She was greeted by complete chaos. Ride of the Valkyries blaring full-blast. Every room was flooded with lights (every night of my life I have to go round turning off fourteen lights) by this time both kids were downstairs, wide-awake eating a concoction of chocolate and pizza.
Though, what made it even worse is finding me comatose (drunk out of my head more like) wedged between the sofa and the fireplace – also I’d been sick all over her favourite Moroccan bought expensive handmade rug. Finally, just to top everything, in the middle of all this the lights fused. We were in total darkness. Not that I heard a thing, by then I was past caring – what she thought of my handiwork in the living-room I don’t know. It ended up Cyn & Co all going over to Avril’s place for the night (for their own safety). So, that means even the kids aren’t speaking to me either – trust her to make it even worse. What doesn’t help any, each time I go into the living-room – it’s still up there, kind’ve taunting, leering at me, just to remind me.
Nobody listens. Cynthia going on about it, it only makes things worse.
I’ve already told her I’ll paint over it.
***
This is when I had to swap seats.
What happened, this smelly old tramp decided he’d sit right next to me. Don’t ask, somehow or other I just seem to attract people. ‘Fine evening?’ I said. Too late I’d already said it. He said his name was Mark Twain (I’d already noticed his shiny-nebbed cap). ‘Oh?’ I said. He said he was seventy-six (he looked older), he’d worked on the river all his life, man and boy he informed me. His stare was unnerving, one eye was covered by a black eye-patch. I glanced across, his grey bristled chin worked furiously, chewing on something out of newspaper – it smelt vile.
All of a sudden he farted loudly, sending out small repercussions to my end of the seat. Finally, he spat out, rattling the bushes – he glared. This is what finally decided me to make a move.
Instead, I found myself another empty seat over by the bandstand. Normally I don’t mind, observing people I’m meaning. Indeed, to a true poet, odd characters such as that, they intrigue me (the poets extra eye as it were). Sometimes that’s all it takes, that tiny seed of an idea, they’re like gold, often blossoming into a great poem. Actually, as a matter of fact we covered that particular aspect only last month at our last Poetry Society meeting. No doubt trotted out yet again (for the umpteenth time) by our venerable chairman Gabriel Biggar-Titte. ‘Remember people, be sure to glean every inch of the field, it’s always the inconsequential, that kernel of an idea – ignore them at your peril’ says he. Pompous oaf, you’d think we were all a bunch of idiots to hear him talk. He’s a bit too full of his own importance if you ask me. Ask anybody you like, not that anybody likes him that much anyway.
There’s one here didn’t vote for him that’s for sure.
Mind you he is right in a way. That said, as regards our aforementioned gentleman of the road character. However, I decided it was a bit of a non-starter on this occasion. Meantime something else caught my eye. I’ve jotted it down in my notebook (that’s another of his lordships old favourites). Always carry a notebook just in case.
I’ve put:
‘Man Rescues Dog … on a low lichen-covered escarpment wall – a sleeping black dog, shiny of coat, made dozy by the sun (is) suddenly startled by a v.loud report (gun?) of car back-firing over in the High Street, consequently v.alarmed, falls off wall, rolls over and over, gathering speed down grassy knoll. Finally comes to abrupt halt, hard against a tree – result, shakes himself on groggy legs, shoots off at full speed, in turn clearing boundary wall in his stride – in turn causing havoc in busy High Street traffic.’
Luckily I managed to grab hold of its collar. MAX it said, also an address. One of those large Victorian villas opposite the park gates converted into apartments, it was pretty close by. An old work colleague of mine lived there at onetime (we used to enjoy the odd pint or two after work). Happy days, before I was married of course.
Eventually the door was opened by a nondescript dark-haired woman wearing a dressing-gown (this is after my third knock). ‘I’m doing you a favour here’ I almost said. She smiled, showing lots of white teeth (pity about the little round-glasses). ‘Sorry, I was in the bath – the door-buzzer doesn’t work either.’
‘I think this might be your dog, he was over in the High Street.’
Not the brightest thing to have said I reflected later, by this time the big black Labrador is jumping up, slobbering all over her for all his worth. She gave him a big hug. She couldn’t thank me enough. She shook her head ‘This is the trouble, he’s rather deaf I’m afraid’ she told me sadly. I nodded, you just never know do you, he can’t help being deaf. I was starting to thing Max was a bit stupid, whenever you called him, all he does is cock his head and look at you blank.
Time to go. I gave Max one final pat. She smiled (she looked different again without those stupid round glasses). We said our goodbyes. Walking home through the park, I tried to think up an idea for a poem – try as I might, there’s not that much you can put in a poem all about a deaf dog – you are a bit limited after all.
There again you can’t expect to find ‘nuggets of purest gold’ out of everything.
Tuesday 21st July. Writers Block (Tip of the month).
Sooner or later, as night follows day.
Don’t fall in the trap, of using clichés.
DeLacey Street. (Post-nil).
8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY, nice and sunny. MONDEO RETURNED – mint con (well hopefully at least). Good news, bad news in a way – only now for some inexplicable reason she seems to have developed this rather persistent squeak. You tell me – it’s a real pain to say the least. Meantime, just in case I’ve been trying to contact Fat Frank over at Fox’s Garage – no joy I’m afraid. He’s away, his brother Lolly picked up the phone, ‘It’s about my squeak’ I said, according to him Frank won’t be back for a whole week at least, he’s in Birmingham (since when did car mechanics hold seven day conferences). Sure – pull the other one I thought. Finally I phoned up his house – his wife’s really nice. We’ve spoke quite a few times. Rightaway she completely agreed, squeaks can be a real nuisance sometimes. No problem, even when she’d to get out of the bath-tub to answer the phone – she’s as sweet as pie. She promised me faithfully, she’d tell him the minute he gets back. Meantime I’ve been cadging a lift with Dec Tasker the caretaker in his cronky ex-post office van. Talk about boring, next time I’ll walk. All he ever talks about is his rotten fish-tank – fish with names? (I don’t know which is worse?) Frankly I’d rather listen to my squeak.
Mind you if I’m truthful I’ve been bored all day. Why be surprised, what else can you expect working in a Library all day. It isn’t as if there’s anything to look forward to coming home either. I’ve been looking for my post. What a bitch – I’ve just found Gypsy Jack, it was stuffed behind a radiator out in the hallway. Cynthia, who else? I don’t know what made me look, I fished it out with a coat-hanger (I’ll swing for that woman one of these days).
Three months that’s been off – or so I thought. I wouldn’t mind I was counting on that bastard for this year’s Shakespeare Literacy Festival down in the West Country.
This is the trouble, at onetime poets were v.highly regarded. Not like now – they look at you as if you’re some kind of oddball. Sir Walker Scott, people of that ilk, he’d have a turret in some old castle to retreat to for some peace and quiet you can bet. Not like yours truly, coming home to an empty table. Mind you, not that poets requirements are much, their frugality is legendary, a crust of bread – the odd flagon of wine maybe.
Luckily for me I’ve already eaten at the pub on my way home.
Cynthia’s lucky, in days of yore they’d’ve burnt her at the stake more than likely – no wonder the nunneries were choc a bloc.
9:00pm. God, I really love this house – another glorious evening, the dipping sun flooding the whole garden in golden light … I’ve been giving the lawn a qui
ck once-over with the mower (the smell of cut grass, it’s intoxicating!) There’s a unique greenness about English grass I always think. All around I’m assailed by summer fragrances, summer flowers, scents of roses, hollyhock nodding … so peaceful, a bower of utter tranquillity … I’ve started a poem:
SUMMERS EVENING … (A FRAGMENT)
Oh, little house on DeLacey Street,
Safe hid midst deep suburbia.
Gay borders, flowery-tubs doth compete
With porch – a garland of wisteria.
Nah, maybe not – what a pisser! (I’ve kicked it into touch). This is the trouble, my minds all over the place. There again you can hardly be expected to be churning-out tip-top quality poetry in the middle of a domestic upheaval. Cynthia’s just been in – you could tell she was in one of her moods. She poked her head round the door, she was brandishing the frying-pan I’d used the day before (I must’ve caught it a bit). ‘Stupid sod!’ she yelled at the top of her voice. Big deal, an accident. Too late, I tried to think of some smart comment. Next thing she’d chucked it clean through the window out into the garden (luckily it was open). ‘Oh, grow up’ I said – ‘well, what else do you expect. Some wives cook for their husbands.’
Just as I thought she’d no answer for that one – she flounced out slamming the door behind her.
***
2:30am. Look at the time, Cyn’s just got in, I could hear her, thumping her way up to bed, waking the whole house. There’s me wide awake, tossing about on a rickety camp-bed all night – dawn about to leap over the window-sill … No doubt she’ll be straight off to sleep the minute her head hits the pillow.
3:15am. Just thinking. Cyn I’m meaning. I was just wondering that’s all, all alone in that double bed upstairs … would she have need of me? There again, maybe not (she thinks I don’t know) all that sexual machinery she keeps stashed away in her bedside drawer, sex aids I’m meaning. Nah, no chance – why risk it.
Wednesday 22nd July. W.H. Davis 1871-1940.
What is this life if full of care,
we have no time to stand and stare.
(Lost Leg?)
DeLacey Street. (Post-one).
8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY (nice and sunny for a change). Another long (v.long) dull day at work – (no, I mean really dull). That’s libraries I expect – books in, books out – same boring routine day after day. This is the trouble nothing ever happens. What if say, old Docket was suddenly discovered having oral-sex with Ms. Walker his flat-chested P.A. behind the Social Services section? Or, maybe Kirsty and Shiraleen, caught inside the lift in a passionate embrace?
There again all this scorching hot weather we’re having, that doesn’t help – not when you’re stuck indoors all day. My mother phoned me this morning (this is at work I’m meaning) the times I’ve told her about that. How many more times – it’s only for dire emergencies I reminded her.
There was a pause. ‘This is a dire emergency’ she assured me.
She’s in desperate need of some fresh yeast. It turns out it’s the Annual Sisterhood Tea, round at the Salvation Army hut. They’ve sprung it on her at short notice. Fair enough. Mind you I’m always a bit wary. I could do with my mother, somehow or other there’s always some strings attached. Next thing, then she’s telling me it must come from Ivy Crow’s stall, right at the far end of the Market-hall. ‘Oh, and a bottle of malt vinegar’ (I was right). ‘That’s if it’s no trouble, it’s next to Trotters tripe stall. Tell her your Ada’s lad, she’ll know who you are then’ she added.
Pretty soon I had a list as long as your arm.
There was a long pause. I was hoping she’d finished (old Docket’s just about due on his morning rounds). Suddenly she said ‘We’re all in for an Indian-summer by all accounts – it was on the six o’clock news this morning.’ ‘That’ll be nice mother’ I said. Another pause. ‘Too hot for me, that’s for sure. You watch, next thing they’ll be a shortage of water’ she told me in a whiny voice.
This is what she’s like, I could just imagine it, fire banked up on the Yorkshire-range, the whole place red hot ready for baking. Mind you she’s right, if the sun’s out two days on the trot, it’s panic-stations – next thing you know they’re dipping the water supply.
‘There’s more than you sweltered’ I said.
She’d just reminded me – that gave me an ideal opportunity to tactfully mention not to knit me anymore woolly jumpers for work. Don’t get me wrong, I mean she’s got a heart of pure gold, no question about that. She will insist on always adding a row of bloody bells right across the front. Frankly, most people that work in Libraries are not that famous for wearing jazzy jumpers all that much. This is what I said, ‘Look, I know it’s all very clever mother. I’d be much obliged if you’d leave them plain in future.’
There was a pause. ‘There supposed to be sheep’ she said tartly.
‘It’s far too hot for jumpers.’
She laughed that high-pitched cackling laugh of hers ‘Heh, heh, heh, heh. Well, take it off you simpleton – have you no sense?’
She has no idea (simple she says). Isn’t it obvious I’m right in the middle of a domestic crisis. Only, now the latest is Cynthia’s even boycotted doing the ironing too. There’s no way I’m sitting at my counter in a non-ironed shirt. Anyway, that’s her department. She must’ve been reading my mind. ‘Oh, by the way, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of those grand-children of mine much lately.’ There was a pause ‘Nor that wife of yours either come to that’ she added not without scorn.
It isn’t as if they get on that much anyway.
Least said on that one I’m thinking. Just in time, I’d spotted old Docket making his way down the last flight of stairs. Though, if I’m truthful I was glad of the excuse. ‘Look, I’d better go – I’ll call you later mother.’ I hung up.
***
Oh, wait – this is news. Looks as if we’ve acquired a new assistant Librarian. Thelma Clegg (um, I know – another woman) – as if we aren’t outnumbered enough already. However, what is interesting (well it is in a way) she’s the same woman I met over in the park that time, her with the deaf dog – isn’t that strange? Turns out she’s the replacement for that Harper woman, her that’s just left, the one that finally got herself pregnant using I.V.F. (six years!) rumour has it she’s been holding on for a council house in a better catchment area nearer the school. Mind you, old Harper got away with murder if you ask me – most afternoons she had her feet up in the ladies rest room (that’s when she decided to turn in). Maybe it’s me – we are supposed to be a Library after all.
This is my trouble, I’m too easy going – people soon take advantage. So, we’ll see, she’s on temporary loan from the main Calderford branch (mind you I’m a bit down on women in general I have to admit). Though in all fairness she seems competent enough, another attribute is she appears to be able to talk and get on with her work at the same time. So there’s a first I thought – as to whether or not she’s worth training-up. Maybe we’ll hold fire on that one for the time being at least.
Then just when I’m in the middle of my afternoon tea-break my mother phoned me again (that’s twice now in the same day), her excuse this time was to thank me for fetching her shopping from town. All that and there’s nobody home. I’d to leave everything outside on top of the coal-bunker (then you’re worried about the cat). It turns out she’s having a bath – she’d left the back door on the sneck just in case. She was running late, back from her meeting round at the Salvation Army hut (a bit of a crisis in fact). Some joker had super-glued the front door key-hole again. It was her turn to slide down the coal-shute.
Suddenly she said ‘How’s things on the western-front Sonny-Jim?’ then added ‘Is there anything you want to tell me about?’
‘What’s all this mother?’
‘Lady muck. Cynthia I’m meaning – what’s upsetting her this time?’
‘Upsetting?’ I said vaguely.
‘You’ve been sleeping downstairs on the ca
mp-bed, so I’ve heard.’
Say little I thought. I made light of it ‘Well, that’s news to me mother I must say.’
There was a pause. ‘Oh, that’s funny. That’s not what Ivy Crow on the market’s just been telling me – according to her you’re not even on speaking terms. You haven’t exchanged so much as a civil word in over a month. You’ve been sleeping in separate beds so I hear.’
Something must’ve slipped out – people catch you off-guard. Same at work, it’s surprising, everybody’s starting to notice how down in the mouth I’ve been lately (I mean I do try). That’s why I’m always so careful what I say to people – call me old fashioned. What goes on in the privacy of your own home is pretty much sacrosanct in my book.
Suddenly she said ‘What do you think of the eclipse?’ You’re never ready are you (she has me dizzy at times). What eclipse, has there been another and I’ve missed it? Just to prove my point, then she said ‘There’s half a dozen fresh loaves here waiting. That’s when madam’s a mind to call in. Either road they’ll go in the freezer.’
Some hopes, not much chance of that I thought.
Finally mother said in a small voice ‘I’ve prayed for you all night son.’ I nodded. ‘Thank you mother’ I said. A pause ‘Maybe you ought to try it Colin?’ she hung up.
Then when I looked, there’s old Docket, he’s stood there right in front of me (he creeps around the place like an adopted cat). He crooked his finger, ‘Colin – a word’ he says. God, what now? As things turned out he only wanted to borrow a chair to stand on to open the window – I did offer.
So, okay, not that it matters I suppose. All the same it doesn’t look good does it?
11:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). I’m having an early night. Frankly I don’t know how much more I can take. Cynthia’s unpredictable mood swings I’m meaning. What started it off, I’d had a note from Gabriel B.T. marked ‘urgent’ regarding a reconvened Poetry Society meeting for tonight. Too late (I saw her look) I’d been searching high and low for my brown tie ‘The one with the key-holes?’ I said. You ask one simple question. No answer, instead her eyes stayed glued to the TV screen (The High Commander of the Remote) – I don’t get a look in, her choice or nothing. I forgot we still weren’t speaking. She smirked, ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out’ she declared smugly, sliding a chocolate caramel into her gaping mouth. What’s it take to be civil, right? Talk about childish (that hairs still there I noticed). I’m hoping it’s the start of a full-blown beard. It’d really suit her I’ll bet.
It Always Rains on Sundays Page 3
