It Always Rains on Sundays Read online

  She flashed me a cold look ‘What’s it to you – who are you, the taxman?’ She turned, over by the door ‘Her life, okay,’ she warned me darkly.

  I stared.

  Maybe she’s right – I can’t help it (believe me, I’m trying to like her). There’s this picture that stays in my mind. Sunday morning everything’s peaceful. Avril’s young husband Eddie, high-up in his micro-light plane in an empty blue, cloudless sky. Everything happened so fast (the whole streets out) one minute he’s up there, graceful as an eagle, circling the church steeple. Next thing you see he’s falling – he dropped like a lead brick, killed outright. This is all when it gets a bit bizarre all these hectares of empty space, he landed in the middle of the local cemetery. Finally, he was laid to rest less than twenty-feet from the exact spot from where he landed.

  Somebody said he ran out of gas – it happens, it’s a complete mystery. Then, a man on higher ground, he said he hadn’t enough height – he thought he’d clipped the church spire. Maybe we’ll never know. Misadventure they said at the inquest, it was a pure accident. No surprises there of course. It was a real tragedy. Eddie and Avril, newly-weds almost, they made a fine couple, everybody said that. The funeral was the biggest thing ever, the whole town turned out, the streets were lined all along the route, folks wanting to pay their last respects. Not surprisingly Avril’s grief was really enormous – she was inconsolable in fact.

  Like most people I felt really sorry for her – right at first that is.

  Question: Tell me I’m wrong, how many young widows do you see openly flirting with some guy she’s only just met up with at the funeral of their just buried husband, right – me too. Not too many, right.

  This is a true story. Cyn and Avril, (this is the week after the funeral), they were gossiping over coffee – inadvertently, I just happened to over-hear them through the serving-hatch.

  Poem: – this is the day of the funeral… a cold winters day, grey overcast sky, drizzling rain (what’s a funeral if it doesn’t rain?). Middle distance, the cortege, a long line of slow moving limos. Cut to C/U (close-up) on a small group of sombre-clad mourners – much weeping and wringing of hands. Cut to: twiggy black branches of the wintry trees, trembling in the wind, pointing down, like accusing fingers on a certain man who shall remain nameless – enough to know he turns out to be a bit of a heel. Finally. C/U on Avril, all dressed in black, her face covered by a veil. They all file into the room where they’re holding the wake …

  Funeral Games

  We we’re on our way back.

  He said: ‘You should always wear black’ –

  What a thing to say at a wake.

  At the funeral tea he sat next to me,

  Just sat there munching his cake.

  Well, did I lie? This is Avril (this is on the day of her husband’s funeral don’t forget). This guy’s a complete stranger – one cold look he’d’ve been destroyed totally. Not this baby, no-way – she can’t help herself. Instead, there she is, she’s giving him the glad-eye:

  On the Monday he rang, he said he had this great plan,

  A meal perhaps, theatre he thought?

  She said, it wasn’t the time, she had to decline.

  Then he mentioned the tickets he’d bought.

  Oh sure, I’ll bet (imagine, cheapening herself like that) TROLLOP. No wonder Cyn’s influenced. Next to her my wife’s an innocent – leastways, she used to be before that brazen hussy came onto the scene.

  Anybody else they’d’ve left him munching his stupid cake I’ll bet.

  Theatre we adored, though we’d seen it before.

  Then on to a club for a drink.

  We walked by the river, he noticed my shiver.

  Then back to his place for coffee did I think?

  Coffee hardly but tasted. He said ‘Young widows are wasted’

  And could he be more than a friend? I said

  ‘Well, thanks for the drink – a taxi I think.

  It’s high time that I was in bed.’

  He said ‘You can sleep here, you’ve nothing to fear –’

  So I picked up my coat and I fled.’

  Course you did Avril – if you say so. Take my word, the woman’s a slapper.

  ***

  Monday 3rd August. Better to stay up all night

  Than go to bed with a dragon.

  Jeremy Taylor.

  DeLacey Street. (Post-two).

  7:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). What a bitch – I’ve just found my mail under the doormat (that’s again – one had a perfect imprint of Cynthia’s trainer!) Oh, isn’t it a hollow marriage when there’s no trust between us. I wouldn’t mind, one letter especially, from Gabriel Biggar-Titte. He’s postponing tonight’s Poetry Society meeting, yet again. Pompous oaf, why he can’t simply pick up a bloody phone like us lesser mortals I don’t know. Typical, that’s just so he can use his personal monogrammed-headed note-paper I expect – I wouldn’t mind I’d come home especially early. God, he does pamper himself, only now he’s saying he’s got a heavy cold – hangover more like. Chairman indeed, it’s high-time he was brought down a peg or two – him and his stupid hyphenated names. Where he gets all his airs from I don’t know. Even my own mother, she remembers his old grand-dad, ragtatting round the local streets with a piebald pony and cart, yelling out ‘Any old rags and bones!’

  You can still see the sign painted on the big mill chimney ‘BIGGAR & TITTE & CO LTD!’ (‘MUNGO AND SHODDY MERCHANTS’ it says). Albert Biggar, him and his brother in-law, old Teddy Titte. They were rag-tatters for three generations – the whole family in fact. They were a right pair of old twisters by all accounts.

  Don’t you worry, there’s more than me not too happy about it. Mind you, come to that there’s no earthly reason why we can’t hold our monthly meetings right here at DeLacey Street – where’s the problem? Indeed – food for thought at least. Why should we all be beholden to that superannuated, stuck-up twerp, (just because he happens to live in a big house with a cattle-grid). So, okay, a few odd adjustments maybe – stacker-chairs cost little (after all the acoustics in the conservatory are second to none) – I’ll vouch for that. Fair enough, that Put-u-up bed would have to go for a start (temporary or not). What purpose telling the whole world about our sleeping arrangements. No doubt Cynthia could easily handle the refreshment side of things I’m sure. There again, thinking about it maybe not (sleeping dogs and all that) a bit unwise at this particular moment in time perhaps.

  ***

  Looking on the bright side however. I can report that this new assistant of mine, Thelma Clegg is pretty top-notch. She’s proving to be a bit of a godsend in fact – I’m hoping she’ll stay. Just by chance, I happened to come across her personal file up in Docket’s office (not that I’m one to pry of course) – call it curiosity. Hopefully I’ve better things to do with my time. Anyway, for what it’s worth, she is in fact still married apparently, but are now unfortunately living apart.

  Eric, say no more eh, he works on the railway in the capacity of a track-inspector by all accounts (a bit grandiose that I thought), in my day they always called it a wheel-tapper, but there you go.

  Maybe it’s me, somehow or other I got the distinct impression there’s little to salvage. These things happen I’m afraid, it’s very prevalent these days unfortunately. However, no children from that union were mentioned, that’s a blessing at least. It’s the age were living in, it’s just something you have to accept I suppose. It also mentions he’s a keen gardener – well, more than that he’s won a load of cups and what have you. Now I think, I recall Thelma mentioning it – it appears he’s one of these idiots who’s whole life seems to revolve around the cultivation of giant-sized cabbages and so-forth. Frankly I don’t blame her, the point’s lost on me also – people’s mouths are only so big after all.

  This is the trouble, hobbies are one thing – if you’re not careful it can soon become an obsession, before you know it, it can take over your whole life.

  Poetry�
�s different, it’s a gift to the whole nation is poetry.

  One good thing at least, it’s given me more time to work on my new poem I was planning on using for tonight’s Poetry Society meeting, e.g.:

  The man with the limp

  All heard his approach the man with one peg,

  Three flights of cold stone he dragged his bad leg.

  Enigmatic title that I thought, nice couplet too – it gets you curious rightaway. Mind you if I’m truthful I think I might’ve painted myself into a bit of a corner somewhat (I’m glad now I’ve looked), crux of the matter being, finding something that sits more comfortably with the word mist – only you’d’ve thought there’s got to be a better word than ‘pissed.’ There again, on reflection, it might well prosper by omitting stanza eleven too – on second thoughts there’s no point making him into a drunken sot to boot (not on top of everything else). Let’s face it the poor sods more than enough on his plate already, dragging his club-foot around the place if you ask me.

  Meantime I’ve been phoning-up Councillor Kyte again about our missing wheelie-bin. That’s gone walkies yet again – is nothing sacrosanct? His wife slammed down the phone (‘Ees avin is dinner – he’ll call you back’). Liar – it won’t be that next time he’s stood out on the front steps begging me to vote for him will it.

  ***

  11:00pm. What next I cry – they’ve only rechristened the pub that’s all. Instead, now they’re calling it Tony’s Tavern, that’s going to take a bit of getting used to I thought. Especially all this time calling it Richard the Lionheart (or, Big Dick’s as most of the locals call it.)

  Though to be fair our new hosts seem friendly enough. ‘Welcome to Tony’s Tavern!’ (two guys – hm?) ‘Hi, I’m Tone and he’s Leslie,’ colourful to say the least. ‘Call him Les. You watch he’ll have you in stitches, he’s a real scream I’ll tell you.’ Leslie giggled, then winked, ‘You’re in for a good time I’ll promise you that.’

  So, we’ll see, it’s early days as yet I suppose.

  Foods not too bad either – a big improvement on Selwyn’s so-called cottage pie. (‘Watch out for the thatch’ heh heh) – at least the gravy moves about. Mind you, microwaves can be a real killer sometimes – (I finished off with treacle-tart). I burnt my tongue on the bastard.

  Let’s face it I hadn’t planned my whole night staring at custard.

  ‘What’s the temperature after boiling?’ I complained to the glum fat girl who was serving. (They always have an answer.) ‘If you want me to blow it for you, that’s extra’ she retorted sarkily, turning away to the next table.

  Then, just when I’m leaving I bumped into Avril from next door (heard her more like). She was sitting three booths away – I’d know that stupid giggle of hers a mile off. She waved me over, she insisted I have a drink. She was with the same hungry looking gypsy-guy I’d seen before (then they say nothing lasts). She insisted I have a drink. His size was deceiving, he’d a handshake like an orang utan. He grinned, displaying two colours of fierce looking teeth.

  Somehow I knew it would never be a lasting friendship.

  ‘Good evening, I’m pleased to meet you,’ I lied.

  They were well into their second bottle of wine, and it showed. Avril giggled ‘He won’t understand you, he’s from Russia’ she yelped. He grinned, then pointed to his guitar-case, then nodded. So, one in the eye for me. They both laughed.

  He was a Russian folk-singer after all.

  Time to make a move. Avril tried re-filling my glass, (luckily she missed) both my hands went up. I squeezed out of the booth. (‘Yes, absolutely – sure, some other time. Loved to – I’ll look forward to it, you bet!’) ‘Hey, love your new car, she’s a belter’ I lied finally.

  I said I was meeting somebody in the other bar.

  ***

  And no lie whatsoever as things turned out. I’m just on my way out through the other bar (surprise-surprise) – who do I see? Only Gabriel Biggar-Titte, that’s who? There he is, perched on his usual high-stool on the corner of the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by all his usual sycophant cronies. No wonder I looked, for somebody who’s supposed to be laid-up in bed with a heavy cold, this guy looked positively glowing I’d say. His big boomy voice arose above all others.

  ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw,’ they all went.

  Some I knew only by sight. Adrian Topham for one, Gabriel’s neighbour who lived up at the Old Manor House (he owns the local dye-works). Also one or two of Gabriel B.Ts business associates. Though, mostly they were horsey people. Everyone talking over-loudly in high excitable voices, with names such as Raeful and Jazz, rich folks that lived south of the river away from the town, with posh accents, part of the braying, ‘larf’ and ‘barth’ fraternity, (who say ‘orphan’ when they mean ‘often).’ Through the hub-bub you hear bits, such as, ‘Well, jest lack et old Bowis, ended ep wight on his bleddy arse in the fecking ditch!’ They really get right up my nose.

  Luckily he didn’t see me.

  All of a sudden, next thing they all started trooping off upstairs. (Round Table night I’d forgot). Pretty soon the whole bar is just about empty. Looks as if I’d spoken too soon. Gabriel stared, he waved me over. ‘WELL HELLO PILGRIM’ he bellowed.

  He says that to everybody.

  ‘So, what’s new with you pilgrim?’ says he in a loud voice.

  I shrugged. He drained off his glass in one gulp, then said ‘cheers.’ God, he’s even drunker than I thought – he pointed at me then ordered another rightaway. His arm settled over my shoulder (that’s another thing I hate).

  I kind’ve shook it off without him noticing.

  Anybody would think we were really big friends. Mind you if I’m truthful most of his attention stayed on the new barmaid, not that I blame him she was quite a looker. ‘Make that doubles my dear’ says he. He gave me a broad wink. She returned his smile with interest – curiously enough the ladies loved him to bits. Let’s face it this guy is no spring chicken (fifty, that’s at least). That said, you can’t fault him on the way he turns himself out. Okay, maybe a bit dandified for my taste, (e.g.) tonight’s ensemble being a chocolate box-pleated jacket and lemony coloured trousers, and yellowy slip-on shoes, finished off with a matching silk cravat and hanky spilling from his breast pocket. However, from then on it kind’ve nosedives – guys with silvery grey hair in a pony-tail, tied with a bow, bit iffy, right.

  Even Cynthia, that one time I got her to go to the Poetry Society annual dinner – she described him as being ‘rather dishy’ (whatever that means). Never again she said, ‘poetry-nuts’ she called us. So, now I don’t even bother asking.

  He lifted his glass, we clinked glasses. ‘Cheers!’ he yelled.

  Meantime his eyes stayed greedily on the young barmaid. She flashed him a smile – I thought he already knew her (her names Karol with a kicking K). Finally he turned, ‘So, what kind of writing are you up to these days?’ (I was sorely tempted to say joined-up). Instead I just said ‘Oh, this and that, nothing really special, y’know.’

  He threw back his head, then laughed, ‘Cagey sod.’

  That’s another thing too, same with poetry – we’ve little in common, him being a hard and fast blank verse merchant – that alone is more than enough to divide us into two different camps. Everything else is classed as doggerel-rubbish as far as Gabriel’s concerned.

  That’s all he ever talks about, either that or getting published.

  What made it worse, about a year ago him winning this really tiny, infinitesimal poetry-prize. Some obscure Poetry Festival someplace, over in Ireland – mind you we all know the Irish, they’d make a sonnet out of a sodding gas bill. After that there’s no holding him, talk about letting it go to his head – I’ll say. You’d’ve thought they’d made him Poet Laureate. All that fuss and palaver, over what exactly, a tiny cup – you’d lose it in your top pocket, it’s no bigger than a leprechauns piss-pot.

  Personally speaking I wouldn’t’ve bothered telling anybody – but that’s me I suppose.


  He stared (he was waiting for me). Gabriel always drinks a good malt whisky, you don’t ask. They keep a special bottle behind the bar just in case. I reordered trying not to wince at the word ‘large.’ We both lifted our glasses. I said ‘Cheers!’ (he said ‘All the best’) – I don’t know which is worse. What bothered me is, about tonight’s cancelled Poetry Society meeting.

  And, that’s curious because what came out next wasn’t what I’d intended. ‘How’s Alison?’ I blurted in what sounded like a large shout. ‘ – Well, I hope?’ I added quickly. I was hoping he hadn’t heard me.

  You tell me – something deep and Freudian no doubt.

  Luckily Gabriel’s too far gone to notice, that and still taken up ogling the girl serving behind the bar. She was melting already, over-smiling, showing lots of neat white teeth. He closed his eyes to help him think. You’d’ve thought I’d asked him something hard. I could’ve said a lot more – Alison, remember her, your latest live-in girlfriend, mega attractive (less than half your age) – also miles too good for you I could’ve added.

  He nodded like a donkey, then blinked. ‘Hah, Alison you mean?’ His face went sad (finally the penny must’ve dropped). ‘Um, not too good I’m afraid. Terrible bad cold. Flu, more than likely, gone right to her chest’ he said glumly.

  B, dong. I was wrong, it all started to make some kind of sense. It turns out it was Alison who’s ill in bed after all. Bloody Cynthia (that shoeprint all over the note didn’t help). No wonder I hate her. ‘I’d a bit of a job on reading your note’ I told him.

  Gabriel’s voice went distant, chatting-up the girl – a picture came into my mind. I thought about Alison’s chest (my heart skipped a beat). Alison, dear, sweet, gorgeous, Alison, that sweet smile of hers, her long blonde hair splayed over her pillows … ministering to her needs, sipping the iced tea I’d so carefully prepared for her. ‘Mmmm, just the way I like it. Trust you to remember Colin, thank you – all that pony-tailed idiot can bring me is a stiff drink and the sodding racing-paper, the dopey twat.’