It Always Rains on Sundays (31 page)

It's Gods will she keeps telling me – trust her to bring god into it. She came into my room first thing, all dressed-up for the early service. Her eyes rummaged through everything. She cleared a pyramid of empty lager cans, making a space so she could kneel down beside the bed. I braced myself, expecting yet another of her so-called ‘cosy chats.' Finally, her eyes closed, she placed both her hands together ‘I've been praying for you all night' she told me in a hollow voice.

I nodded. ‘Thank you mother.' I stifled a yawn.

Her eyes tightened, I could see her lips moving in silent prayer.

‘Would you like to say a little prayer with me son' she whispered, peeping through her fingers. (NAH). ‘Maybe another time mother' I said. Nobody understands what I'm going through – it's alright for her, where's logic at a time like this? Let's face it, she's just a simple true-believer.

She started doing up her coat, I said ‘Well, to be truthful mother I don't think I'm worth the trouble if I'm being honest!' She stared, her fingers stopped halfway ‘Nay, nay – for shame. Everybody's worth a little prayer at least, surely to God.'

‘What about Hitler?'

‘Well, even he had a mother at onetime.'

‘What about Attilla the Hun, or Stalin?'

She frowned, she tightened her eyes. ‘Amen' she said.

What had I started – we'd met on the same barricade before quite a few times. She threw back the curtains, exploding the whole room with bright light. She changed the subject, frowning she said ‘Just look at the state of you – I'll be back in a good hour or so. I'll expect you out of that bed, washed and shaved with a fresh shirt on, presentable for the sabbath day.' She turned by the door, ‘Keep an eye on that fire, think on.'

I heard the door close with a thud.

Mind you, even God's mere existence has taken a bit of a knock lately if you ask me. Okay, fair enough, it's a bit hard to believe, him going to all that trouble, kicking up a hurricane, just for the sole purpose of pushing a couple of complete strangers into a broom-closet – I mean what's the point of that?

Talk about the longest day. Frankly, I'll be glad when it's time for bed I'll tell you. No mail either, it's as if I don't even exist. Just on the off-chance, I thought maybe I'd phone-up my old mate Calvin Cartwright who works at the main post-office. Hoping for a bit of a chat kind of thing.

Some hopes, instead I got an earful from that miserable sister he's living with on the end of the phone. It turns out he's over in Thailand of all places. ‘I aven't seen hide not hair of him for over a week' she informed me peevishly, then added ‘What's more I don't care if I never set eyes on the swine ever again.'

I was starting to wish I hadn't bothered.

Then it turns out he's married a Thai-bride. Some woman over in Thailand he's met up with on the internet. Not that she's overly enamoured with that either by the sound of it – ‘Daft sod' she went on ‘he's wrong in his bloody head. She only looks twelve at the most – not a word of English, not any that makes any kind of sense anyway. If he thinks he's bringing her back here, living with us he's no-chance. He's another think coming I'll tell you now. My husband's right, he ought to have sown all his wild oats at his bloody age. That goes for both of us. What with two Alsatian dogs, we've enough on our plate already. My husband's put his foot down this time. We've turfed out all his pornographical studies, we've burnt the bloody lot, and good riddance I say.'

You could tell she was a bit out of sorts.

‘Oh dear' I said. ‘Look, tell him to give me a bell sometime.'

She slammed down the phone.

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8:00pm. Postcard from Alison (she's in Sardinia) inviting me to visit her. Great idea – I wish. Meantime I've been perusing my post-office savings account. No-chance (answer = NO).

Oh what a burden it is to be born poor! Thinking about it, the way things are going I'm seriously thinking about staying in bed forever, out of harms way. Times like this an anchorite existence appeals mightily I'll tell you. Really speaking, a simple poet such as myself, my requirements are pretty frugal, a hunk of bread and a lump of cheese – maybe the odd flagon of wine. Who knows, even on my meagre savings I could last out quite a spell I'll bet:
‘

Where's old Quirky these days?' Dunno mate, you tell me – ain't seen him in yonks. Nobodies set eyes on him for the past twenty years, that's at least (mind you he was a miserable sod anyway). Maybe you heard, his wife ran off with a red-headed American line-dancer by all accounts. ‘Don't say?' it's a true story. Why would I lie, red hair too, did I say – Cherokee Indian I do believe. ‘That so?' Last I heard he hadn't a friend in the whole world. ‘Well, well. That a fact?'

Not that you get much peace round here anyway.
Thelma I'm meaning, she keeps phoning me up, every hour just about. ‘Tell them I'm sick' I said. Next thing I hear is my mother's voice, listening in as usual ‘There's nowt wrong with him, I'll tell you. He's playing the old soldier more like – ligging in bed all day, the big lummox.'

I called her back. ‘Thelma, it's me' – I blurted it all out, ‘Bad news I'm afraid. Cyn's got a boyfriend. She's admitted everything, it's all over between us – I'm a total wreck.'

No doubt she'd've guessed something's amiss.

There was a long pause – she's like me, she'd be in shock I expect. I'm not surprised. ‘Oh dear' she said, she repeated it three times in a row ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.' ‘Talk about devious – I'll say. Her and Avril, they planned the whole thing between them.' I ended up telling her everything. ‘Oh, wait till you see him, he's a picture. He's got this big mop of bright red hair, it's unbelievable. This is what I can't understand (this is when my voice went funny). Cyn really hates red hair. Ask anybody you like. He's an American, she met up with him over in Florida in the middle of a hurricane, she confessed everything' I said, ending in a squeak.

I had to hang-up in order to compose myself.

She called me right back, ‘Listen, I forgot to ask, when are you coming back in to work?' Good question I thought. ‘Who knows – I might not be coming back ever again.'

‘Oh God, don't say that Colin. Life must go on no matter what.'

‘For some people maybe. Good-bye Thelma.'

Bless her I thought to myself – at least somebody cares.

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8:30pm. Home late (I've been tying up a few loose-ends at work). LIAR – that's a whopper for a start. What happened, somehow or other, I'd convinced myself old Docket was working late too. Then it turns out the silly old fool had left his office light on by mistake. It just shows – I might've been there yet but for Dec Tasker the caretaker wanting to lock up.

You feel really stupid.

Meantime I've been giving things some deep thought. I'm striving to resume some kind of semblance of a normal routine, I have to move on. For a start I've come to the conclusion, better to give DeLacey Street a wide berth in future – it's the only way. Easier said than done. This is the trouble, this is a small town, chances are you're bound to run into people sooner or later. Take this morning for instance, I'm in my car, on my way to work. I'm waiting at the Bridgend traffic-lights. So then I'm just minding my own business. All of a sudden, next thing, I'm deluged with this really loud, so-called music – blasting my head off almost. Then, when I look who should pull up in the next lane but Cyn and Avril, the pair of them waving like loonies. You should've seen
them, both wearing these matching polka-dot bikini-tops. Showing off for all their worth, driving around in this newly imported chrome-laden, dazzling white Dodge Ram pickup truck.

Who are we Thelma and Louise? (it was on the tip of my tongue).

Well, I know what I think (courtesy of Clyde the Wallet no doubt). Don't you worry I just stared right ahead. They roared off in a raucous blast from the twin exhausts, still honking the horn. They disappeared into the misty distance.

Letters (one): More rejections, fraidy so, Ravens Nest, that's flown back to the nest yet again – returned from Yorkshire Vista, e.g. ‘Welcome to Yorkshire – where folks are grand!' Typical I thought, they didn't even have the common courtesy to return the photo studies I sent, featuring the renowned Cow & Calf rocks on top of Ilkley Moor – it's no joke holding on to a tripod in the teeth of a Yorkshire gale I'll tell you.

Letter (two): Oh, superb – that's all I need. Somebody trying to sell me a new bed. Wonderful. ‘Are you a sleeper or are you a TOSSER?' it says. Let's face it I've been a bit of a tosser all my sodding life. (“Would that be a single sir, or are we a double?”) No comment.

Letter (three): From old Herbie Tribe down in Cambridge no less. (‘When are you coming to see me?' he says.) Don't worry I'd love to – I really envy him in a way, this is where I've missed out. Sunday afternoons (I
can just imagine it) punting on the Cam with a pretty girl in tow, mixing with intellectuals and what have you, conversing with like-minded people. Socialising with bright young ladies with aquiline noses and posh accents:

‘Barry! Hi Barry – good hols? That's the ticket

‘Hi there Margot. Long time no see – I love your tan.'

‘Well, hul-low Lucinda, seen old Gerry by any chance?'

‘He's the cleverest man in London don't you know.'

‘Don't doubt it, don't doubt it old sport.'

‘Oh, I say, tried the herring? Awfully good.'

Maybe that's it, I need a new image (I wonder if I'd suit a beard?) I think I might dig out my Harris Tweed with the leather-patches (bit datey these days I expect). How about a pronounced limp, that might be interesting. Maybe not – food for thought at least.

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8:00pm. Another long (v.long, v.boring) – v.wet Sunday. I'd been looking forward to spending the day with the kids. No-chance, they've all gone to Blackpool for a long weekend with the Dancing Queen and the red-haired
Yankee gigolo. I'd clean forgot it's the quarter-finals of the line-dancing tournament.

Lunchtime, I went over to Tony's Tavern (I thought I'd cheer myself up) – a couple of pints with the lads kind of thing. Then it turns out they'd all gone to the big away game over in Manchester, the place is empty. Even worse – warm beer. Mind you Tony couldn't've cared less. ‘Well' he lisped petulantly ‘somebody has to have the first pint.' He wandered off, singing, ‘Baby you can drive my car, baby I'll make you a star.' They must have the longest friggin pipes this side of the friggin Urals.

Still hoping for some convivial company I went into the Dark Bar. You could hardly move, everyone engrossed, watching the big game, eyes fixed on the giant-sized TV screen. Next thing this big cheer goes up. Somebody must've scored (that's until it was disallowed). They're going crazy, everybody yelling, arguing amongst themselves – getting to blows almost.

That did it for me. I'd to come out in the end – somehow I felt really threatened.

At least it'd stopped raining. Instead I ended up going over to the park, hoping to find a bit of peace and quiet. Some hopes, that didn't last long either, winos I'm meaning. Everywhere you look, sculking around, drinking cheap bottles of wine – all this yelling – I could sense the danger already.

Next thing they're fighting in lumps (I was right). Somebody called the police. Finally, I ended up back at Stoney Bank Street. Full circle in fact – meantime I'd been into town to by myself a new TV for my room.
Mother glared, rightly guessing I was carrying a six-pack under my coat (I told her it was a turnip, I was holding it for a friend). After that I settled down to watch D.V.Ds. Each in turn I watched, The Lion King. The Wizard of Oz. Dumbo the Elephant and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Finally I had to turn it off – all that violence (not to mention this mad trumpet-player in the back). It was starting to work me up more than ever.

Mother despairs, she called me down for my dinner – I told her I wasn't hungry. According to her I'm every bit as bad as my father, if not worse – I've the makings of a useless drunken sot – not even worth so much as a tin shilling.

Finally I took myself off for a long walk along the canal towpath, clear my head kind've. Good idea, after all that fresh-air, by the time I got back I was ravenous. Too late was the cry, much to my disgust, in the meantime my mother's given my much looked forward to Sunday-roast dinner away to the neighbourhood tramp. There he is large as life (Mark Twain – the old guy with the eye-patch). No wonder I stared. Why be surprised, I'd seen him earlier on, hawking firewood door to door out of an old pram. He's sitting in
my chair
with a big grin on his face, picking at his rotten teeth. What's it all coming to when even your own mother turns against you.

No doubt she'd see I wasn't best pleased.

2:00am. Can't sleep – bad dreams I'm meaning. Cynthia who else – I've woke up in a cold sweat. I keep having
this strange, reoccurring dream. What happened is I'm inside this tent. Cynthia's trying to get in but she can't find the opening – how weird is that? I ended up entangled in the curtains. You can tell how bad it was, next thing my mother's hammering on the door (I must've yelled). I said it was the cat.