It Always Rains on Sundays (14 page)

Finally, her out of tune meanderings over with she was ready to commence, her thin reedy voice began to shrill out the late Hubert's favourite hymn:

‘We that come like sheep in droves,

Burdened with sins all load-en.

Cowed are we ere one that knows,

All in one voice behold-en.

(etc etc and so-forth).

Again, finally, five verses later the hymn drew to a weary conclusion, followed by a spattering of polite applause. ‘Marvellous, marvellous!' old Jordan Poritt cried out, clapping with wild enthusiasm. Everybody turned and stared. I turned (yet another of our ‘older end') something of a local character, another octogenarian, staunch Primitive Methodist, zealous to extremes, also retired hill farmer and ex-coal miner. Even now still keeping his hand-in repairing the miles of centuries old dry-stone walls snaking high over the steep surrounding fells.

After that it was time for refreshments.

Alison had been delegated to help out. She gave me a warm friendly smile, pouring me coffee out of an antique silver-pot. Her eyes glinted mischievously, her voice dropped to a whisper ‘You're lucky, you've just missed Gabriel's new poem,' her eye-brows went up ‘– that's something at least.' She made a face, her voice went really low (she's a good mimic too). ‘Down, down, down. Down into the darkest depths, deep under the un-fathomed sea' she tittered. ‘The Wistfulness of Water, beat that. I'd all on
trying to keep a straight face' she added. That's something else that we both have in common, out mutual distaste for blank verse. ‘Sorry I missed it' I said. She moved away.

No doubt she was trying to cheer me up I expect.

However, as things turned out, any chance of a quiet night were very short-lived (maybe I'd spoke to soon) Gabriel B.T. had other ideas. He stood up, then looked directly at me (
warning bells
), our eyes kind've bumped, he smirked. His gaze swept around the room, he dinged his glass with his spoon, trying to get everyone's attention. He waited for complete silence. What now I'm thinking.

‘Folks, folks' says he, he pointed right at me. ‘Just to say how pleased we all are to welcome out friend Colin. After all, it's not as if you get published every day' there was a general murmuring of approval, a few clapped. His hand went up ‘Not in London, not a whole collection at least' he added. Again, everybody let out a big cheer. ‘Hurrah, hurrah!'

I could've clouted him one for tuppence.

You feel really stupid. Imagine, telling everybody. Gabriel was really enjoying himself you could tell. ‘My words, if this doesn't bring a bit of prestige to the Poetry Society, I don't know what will.' Trust him to make a meal of it. ‘Well done Colin!' he crooned. Alison gave me a reassuring smile from across the room – I shook my head, telling her no, a few cheered – somebody whistled (whistling for Godsakes) – we've never had that before at a Poetry Society meeting, not ever.

‘We all thought you were out celebrating already' Gabriel cried.

Liar I thought – what a crumb, right.

Already, people were coming up to me, slapping me on the back, congratulating me kind've. Everybody's talking at once, voices all around my head, people saying ‘Well done. Well done' ‘Hey, when's it out?' ‘Not before time, you deserve it. Good for you' quite a few said that come to think.

It gets even worse, even Frank Senior (he's a retired head-master for chrissakes). He's squeezing my hand to bits just about ‘Well done lad, quite an achievement – just what we need' he beamed. I nodded. Who can blame him, he's right – odd poems maybe. Nobody's ever published a whole collection, not in London at least. They were all happy for me you could tell. By now I'm not sure about anything, after a bit you even start to believe it yourself. Let's face it, it's only a fizzing letter, nothings definite – far from it.

Next thing Lizzie Shaw comes up to me. She's sploshing wet kisses all over my face, pummelling my arm almost to a pulp, giving me high-fives and mighty hugs. Luckily in her particular case, her being a professional actress I can knock off points for excitable behaviour.

Then, about three seconds later, same thing. Next thing Caroline Sneggs, she's a primary school-teacher, she's another. ‘Um … um. Well done Colin, I'm really happy for you' she cooed shyly in a small voice. ‘Thank you' I said. She flicked me a quick smile, then stared down at her feet (the trick is not to look at her). She coloured up ‘Fingers crossed eh' she added quickly,
before moving off. Her turn to recite her new poem. She made her way down to the front, waiting for some kind of order, standing by the podium, twisting her hands nervously.

Finally Gabriel B.T. had to intervene, dinging his glass with his spoon ‘People, people' – he implored. Most of the audience were still jabbering away, talking excitably amongst themselves. Speaking for myself I was glad of the distraction. It went quiet, he nodded ‘When you are ready Caroline my dear.'

Caroline swallowed, she cleared her throat for the third time ‘Tommy's Outing' she announced in a mouse-sized voice. Always a bit timid, though more recently she'd come on leaps and bounds (at least now she faces the audience). However, once she got underway things soon started to pick up, she trotted it out with a surprising burst of renewed confidence:

‘Little Tommy Hathaway

Wandered down the pathaway.

Through the back gate, past the hutch,

Not a care did he have much.

No big adventure, no planned scheme,

Until he came to Parson's stream.'

Not much in the way of surprises there I thought. You could always count on it, cute kids usually abounded. Either that or little furry animals, preferably something cuddly, highly favouring anything that ‘bobs about.' She just about cornered the market, she also liked rosy-sunsets,
or rosy-cheeked grannies as a kind of a back-up, usually ending up with a sagey proverb thrown in.

More interruptions, unfortunately, just at that juncture of things old Jordan Poritt was suddenly taken with a fit of coughing, he's going red in the face. Somebody fetched him a glass of water (all those years outdoors, working in all weathers no doubt), gradually it subsided, dwindling into a series of persistent little peffs. Finally, she must've thought it okay to carry on (disconcerting to say the least). ‘Parson's stream' she repeated hesitantly, her fingers working at the collar of her summer-print frock.

‘For a time he stood on the brink,

Though how to cross he couldn't think.

Content at first to watch a duck,

Looked for a boat but had no luck.

Just then he spotted along the bank

The longer half of some old plank.

Soon afloat a leg either side,

No care the stream became deep and wide.

Soon sliding through willow, the sun on his face

Going faster and faster towards the mill race

Nor did she heed the lone fisherman's cry,

Returning his wave as he swept by.'

Once she'd finished she gave the audience a cursory nod of the head, thanking them for their warm applause. Then scurried off, as if eager to regain the sanctuary of her seat.

My turn next (no wonder I'd been dreading it). The Blue Man (sixteen lines) at least it was short that's one good thing. Mind you, if I'm being truthful I first got the idea from Thelma at work. What happened, she was telling me this story onetime, about her younger brother Vinny who works at the local dye-works, the trouble with that kind of job mostly is the colour. What made it worse is in his particular case is his department makes ink (black ink). They mostly use it for news-print. Everybody really hates it, it's the worst possible colour. Even after you've had a shower – after that it turns into a kind of ingrained blue/colour. You never get rid of it no matter what.

What started it off. It was a really hot day, he was on the bus on his way home after his shift, he's sweating like mad – there's this giggly group of girls sitting right behind him, making all kinds of stupid remarks. Sometimes that's all it takes.

Anyway, after that he hardly leaves the house. So all he does now is the night-shift – he's almost a recluse. Well, I know what I think:

THE BLUE MAN

The shed where I work is where they make ink,

Great vats over fourty-feet high.

But for me you'd be looking at paper, not print,

It's the darkest colour of dye.

I'm not very happy, I'm covered in blue,

It's the downside of working with dye.

I take showers and bathe, what more can I do,

It's no fun when you blend with the sky.

A gaudy procession we troop out from the sheds,

A raggedty band of bright hue.

Orange-men and green-men and vermillion reds,

I stand out because I'm sky blue.

I can't keep a girl-friend (who needs a blue friend?)

Home alone I drink beer from a can.

It's happened so often I've lost heart to pretend

  Nobody loves an indelible man.

Sometimes, if you're really lucky a poem almost writes itself – it was one of those. Times like that you just know it's right no matter what. Going by the response it went down rather well I thought. Well, okay, you'd expect you could count on your friends. Not everybody, what really spoilt it for me at least is Gabriel B.T. You should've seen him, all the time, he's right there in front of me, tapping his stupid pencil, kind've da-da-daing. That's because it rhymes, he thinks it's
soooo-
funny. This is what he's like. What makes it worse, then the idiots pointing at my shirt-front. Then when I look there's this big stain. Oh great (wine by the look of it). That's all I need – who ever heard of a poet wearing a stained shirt.

Finally, last but not least it's old Jordan Poritt's turn to get up. Him being the so-called Bard of the Dales, he plays it right up to the hilt (that's if you can understand
him). Speaking as a Yorkshire-man myself, calling a spade a spade, chip on my shoulder the size of which could no doubt block your best Sunday hat. That said, I'm as mystified as anybody else. His broad Yorkshire dialect baffles most people, his being a rare mixture of local dialect, comprehensible only to sheep and border-collies. Speaking of which, though long married (they were never blessed with any children). Instead they bred prizewinning sheep dogs, a long line of border-collies going back several decades, each called Ben.

Jordan's poems are usually all the same (very) invariably long meandering narratives in celebration of the mystical grandeur of his beloved Yorkshire hills and dales.

He stood back, opening his coat, giving himself plenty of space. ‘Ramsgill Tops' he announced brusquely glaring round the room. He paused, then blew his nose loudly and freely. Once he got started, his voice rose with a building excitement:

‘Rand bit sty an crass Sean's beck,

Whara tarm wi ad bye eck!

On wit coil an on wit kettle,

Wimmin int arse n'ready to fettle.'

Already most people were exchanging puzzled looks, shaking their heads. Those people from further south were completely lost – for all they knew the old man was shouting in Swahilli:

‘Jess thee an me an my dog Ben,

Wup bi tops an darn agen.'

There he'd to call a halt, he'd started another coughing fit.

Alison and Lizzie rolled their eyes. They were right next to me, both were from London – I tried to translate, ‘Okay' I said ‘they've set off over the fells. Just old Poritt and Ben – no women allowed. They stay home doing chores.' They swapped looks. I opened my hands ‘I'm only the messenger, okay.' Meantime the old fellow was about ready to continue, come what may, he battled on displaying true Yorkshire grit:

‘Jess thee and me an my dog Ben,

Wup bi tops an darn agen.

Climbering art mang t'sheep an tetha,

Wup wit crows nare marn wats weatha'

This is as far as he got. Unfortunately, this time his bronchial coughing returned with a vengeance. He gulped more water, he made one last valiant attempt. ‘Wup to! Wup to!' (‘Up to! Up to!') Three times he tried, that was it. After that, much to everyone's relief Jordan decided to call it a day. Some of the womenfolk managed to persuade him to sit down.

Soon after that the meeting broke up.

Gabriel stood over by the door, saying his goodnights, clasping hands with the chosen few. He smiled thinly (trust him to stand in front of me) ‘Good meeting, quite a turnout' says he. I nodded ‘Um' I said (not very I
thought.) I pushed my way through. He grabbed hold of my arm ‘Oh, by the by. Good luck at the publishers in London' he added with what looked like a smirk (twat I thought). ‘Oh that' I said nonchalantly – ‘I'd almost forgot,' I wished him a half-hearted goodnight.

Don't you worry I can be just as obtuse as anybody else if I want to.

It was a lousy night, still pouring with rain (I'd clean forgotten about my wipers not working). However, luckily for me help was at hand. Arnold Wrigglesworth no less, who runs the hardware and general in the High Street – he had just the thing so he said.

‘Don't you worry, I've been caught out myself a couple of times' he called out, delving into the back of his van. He always carried a length of bale-twine just in case, he swears by it. Worth a try at least, not in my particular case, it only made things worse – both wipers are dancing about like a figure of eight. I could barely see a yard in front of me. Finally we'd no other option but to resort to plan B, him leading the way in his ancient Morris van, doing about five miles an hour, with my head stuck out of the window all the way home to DeLacey Street.

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?

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