he says, casual as you like – ‘by the way old chap. I've had to cancel tonight's meeting. Something's come up. I'm popping over to Ireland for a couple of days, sorry and all that.' He saw me look, he winked ‘There's a couple of fillies I want to take a closer look at' then did that stupid smirk he always does.

How I kept my temper I don't know.

He wasn't sorry one bit you could tell. Though, what made it even worse, then he's telling me he's already phoned round, putting everyone into the picture kind've. Well, nobodies told me that's for sure – no, I'm not big league enough I expect. Pompous oaf. Luckily, then I remembered about my good news letter from London, about getting published (it was right on the tip of my tongue), say little I thought. Don't you worry, they'll all be all over me then you can bet. No doubt he'd see I wasn't best pleased, that's to say the least.

As thing's turned out, Mr. Gobby Gabriel B.T. had
returned a veritable armful of books – nary even a thought about anybody else might want a read. More to the point (alas) I happened to notice they were rather late back – two by over a month!

This is what he's like (typical I thought) – quite a list in fact: e.g. The New Quotable Woman. The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Quotations (I've a particular client been crying out for that publication for weeks). Also, The Cambridge Guide to English Literature. Scenes from a Anchorite Life by Anon, edited by Joclyn Warboys-Hogg Ph D, and finally The Second Mrs. Hardy (that would be the poet Hardy, of course) – not the famous fat movie-star of vintage black and white silent films.

No wonder he's so self-opinionated – going by that little lot, his head must be positively deluged. Mind you, if I'm truthful I thought he was taking rather a lot on when I stamped them all out – even for Biggar-Tittes mighty brain-box.

That Mrs. Hardy book for a start, very dreary I thought. There again, so was Hardy come to that, he was a right old misery-guts in no mistake (he was too mean to have proper plumbing installed). Lord knows, his first wife had more than enough to put up with, what the second Mrs. Hardy must've been thinking about I don't know (certainly nothing in the sexual department of things) – I could've saved him the trek, dry as a nuns gusset I thought.

However, even so friend or not (albeit reluctantly) I found myself obliged to make him stump up the usual on the spot fine. He glared, ‘Sorry boss' I said ‘my hands are tied, you can't have rules for one and not another can
you?' Also, I'd spotted a bit of a split spine too – there again, without proper proof (etc etc). I decided to let it go on this occasion. I took pity on him.

‘Tell nobody – keep it under your hat' I said.

Mind you, you can't please everybody.

Okay, I quite agree it does seem rather petty I suppose, consequently Gabriel went off in a bit of a huff. Even so, imagine him snatching the receipt out of my hand. Him a J.P. at that.

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10:30pm. I've been trying to catch-up with my homework from old Herbie Tribe, I must confess it's all a bit half-hearted to say the least. Not to let it all go to my head, of course. Nonetheless, now that my prospects of finally getting myself published have changed – it does move the goal-posts somewhat. Also, if I'm truthful, some of his remarks could be easily construed as a bit diggy. Indeed, his ‘good lady wife' might well have to whistle for her teeth in future. In fact the more I think about it, all things considered, I really ought to be churning out the real thing.

However, I've decided to give it one hour and that's it.

1: DEATH and its consequences – I need to see the full picture.

2: VANITY, let's take a pro-footballer. WHAT MAKES THEM TICK?

3: LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN, be curious, first meetings – the young woman strap-hanging on the morning tube (observe the world all around you). What is she thinking?

Dunno (stop staring at my tits I expect). How do I know?

Love of a good woman? Oh sure – who am I the sodding memory-man? (off-hand I don't know any). Right at the minute I'm co-habiting with a short-tempered harridan, crossed with a friggin cleaning-machine. Then he's telling me I need more passion (‘passion, passion, metaphorically speaking the words should melt your pen!')

Poem: (about you know who) Cynthia, who else – it's as far as I've got:

Your shirt's in the wash, and that's where's its stopping,
There's no dinner either, I haven't been shopping.

12:30am. Look at the time (two hours already) – I'm supposed to be having an early night. Curiously enough earlier on my mind seemed positively bursting, filled to the brim with new ideas, pencils sharpened – wit likewise. Then when I look, I'm surrounded by screwed-up balls of paper – an archipelago of discarded false starts (which, at first I'd thought brilliant.) It looks like a origami starter-class – my waste-paper basket is overflowing!