It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  She turned, her mouth stayed in a line ‘Oh, I don’t know, as long as it takes,’ she said irritably.

  What kind of an answer is that?

  Next thing, her foot hit the button the cleaner sprang into life. Prudently I decided to stay put, safe on my island of armchair, ready to lift my feet just in case. You could sense her mood a mile off, she was tight as a bow, her strong sinewy arms stretching out, plunging wide swathes deep into the carpet.

  Finally she stopped, she straightened up slowly. She grimaced, her fingers working into her lower back. ‘Bad back eh?’

  No answer. She began looping up the cable, then said in a calm, controlled voice. ‘Um. Give us both some space.’ I nodded ‘Oh, too right’ I agreed a bit too quickly.

  It went quiet, you could feel the tension.

  Talking to Cyn in this mood, it’s a bit like waiting for traffic-lights. I risked going on amber. ‘Fine’ I said ‘and, am I to know when exactly or what?’

  Again, another pause, her finger trailed absentmindedly over the bureau searching for traces of dust, I said ‘Maybe I just come home from work one day and find the door wide open, is that it?’

  Somehow it was all coming out wrong.

  Too late I’d already said it. ‘Tomorrow – we’re going tomorrow.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I echoed incredulously. Pow, you’re never ready are you. She turned over by the door. ‘Um. Tomorrow, we go early. We got a cancelation at short notice.’

  ‘Short notice – I’ll say. Good word. Oh, right.’

  She couldn’t have cared less – water off a duck kind’ve. ‘I’ve been waiting for a good time to tell you.’

  ‘Oh thanks. Thanks for the invite by the way. I’m surprised you didn’t yell from the plane.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You wouldn’t’ve enjoyed it. God – you know what you’re like.’

  I stared. ‘Oh right’ I said, ‘and, how am I exactly? Just on the off-chance there’s a slight possibility that I’m ever invited.’

  She made a face, (no doubt she could’ve reeled off quite a few.) ‘Do you want the whole list, e.g. airport queues, other people – especially other people.’ She saw me looking ‘You moan about everything – even your own kids get on your nerves. You can’t stand the sun, most of the time you’re diving under the tables looking for shade. You don’t like the food either. Look I don’t want to argue, okay.’

  Not much you don’t. ‘Oh sure, no I bet.’

  ‘God, what’s a couple of weeks anyway – I daresay you’ll survive without me.’

  ‘No problem, don’t you worry about me.’

  She picked up the cleaner ready to leave (‘Are you taking the fucking hoover?’ I was tempted to ask). She was over by the door. I’d just thought of something (what about school?) ‘What about school – I’ll bet you haven’t thought about that. What about the children’s education, that doesn’t matter. Oh right.’

  All of a sudden she looked tired, she lowered the cleaner. ‘Everything’s arranged, I’ve got special dispensation – they miss a week, so what.’ We both stared. ‘Wow, BIG word, and the kid’s education, that doesn’t matter?’ I repeated.

  She stared. ‘Don’t be a prat you prat. Okay, you might as well know. Avril’s coming too – we’re all going.’ No wonder I stared. ‘Avril?’ I said, I might’ve known. ‘Avril?’ I repeated, her of all people. That’s all we need. Trust me to be the last one to know – what a dope, right. So, why wasn’t I surprised? No doubt they’d both been planning the whole thing for months. Wonderful. ‘Well, that’s great, just great. Well, thanks a bunch’ I said.

  Her face said it all, she’d run out of steam. She just didn’t care anymore. She turned ‘Oh, FUCK you’ she cried. She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

  I stared at the door. ‘FUCK YOU TOO!’ I yelled.

  4:30am. There they go. My whole family doing a moonlight-flit in the dead of night. Cynthia even refused my kind offer of giving them a lift – imagine, a taxi-cab, all the way out to the airport. (What’s all that going to cost I wonder?) Never so much as a backwards glance, all you could hear is Avril’s shrieking laugh, car-doors slamming, they couldn’t get away fast enough, waking up the whole cul-de-sac I’ll bet. I’ve had to come away from the window it’s too upsetting to witness.

  Monday 10th August. Emily Dickinson 1830-1866.

  My soul accused me. And I quailed.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-nil). HOPE NIL

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). No welcome home. House eerily silent, kind’ve spooky (this is what it’s going to be like). Oh God – I’m missing them already. It’s only now, when it’s too late. Then you realise what it is to have your own jolly little family around you. You have to soldier on I suppose, there’s no point feeling sorry for yourself – one thing for sure, there’s no way I can face that big double-bed!

  How I got through the day at work I don’t know – I mean I do try. Even so, everybody’s commented how down in the mouth I’ve looked, giving me funny looks. Nobody understands. You can tell, even old Docket stopped to have a word this morning, ‘Oy, why the long face lad?’ says he, then added ‘You want to buck yourself up a bit, you’ll be frightening off the customers’ he chortled, walking off laughing at his own weedy joke.

  At least I can rely on Thelma, at lunchtime she came up with this bright idea we’d have ourselves a picnic out on the roof, (including my all time favourite ham and beetroot on rye – who else eh?) She’d be trying to take me out of myself I suppose. Anyway, I had to tell somebody – about Cyn & Co, going off to Orlando without me I’m meaning. Like me, she was in shock I expect. She shook her head, ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear’ she repeated, then added mournfully ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘Join the club – that makes two of us’ I said glumly. After that we had a long discourse all about poetry in general. Thelma’s surprisingly well read, she has some interesting observations I have to agree.

  It just shows, it’s surprising where all the time goes sometimes. Next thing you know old Docket’s up at his window, pointing frantically at his watch.

  ***

  10:00pm. Just to make a change I decided to eat over at Tony’s Tavern. I ordered the big special ‘Soldier Boy (sixteen oz sirloin steak) for real men!’ Big mistake – capital M. I ended up sending it back twice. Finally Tony comes out of the back to have a word. ‘I think I’ve got the soles of his fucking boots’ I said. He took it away without a word, nibbling at a piece of meat off my plate, whistling Greensleeves. He sent out a bottle of Budweiser and a piece of apple-pie on the house.

  After that I went into the other bar – the Dark Bar. That’s what they call it, the men only bar it’s where they keep the blinds down all day (even when it’s nice and sunny.) I thought it might take me out of myself, I ended up having a few beers to drown my sorrows. One thing for sure nothing changes – five rounds, I ended up paying for four! Am I a fool or what? Not that it did – all they ever talk about is sodding football. Either that or else slagging off their wives.

  2:30am. Look at the time (so much for having an early night.) Why be surprised, things going round in my mind I expect. Cynthia I’m meaning. Mind you, it’s a strange affliction is insomnia. There isn’t a cure – it’s just something you have to live with I expect. Curiously enough I’ve just been reading about it. All about this certain monk who lived in the seventeenth century called brother Cyril, strange though it might seem he recommended sleeping inside a drawer, in perfect solitude. He swears by it (that’s if monks swear that is). Anyway it worked for him, by all accounts he kept it up for a total of fifty-nine years. It just shows, somehow or other I can’t see it working for me, not in this household at least (who can you trust). Frankly, I don’t like the idea of being beholden to Cynthia’s capricious mood-swings – who’s going to let me out every morning to go to work?

  Knowing her she’d even forget I was there.

  ***

  Friday 14th August. Walter De La Mare 1873-1936.

>   Is there anybody there said the traveller,

  knocking on the moonlit door?

  DeLacey Street. (Post-one).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Talk about welcome to the morgue. House eerily silent – I’ll say – just me and the cat (it’s starting to get to me already). All we’re short of is a sign nailed to the front gate, THIS PROPERTY IS CONDEMMED.

  Mind you, it’s been one of those days. The Mondeo I’m meaning. Talk about jinxed. She’s started over-heating again, (that’s on top of my squeak.) I’ve been phoning Fox’s Garage, trying to contact Fat Frank – no joy I’m afraid, all I get is his stupid brother Lolly, telling me he’s out. Liar I thought. ‘I could fry an egg on the bonnet’ I told him. He laughed, then hung up the phone.

  Something else to worry about.

  Then, on top of everything else, I haven’t heard from Cyn & Co either (it’s almost a whole week!), I’m at my wits end almost. Mind you, we know who to blame. Cynthia would never even have dreamt of such a bold venture at one time. Lord knows she isn’t the first foolish housewife and mother of two growing children to have her head turned by lurid promises of life in the fast lane, enticed by exotic travel – a phoney Disneyland, a hedonistic world, of palm-fringed white sandy beaches, lying in the sun all day.

  How can I compete with that?

  Whereas I, I am but a run of the mill, nose to the grindstone, simple but honest, ordinary workaday fellow who collects gas coupons – a librarian says no more.

  Meantime I’ve just dashed off a quick diggy poem – about you know who:

  Oh, don’t she look fine, dressed-up to the nines,

  Really sexy in all that black leather.

  So many guys flocking, her knees will be knocking

  Makes a change them being together. (tee-hee).

  Letters (one only): Oh hurrah (more bad news) yet another poem returned, ‘Sludge, Shell and Shrapnel!’ part of my First World War trilogy, disappointing to say the least. That’ll be that Percy Cuff, their new Blighty sub-editor. Too much ‘blood and guts’ according to him. WHAT ELSE DOES HE EXPECT. Mind you, he’s a right boring prick if you ask me, he came to give us a talk onetime – he’d lost me after the first five minutes.

  Meantime I’ve been reviewing the food situation (it’s even worse than I thought) the fridge is almost bare to the bones – all she’s left me to live on is a yellow lettuce and two v.soft tomatoes. What am I a fucking rabbit? Typical I thought

  Frankly, I’d feel ashamed to be burgled.

  Brian’s looking rather worried too you can tell – not that he’s got anything to worry about. I’ve just discovered, about, three tons of tinned Whiskers out in the garage. That’s enough to keep him going for about five years at least to my reckoning. All I’m surviving on is pure adrenalin and handfuls of Disprins.

  This is what she’s like – what about me?

  ***

  10:05pm. NEWS FLASH! It said on the news there’s a big hurricane, it’s heading straight for Florida. OMY GOD. They could be anywhere for all I know cast adrift in the middle of the Atlantic, bobbing about, blowing whistles – hanging on to the life-raft for dear life. Let’s face it, if God had intended us to fly he’d’ve given us wings and a pointed head. I feel so helpless, I’m at my wits end!

  Reminders everywhere I look – I’m a nervous wreck. Jamie’s left me a note on his bedroom door, reminding me to record Simpsons on TV, Lucy also, only hers is a bit more involved giving me detailed instructions all about taking good care of her pet rabbit, Ben.

  Finally, this from Cynthia stuck on the notice-board in the kitchen. ‘THINGS THAT GET ON MY NERVES’ (my replies are on the right).

  CYNTHIA COLIN

  1 Your stupid poetry for one. 1. Poetry is my only salvation that’s why.

  2. You – always banging on about Avril. 2. Who can blame me.

  3. Cocking your feet watching TV. 3. I certainly DO NOT.

  4. Babying Lucy – it’s yuccy. 4. Had you no childhood?

  5. Your mother, only worse. 5. No comment (see above).

  6. Whistling, washing your stupid car. 6. Too bad, sorry you caught me happy.

  7. Saying ‘Yum, yum’ at the table. 7. Since when did you cook anything?

  COLIN CYNTHIA

  1. Why don’t you like poetry? 1. Why? Because it’s v.boring, like you.

  2. Your weirdo so-called friends. 2. How would you know, you have no friends.

  3. I REFUTE EVERYTHING. 3. PRECISELY (you’re never wrong that’s why).

  ***

  Saturday 15th August. William Congreve 1670-1726.

  And though the present I regret,

  I’m grateful for the past.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-nil).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). STILL NO NEWS! – My hopes are just about dashed. I’ve had my head jammed next to the radio at work all day (it’s looking pretty bad.) Hurricane Hugger-mugger it’s battering the whole Florida coast. Headlined in every newspaper. ‘FLORIDA HUGGER-MUGGER NIGHTMARE!’ ‘150 M.P.H. WINDS ARE MERCILESS’ ‘HAVOC EVERYWHERE-30.000 BRITS FLEE TERROR!’ it says. ‘Mercy pleas, night vigils!’ it says. Alas, it’s getting worse by the hour!

  Somehow I can’t take it all in – it’s too awful to think about. They’re blasting-out bulletins on the hour (‘20 ft waves, trees up-rooted like matchsticks – scores injured’) Even now people are praying by candle-light – throwing themselves onto the mercy of complete strangers – bottled water at premium rates (premium rates! It says). Oh, the villains – BASTARDS.

  Why us? Why Florida? We’re simple folk, east coast, raincoats and wellies, buckets and spades and burgers. Scarborough – we’re winkle people, what’s wrong with good old Cayton Bay I cry?

  Horrible, horrible. Oh Cynthia. My love, my love … why did you leave me all alone? Oh, that we might’ve parted on sweeter terms … Friends at least, rather than profanity, e.g. yelling ‘FUCK YOU TOO.’

  Oh God – my poor children too, my kith and kin, gone, lost forever – Jamie, my first born, my know-all, sulky son – my buddy (I’m deluged with incriminations). All those unclimbed trees, fishing-trips we never did … football games. I’ve just had a sudden thought. I’ve never taken him, not even to one lousy rotten game, not ever – not even in his whole short life! Little Lucy too, my light, my pearl, my little princess … It’s too much to bear. All my nearest and dearest, scattered like chaff before the cruel elements of nature at its devilish worst. Even ditzy Avril, her too, basically I really liked her – well, okay, some maybe.

  Harken, will this house never again ring out with children’s merry laughter I wonder? Lonely I stride the cold empty rooms, riddled with guilt, reminders everywhere I look. I’m mocked by every shelf, wall-stickers, goofy-slippers – toys leap out at me, dolls with staring eyes. Even the cat arched his back when I came galloping down the stairs. He knows! He knows!

  As a last resort I’ve even tried contacting the British Embassy in London. They’re inundated, I’m hardly surprised – they put me on hold, listening to Handel’s Chorus. Finally I hung up – still, it was worth a try I suppose.

  Please God (if there be a God that is). GIVE ME A SIGN O LORD.

  ***

  Monday 17th August. John Bunyan 1622-1688.

  He that is down need fear no fall.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-one).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). THEY’RE ALIVE! Hallelujah, praise the good Lord – finally my prayers are answered. Good news at last – hurrah, hurrah I cry. Postcard from Cyn & Co (even so it’s a lifeline), that’s all that matters. Wonderful – picture of flying dolphins on the front.

  Everything hunky-dory, kids also, weather fine. HOT SUN (very, you’d hate it!) Expect us when you see us. DON’T FORGET TO FEED BRIAN.

  At lunchtime it was such a nice day we went out onto the roof. Thelma’s birthday it turns out (she’s thirty-nine – I had wondered). She’d gone to the trouble of baking a special cake, also a bottle of wine. So that made it a double celebration. ‘They’re staying on a bit
longer’ I said. ‘It’s to make up for Hurricane Hugger-mugger I expect.’ We clinked glasses.

  We both ended up rather jolly. She showed me one of her own poems. There’s a first I thought, it’s something she wrote when she was younger. Mind you, you have to smile – like most people. Somehow or other they will always insist on explaining it all first (all of the signs of an amateur I’m afraid). It’s all about this guy who lived on the same street, (he’s a bit of a character by all accounts), he collects odd bits of string.

  She walked away to look out at the view while I read it:

  STRINGER METCALF

  There’s something great with string and band,

  Specially long bits without knots in –

  I’ve got red and green and white and blue

  And even some with spots in.

  From first daylight I’m on the rounds,

  I’m working like a donkey.

  Back in my yard, so loaded up

  My barra wheels are wonky.

  Sometimes I’ll knot it all one length,

  It stretches down the pavement.

  Then, like as not they’ll stamp one end,

  Which calls for great amusement.

  They call me names down our street end

  Calling names, they’re in their element.

  ‘Gormless Stringer – still skiving string!?

  They split their sides with merriment.

  So mind your own you mardy lot,

  What harm am I to bring?

  You’ve mindless wars and atom bombs,

  I’m happy with my string.

  In point of fact I was pleasantly surprised. I handed it back ‘Well done Thelma – wryly amusing I’m sure’ I told her. I quite liked it. She seemed rather pleased I’d taken such an interest I think. As I tried to explain, even I myself, it’s been quite a hard struggle at times – years in fact, it takes a lot of hard work and determination. This is what I said, ‘Don’t you worry I’ve had my fair share of disappointments. That’s until Torchlight Publications just happened to take an interest in me’ (one doesn’t like to blow one’s own trumpet too loudly). ‘It won’t come overnight’ I said. (Not before time either if you ask me.) ‘Hopefully from now on that’s all in the past’ I added.