It Always Rains on Sundays

by It Always Rains on Sundays (epub)

  No wonder I’ve got a stiff neck.

  2:30am. (CONSERVATORY). BIG STORMS (I haven’t been to sleep yet) lightening, followed by mighty claps of thunder, it’s really scary. What’s made it worse is the roofs started leaking. That’s all I need – I’ve got buckets all over the place. Then you’re waiting for it … drip, drip … drip, drip. You can tell how bad it is I’ve had to move the bed twice. Only, now I’m worried about insurance. Are we covered for acts of God?

  ***

  Tuesday 25th August.

  Stevie Smith 1902-1971.

  I was too far out all my life.

  And not waving but drowning.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-one).

  8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). Letters (postcard only) from Cynthia & Co with leaping dolphins on the front (again!) ‘Having a nice time’ etc etc. They’re staying on until Friday week. That’s another two whole weeks!

  Meantime I’ve been trying to get hold of old Herbie Tribe my poetry tutor, about my good news. No joy I’m afraid, according to Winnifred he’s ensconced in his attic with the door bolted (nine days?) He’s as mad as a hat, he’s working on a rhyming historical novel, loosely based on the life of Geoffrey Chaucer.

  Yuck – how boring is that?

  One good thing at least, I’ve managed to track down Everlasting Glass – about my leaky roof I’m meaning. Thelma kept a lookout – I’ve spent most of the afternoon on the phone with my head under the counter (three name changes) it’s like trying to trace your family tree. I’ve left a message on the answerphone, telling them it’s v.urgent. ‘Puddle getting bigger!’ kind’ve.

  It’s really worrying. ‘I’ll be sleeping in the inflatable paddling-pool at this rate’ I said. Thelma’s as bad. All she can say is ‘What’s wrong with sleeping in a proper bed like normal people?’

  Nobody understands.

  Well, tomorrows the big day. London I’m meaning – either way we’ll soon know. Keeping myself busy, that’s the main thing. First thing, I was over in the park looking for my other shoe. Surprisingly enough I found it (or what’s left of it more like) a scruffy Alsatian had it between its two massive paws, ripping it apart (no collar). No joy I’m afraid, I tried coaxing it with a polo-mint. Finally, I’d no option but to go into town to buy myself a new pair. Two birds kind’ve, then I called in at the Dry-cleaners to pick up my clean shirts. Let’s face it you can hardly turn up at your prospective publishers London office wearing a T-shirt with ORLANDO IS COOL on the front.

  You’d’ve thought things could only get better, right.

  Wrong, then they’re telling me they’ve lost my ticket – everything. My stuff could be anywhere. Later they called me up at work. This was a different girl. They’d gone to the wrong shop – some kind of mix-up.

  Okay, then later when I’m getting ready for my trip this note dropped out:

  ‘Nico – sorry. I can’t find this guy’s ticket. When he comes in he’s an oldish bloke, going bald – bit of a beer-gut, flirty-type – looks a bit of a perv if you ask me. Ta kido – I owe you one. YOU’RE A STAR!’

  Such a glorious evening I drove home over the tops to Heartshead Moor to look at the view. Cynthia used to love going up there at one time. This end of town you can see everything, a wide panorama of moorland hills as far as the eye can see, the ribbon of busy motorway, buzzing away in the valley bottom, fingers of purpling heather touching every horizon. Haworth village far across the valley (onetime home to the famous Bronte sisters) terraced stone houses, with stone-slated roofs, straggling up the steep incline. Last of the tour buses, windscreen reflecting redly in the last rays of the sun, winding slowly down the narrow lanes.

  It’s always a good place to think.

  Right at the minute my heads all over the place. Maybe it’s me – (I’m starting to have second thoughts already). What started it off Gabriel B.T. he happened to come into the Library earlier on just before we closed up – trust him to pole in at that time. Anybody with even half an eye, you could see I was waiting to shut up shop. This is what he’s like, then expecting to go before his turn – no patience whatsoever (old Mrs. Kitson as it happened). It’s not her fault she’s a bit deaf – he might be old himself one day.

  I turned ‘Yes?’ I said finally, one eye on the clock.

  Then, if he isn’t wanting something urgently from the sodding reference library – at this time. He’d no-chance. ‘Too late squire’ I said. Tough I thought. I shook my head. ‘That department shuts at five o’clock sharp.’ Thelma has the only key (I’d told her to get herself off home early for once). It’s alright for him, some of us have to work for a living. She has two buses to catch, not that this hoity-toity fellow is au fait with the capricious inner-workings of local bus time-tables I expect.

  Then he’s making-out, his main reason for ‘popping in’ is to borrow a book on mediaeval French verbs. Lying toad (well that’s a whopper for a start). Liars need good memories, I’d already given him a big fat book on French verbs only last Christmas. Anyway, so then he says, ‘Well, actually Colin I just thought I’d call in to wish you all the best for tomorrow’ says he. Hah, the old nitty-gritty I thought to myself.

  ‘To-morrow?’ I said, stretching the word (I paused). ‘Oh, you mean my publishers in London?’ Don’t you worry I can be as vague as the next person.

  His face went serious ‘Least I could do – fingers crossed eh. Look old chap, just take care if I was you – awfully cute some of these big-city wallahs.’ I stared (my stamper stayed in mid-air). ‘I’m not with you’ I said. He came in closer, his voice dropped ‘Vanity publishing, all that kind of nonsense.’ He saw me look ‘Oh, it does happen occasionally. Some of the stories I’ve heard, people being fleeced – believe me.’

  So, then I just kind’ve looked at him. Frankly, no I don’t I hope my face said. What it is basically, he’s just plain jealous, it stands out a mile. This is the trouble with some people, they can’t stand it if they think somebody else might get published. ‘Well, thanks for the advice’ I lied.

  ‘Don’t even mention it – after all that’s what friends are for.’

  We exchanged looks (he was starting to get on my nerves). Time I was off, I picked up my briefcase. I showed him my car-keys, then flicked off a couple of lights, hoping he’d take the hint.

  He stared – it’s the only way with some people. No wonder I’m huffy – my first big break.

  Finally I said ‘I’ve switched on the alarm – we’ve got ninety seconds to vacate the building, better look snappy or else. We don’t want the old rozzers round do we squire?’

  We walked round to the car-park, making small talk about the weather. That’s something else too, him, parking his flashy new Jag right in front of the emergency fire-door I’m meaning. Cheeky sod. This is his final warning, next time he’s in dead trouble. Even old Docket doesn’t do that trick, and he’s got a plastic hip.

  ***

  2:30am. Can’t sleep, high winds tearing at the roof, driving rain (that’s what woke me.) I keep having bad dreams, Omens galore. At one stage I had the whole cast of Wuthering heights, dancing and cavorting around my bed. Cathy, she’s right above my bed, plain as plain, staring eyes, wet black hair, streaked across her tear-stained face, it’s pretty scary I’ll tell you. Fingers scrabbling at the glass, pleading – she’s begging me to let her in ‘Don’t go, don’t leave the moors Colin, I beg you’ she implores me (all the time she’s using this strange faraway voice). ‘DO-NOT-GO-TO-LONDON. Don’t go, they’ll only laugh at you.’

  Finally everything goes quiet, then, just when I’m about ready to drift off, it all starts up again – all these white faces coming out of the shadows. Old Joseph, he’s there too, ‘Lord, lord’ he cries ‘Maister, maister, look at wata, it’s agate coming threw’t roof serra. Oh Lord, what’s to do – look see, cop it int buckit sharpish, afore we all dran in our beds.’ All of a sudden it’s Heathcliff, he’s glowering at me. So, then he chimes in too, ‘Hold yer din sir’ he shouts ‘dusta wont a fist a
crosst gob, or what?’

  This is when I must’ve finally dropped off to sleep.

  However, not long after there’s this big clap of thunder, shaking the whole house, followed by bright lightening. Next thing I see is Dick Whittington (him and his stupid cat) he’s turned up too, strangely enough he’s using Gabriel B.T.s voice, ‘Return ye to London Colin Quirke – ALL WILL BE WELL’ he bellowed in this big boomy voice, striking the floor with his staff.

  Next thing I hear, I’m hearing bells (Bowbells?) My alarms going off. Then when I look Brian’s stomping all over my damned head, telling me it’s time to get up.

  ***

  Wednesday 26th August.

  William Shakespeare 1554-1616

  There is a tide in the affairs of men,

  which taken at the flood leads to fortune.

  Julius Caesar.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-nil).

  6:15am. (CONSERVATORY). Well, here goes – the great metropolis awaits. WILL REPORT BACK LATER.

  11:00pm. (CONSERVATORY).

  Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936.

  If you can meet Triumph and Disaster and treat these two imposters just the same. (What total crap).

  What a day. Oh, isn’t life a veritable pot of piss at times. I wouldn’t’ve wished it on anybody, not even my worst enemy. Thelma’s just been on the phone. She’s really excited, wanting to know how I’ve gone on kind’ve thing. I kept it brief ‘Look, I’ll catch you later, okay’ I said. I hung up.

  I called her back later. ‘Oh, Colin, I expect you’re full of it’ she trilled (she was dying to know everything). Hard to know where to start – even going down to London on the train. Nobody wanted to talk to me you could tell.

  What’s wrong with people? Instead, they’re all minding their own business, engrossed behind newspapers, whereas I’m full of it – it’s a special day for me after all. Nothing turned out as I’d imagined. Lost in my own thoughts, instead I stared out at the dreary landscape at the awakening day (I must’ve dozed off) … distantly I could hear voices …

  ‘Morning, nice day?’

  ‘Um, yes I suppose it is.’

  ‘London – all the way is it?’

  ‘Mm, up to town, yes.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘Hah – a writer eh?’

  ‘Oh nice.’

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘Well yes, I write poetry.’

  ‘Really, a poet eh. My Auntie writes poetry.’

  ‘About to be published you say. That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Well yes. At least I’m hoping so.’

  ‘Is there a market for poetry nowadays?’

  ‘It’s very popular in Russia I understand.’

  ‘Most of its boring if you ask me. Oh sorry.’

  ‘I haven’t read poetry, not since I was at school.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘ “The magpie sat in the Bishop’s chair.”’

  ‘ ‘Cardinal’s chair I think Charlie – yes, I’m positive.’

  ‘My Auntie writes poetry, well in a way.’

  ‘It’s a talent is poetry – proper poetry of course.’

  ‘I’ve wrote the odd poem myself.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Good for you Charlie.’

  ‘She writes poems all about her cat – she pays to have them published.’

  ‘London, next stop. She’s bang on time for once.’

  ‘She’s spent a small fortune. Well, it’s her money I suppose.’

  ‘She’s bang on time for once, well give or take.’

  ‘Silly old goose, pathetic if you ask me. There’s one born every minute.’

  ***

  London. King’s Cross 10:25am. Too early by a mile. Trust it to be raining. Two hours to kill (my appointment wasn’t until 1:00pm). That settled it, looks as if my mother was right (I should’ve caught a later train). I kind’ve half promised I’d look up an old family acquaintance – my Aunt Freda Lumb (my mother had sent her a home-made Dundee cake).

  My (so-called) Aunt Freda Lumb I later discovered lived somewhere in the hinterland behind St Pancreas, in an old rundown tenement building. Living all alone in a small two roomed apartment, squashed under the roof, five flights of stairs (no lift) – the last two uncarpeted. Pay-phone in the hallway, and a nosey Asian landlord with red-veined black eyes, wearing pink Jesus sandals.

  She was different from how I’d imagined her, older somehow, with thick straggly, greying hair, pushed back off her podgy pale face with a red Alice-band. She gave me a big hug. She’d’ve know me anywhere she kept saying (‘Ada’s lad’). Not that I remembered her in the slightest. She’s not what you’d call a proper Auntie, however I’m assured by my mother that she had been ‘very good’ to us at onetime when we were kids. Another old woman I couldn’t help thinking, part of the flotsam of life who just drift around, stay awhile, then move on someplace else. Yet another of those migratory, once upon a time old neighbours of ours, caught up in my mother’s large circle of charity acquaintances I suppose.

  We sat opposite in sagging armchairs saying very little. She rejoiced in having a bit of company I expect, staring at each other in silence in front of a blinking Tele, still droning on in the background, watching me carefully with her wet bovine eyes, smoothing her creased black dress, picking off cat hairs. Like most old people that lived alone she always talked about the past, eyes twinkling, enlarging on the ‘Wonderful, wonderful’ times she’d once had.

  She shook her head ‘Happy days eh’ she reflected wistfully.

  I nodded. Though, what was rather interesting, she remembered my father too. Her eyes fairly sparkled, thinking of the past ‘Oh, certainly – very well’ she assured me, smiling to herself. If I’m truthful I wouldn’t’ve minded knowing a bit more. If there was anything she was keeping to herself. My mind went back, shadowy remembering’s… What happened is my father (late) ‘ran off’ with another woman, leaving my mother struggling to bring up two growing lads on her own (always a taboo subject in our household). Never to be mentioned, nor discussed – not ever. It turns out my father was what they used to call ‘a bit of a ladies man.’ Mother blamed the regular Saturday night dances at the Townhall, that and Satan of course. More often than not usually ending up causing big arguments.

  ‘Oh, he was quite a lad when he was younger’ she said, head shaking reflectively.

  I nodded. Slowly it dawned on me where I’d seen her before, to when I was younger. At a family funeral, back then she was much smarter of course, she wore a black hat with a large brim that had a veil (datey even then), I recalled her strong flowery perfume. She wore her hair in a fashionable bee-hive, lots of make-up, steep pencilled eyebrows and bright red lipstick – maybe a beauty-spot that moved about somewhat.

  Already we’d run out of things to talk about, (I looked at my watch for the second time). Mind you, if I’m truthful conversation had been a bit strained right from the start. (‘You manage without a lift then?) I found myself asking more to fill the gap. (‘Oh poetry, that’s nice. I’ve always loved poetry right from being a little girl’).

  We’d hit a lull – time to go I thought. ‘Have you eaten?’ she said suddenly.

  Too late, already she was in the laboured process of levering herself out of her armchair to put on the kettle. ‘No, look I’m fine’ I told her a bit too quickly (it couldn’t’ve been further from my mind). ‘Tea would be great, thanks’ I said.

  Though in all fairness the place wasn’t what you’d call dirty (a bit smelly maybe) – lived in we called it up north. Mind you, it doesn’t take much to put me off, earlier on I’d spotted an open tub of butter, out on the top, next to it a jar of red jam with a jammy-knife balanced across the top. However, what killed any appetite I might’ve had stone dead is the ginger cat stretched out on the table next to it, eyes alert, following the flight of a mega-sized blue-bottle, buzzing around the speckled light-bulb under the sky-light.

  I sipped at my tea listening to the clock. Finally I
said ‘Time I was making tracks.’ I stood up making ready to leave. Her eyes hung on mother’s gift. She opened it up with childlike glee, smelling at it closely. She nodded her approval. ‘Um. Wonderful – she’s a born angel tell her that mother of yours in no mistake’ she enthused. We both nodded, she stopped me over by the door. She’d lost our address. She copied it down laboriously on an empty cornflake-box, promising she’d keep in touch.

  She watched me all the way down.

  Her head peered over the bannister rail, ‘Bye Alan’ she yelled (mixed-up Alan’s my elder brother). I waved. ‘There’s a good chance I might be moving on – I miss the open country. I’ve never really settled somehow or other. If I do I’ll leave my forward address with my landlord Mr. Khan, okay?’

  I gave her a final wave.

  ***

  ‘Merridian Mansions’ I told the taxi-driver with alacrity, ducking out of the London drizzle (and why not a taxi I told myself?) This was a big day for me after all. Who knows this might be the turning-point that could change my whole life.

  One thing for sure I’d no intentions of hopping on a red double-decker bus. That said, I was soon disillusioned, only to discover that there are a great many, so-called ‘Mansions’ in that part of London. Even more so to be dropped off in some noisy nondescript street in front of a stucco and red-brick, very ordinary 1930 apartment block. Then it turns out that Torchlight Publications (London) is in fact on the third floor, it’s entrance sandwiched in between an Indian-takeaway and a novelty party-shop that also does massage-services on the side.

  B, dong – warning bells, they were tuning-up already.