It Always Rains on Sundays (48 page)

‘Jesus Christ. God. WHAT NOW, what now?' she yelled down the phone.

This is what's she's like, no patience whatsoever some people. ‘No, what, w-w-what it w-w-was was. It's about my poems' I said.

There was a long pause ‘Poems?' she repeated ‘you're holding everybody up, just to talk about friggin poetry?' she exclaimed.

‘Well, yes, I guess – well in a way. Wait till I tell you. No, w-w-what it w-w-was was. W-what happened is …'

Somehow it'd gone really quiet. Too late she'd hung up the phone.

Thinking about it, maybe I'd caught her at a bad time. All the same, you'd've thought she'd've been interested. After all, all I've done is land myself a big important new job, that's all. That's not counting winning a nationally acclaimed poetry-prize (he added modestly). THAT'S ALL.

It isn't that when it's the other way round is it.

What happened, a couple of nights back Cyn phones me up (
very late
!) This is after midnight I'm saying – did I say anything? NO I DID NOT. I wouldn't mind you've never heard such a load of guff in your whole life. Like I
said, she's in her own little world most of the time. Mind you, she'd had quite a skinful you could tell.

Anyway, so then she's telling me some fantastic, unbelievable story all about Red-top (he's supposed to be an ex-pro basket-ball player by the way). Yeah – me too. Mind you, some people they'll believe anything. There's more – he's finally landed himself a job. Then it turns out, back home, over in the States he's supposed to be some kind of policeman. Not only that (wait for it) HE'S A SECRET AGENT. Then she's telling me he works for the F.B.I. (the ‘I' stands for ‘intelligence' – small ‘i' in his particular case)
undercover
, right. Oh, I bet – with hair that colour? Is she serious? Like I said, some people, right.

Then it turns out he's on a six month sabbatical (he's a valued man), not only that, on a couple of occasions he's even been assigned to work for the President of the United States. She's sworn to secrecy, don't tell a living soul she told me in a whispery voice (Oh, pleeeeeeese, don't worry I won't). Talk about gullible. Boy O boy. I'd to cover the phone with my hand.

Some people, right. By then I'm chewing my coat-sleeve – I'm trying not to laugh. ‘You'd see him on TV all the time over there' Cynthia confided ‘you've to know where to look, he's incognito.' I nodded. Oh sure (he's the only one in the whole motor-cade wearing a hood I'll bet.) She was on a roll. ‘Hopefully (fingers crossed) the plan is he's swapping jobs with somebody of equal status over here' she confided sotto voce. (How about a straight swap, Sherlock Holmes say for their Dick Tracy?) I
couldn't help myself ‘Good idea – I'll tell the Queen' I spluttered into my hanky.

‘I'm sworn to secrecy – it goes no further, okay' she repeated.

By now I'm slapping the table. I dabbed my eyes.

‘Sure, sure – if you say so' I snorted.

That's how it got left. She hung up.

1:30am. Look at the time. I've just had Miranda Starr on the phone again. Miranda the sex-maniac I'm meaning, (who else calls you up in the middle of the night). No wonder I'm a nervous wreck. I raced downstairs in two strides. That's all I need, my mother answering the phone. Rightaway she's into her, what she calls ‘describing games' (she's as mad as a tri-corn hat). Sometimes it's better to humour people, she always insists I start at the very beginning ‘Well, okay, firstly I'm kind've dark – darkish complexioned I'd say, though not what you'd call swarthy I suppose' I said.

Luckily she much prefers doing most of the talking.

She broke in ‘Um, me too Ricky' Miranda said cosily.

I waited for the next question (she's always wanting to know where I live). Oh sure – I can just imagine it. My mother opening the door. Miranda stood there, this crazy-woman, wearing some kind of kinky outfit, then opening her coat.

Next thing the music starts up in back.

Her voice startled me ‘Um, you sound dark' she continued huskily, ‘dark and kind've secretive – I can tell
by your manly voice. More your Mediterranean, from the sun I'm meaning. No offence I'm sure. I have nothing against darkies
per say
. How tall are you by the way?' she asked me for the umpteenth time.

‘Me?' I cleared my throat ‘average. I'm average, give or take.'

Then after a pause, suddenly she said ‘How about gold Ricky? I'm thinking more on the lines of personal self-adornment, that type of category. Nether regions, that's if you know what I mean, in point of fact I'm quite a lot interested in other peoples appendages generally, all that kind of paraphernalia – rings and what have you.'

She was waiting for me.

‘Well, not me personally' I said hurriedly (I thought I'd heard my mother moving about upstairs). However, it's only fair to say that I too appreciate their potential excitability to quite a few people I daresay.'

‘Um. Me too Ricky' she agreed. A pause ‘I have just recently started trimming my pubic hair into a heart-shape. Well, give or take' she added.

‘Really?' I said.

‘Um. Uh huh. Unfortunately however somebody hammered on the bathroom door, urgently requiring to use the facilities – they made me jump a bloody mile. Consequently, for the time being at least I'm stuck with a common or garden triangle-shape I'm afraid.'

I tutted. ‘Aw. Too bad.'

Miranda was up-front if nothing else.

‘Do you like triangles Ricky – just a direct question, that's all?'

‘Triangles?' I echoed. ‘Oh sure, I think I can live with that' I told her smoothly. What am I saying (hearts, triangles – who cares). I've never even met the woman in my whole life.

Okay, tell a lie – I almost did. Onetime we kind've half-arranged to meet up in a public place in town (she kind've corners you into things) – not that I bothered turning up. It went clean out of my head. Now I feel really awful. Finally she phoned me up. ‘Ricky? Hi, it's me. Listen, did you mean the Town hall clock, or the one on the Permanent Refuge Insurance building in town, that never works?' she enquired. Luckily, as things turns out, just by chance she happened to meet up with this old acquaintance she knew, selling the Big Issue – he's right across the street. Anyway, to cut a long story (blah blah) – she ended-up back at his place. It just shows. Don't you worry, next time I'll be ready for her, then when she asks me where I'm living I'll tell her someplace really faraway, such as the North Pole – the further the better (‘Maybe you know it, last igloo after the glacier – ask for Nutty').

Even better, I'm changing my phone number.

*
*
*

Leigh Hunt 1784-1859.

Abou Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase)
.

Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace
.

2:30am. Looks as if I've been dreaming again. Cynthia who else – awake or asleep I can't get her out of my mind.
So, what's new – not that she cares. No doubt she'll be out partying I'll bet. Having a good time, drinking and carousing all night with all her glitzy new friends – she's no time for yours truly, that's for sure.

And that's a funny thing because in my dreams she's different again, more like she used to be I'm meaning. As if she cares about me, it's as if she's really interested kind've.

‘Cyn? Oh hi. Colin here. HI THERE! Look, sorry for calling you up so late. I just thought I'd phone you up with all my news –
I hope that's okay with you?'

‘OH. Well, I'll be – HI THERE COLIN. Well, well – so how's things with you anyway?'

Like I said. Just being polite – plain good manners.

That's all it takes. ‘Not too late I hope?' What's it take to be nice to people, right?

‘Hell no. Not at all, you know me,
call me anytime you like'
Cynthia says.

‘Hey thanks' I reply. I hope you see the difference.

‘Don't mench. Anyway, HOW ARE YOOOOOOOW?'

Know what I'm saying? She cares, right.

Okay, so then I say, ‘Fine thanks Cynthia,
seeing as how you ask'
(no doubt then adding my own expressions of goodwill). ‘HOW-ARE-YOU-BY-THE-WAY, well I hope?'

‘Fine, just fine I guess – kids too. They are fine also' Cyn says.

My turn. ‘Well, that's wonderful – you've really made my day.'

‘You bet – Daddy, daddy, daddy. That's all I ever hear from morning till night.'

‘Gosh. How about that – what more can I say. Really?'

‘Uh huh. When's daddy coming home? That's all they ever talk about.'

‘No kidding – I miss them too. Well, just be sure to tell them I called, right.'

‘No prob – as if. Don't worry,
I sure will – ‘

‘You're a real star in no mistake.'

‘Thank you I'm sure. What time? What time? All day long, they're driving me mad.'

‘Give them my best regards, you hear.'

Well, am I right or am I right – keep it positive.

Something else too, some good advice. Women like nice compliments. (So, if you want to win the lady) … get my drift?

‘You think? Okay, maybe I will – hear goes …
God you're attractive, I only hope you are truly appreciated that's all
. What do you think, it's my best shot?'

Hey, not bad. Pretty cool I'd say. What is there to lose. Faint heart never won fair lady, right? DO IT.

So, then Cyn says, ‘Don't worry, you can call me up anytime you like, you hear.'

‘Gosh, thank you. Really? Look are you sure? It is pretty late after all.'

Listen, don't be a smoothie, not too heavy on the pedal – women really hate that. ‘Okay – I'll bear that in mind.' So, anyway, so then Cyn says, ‘Well, okay, seeing as how you ask. We were just on our way out. We've been
invited over to the Leonard's house, as a matter of fact. I was just running an iron over my best frock.'

‘Wow. Gosh – did you say the Leonard's house?'

‘Don't worry, we can do that any old time.'

‘Golly.'

‘Good word, my hairs wet too.'

‘All the same I'd hate to clash with your hot date.'

‘Oh, nothing. Big deal – what's the diff, what's a fancy sit-down meal, with knives and forks, in a giant-sized green and white striped marque and a live band. Oh, and a stretch-limo to pick you up right at your door – I was forgetting that.'

‘Look, I've obviously called you up at a bad time.'

‘Oh, c'mon – what's the diff. Did I mention the pool and the Jacuzzi? Champagne, you can drink at home, right, heh heh.'

‘Hey, that little gurgling laugh of yours – it still gets me you know that?'

‘Really? Oh, you old flatterer you. You just don't change do you?'

‘Guess not I guess.'

‘You know what, you're a real funny person.'

‘You think? Well, in that case maybe I won't – heh heh' (okay, go for it). You sure about that? DO IT. ‘
God you're attractive. I only hope you are truly appreciated that's all …'

‘Huh? Oh, right, thanks I'm sure – hold it a sec. Okay, I'll tell him. Kevvy sends his best regards, he said to make sure I tell you, okay.'

‘Really?' KEVIN THE HOME-WRECKER she's meaning. I don't think I can do it. Remember, that goes for everybody, right – always be nice to people.

So, then I'll say ‘Well, me too I guess. Maybe we should all get together sometime – maybe sink a few beers, tell him.'

‘Good idea, I'll tell him. – Wait, I think he's asleep. So, what's new with you anyway?'

‘Well, funny you should ask. What it was was – well, the main reason I called you up. What happened – ‘

‘How's the poetry-writing these days – only I've been meaning to ask?'

Is she serious? ‘Huh, pardon me?'

‘We've got high hopes. I just wanted you to know that, okay.'

‘Really? Well, golly – what can I say?'

‘Don't mench – I only wish that dopy sod I'm living with had even one thimbleful of your God-given talent, that's all. Instead of staring at day-time TV I'm meaning.'

‘Why, thanks Cynthia. I'm bowled over.'

‘As a matter of fact we were just talking about you, the whole gang around the hot-tub here.'

‘Really? That's amazing. Wow.'

‘Why would I lie. Oh, by the way – you're dead right, British winters are a real pain in the arse, everyone's freezing their bollocks off. Big mistake – capital M.'

‘Aw nooooooo – too bad.'

‘No, I admit I was wrong. You were right – I should've listened.'

‘There you go. It gives me no joy – I can but offer my humble opinion.'

‘Anyway, another story, right – blah blah. You're still writing I hope?'

‘You know what. Hey, it's funny you should mention it.'

‘You owe it to yourself – promise me that at least.'

‘Gosh. I always thought you hated poetry.'

‘Don't think I don't hate myself – well, some maybe. Fundamentally, I think maybe I've always been a bit in awe that I was actually living with a living poet, y'know. It's just … it's … sorry?'

‘Cynthia – you're not weeping I hope?'

‘Uh huh. No, no – I'm fine. I've just blown my nose.'

‘Absolutely. Good girl, that's the ticket. (
God, you're attractive. I only hope that you are truly appreciated that's all
). Chin up eh?'

‘Women eh, sorry. I'll be fine – I'm just a bit emotional.'

‘Uh huh. That time of the month eh?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Tomorrow's another day.'

‘What must you think of me? Anyway, you were saying, about you're writing?'