It Always Rains on Sundays (16 page)

‘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.

Somehow or other I'd been expecting something rather grander. Maybe it's me, all the way down on the train I'd this picture in my mind – what's happened to
the imposing ashlar stone edifice and impressive mahogany doors with the shining array of polished brass nameplates I'd imagined earlier?

After that things could only get worse (I was right, the door-buzzer didn't work either). Finally, after my third knock the door opened a crack, gradually revealing a late middle-aged lady holding a plant-spray (presumably Edna Batte (Mrs.) hair in a turban, still wearing a flowery pink dressing-gown. She looked very surprised to see me you could tell.

Later I changed my mind, the plain simple truth of the matter is she'd completely forgot that I was coming. Something else I found a bit disquieting, Edna Batte (Mrs.) conducted the whole enterprise from a curtained off section of what appeared to be her own living-room. This did surprise me somewhat I have to admit.

However, so be it, after the first flurry of introductions and effusive apologies (still holding the plant-spray) she swept off like some apparition through the curtains. Even more bewildering, during what seemed like several long minutes I waited while she made herself more presentable (sic) ‘tarted myself up.' Meantime in her absence I'm entertained by a screechy, bleak-eyed brown and orange macaw bird (appropriately enough named Mangy it turns out). Rightaway, as if on cue the sulky old bird screamed loudly for some attention,

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!' it screeched piercingly. Not surprisingly, in due course this in turn brought Edna Batte (Mrs.) rushing in, back onto the scene of things.
Her white half made-up face pushed clown-like through the curtains. She spoke directly to the bird inside the cage, ‘Yes, m'lady. That will do Mangy' she cried in a high strangulated voice. She shook her head. ‘Dear me, that's quite enough of that, I'm sure.' She closed the curtain.

However, alas, Mangy had other ideas it seems. ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!' she argued back. Still clutching her dressing-gown tightly to her throat, her keeper reappeared. She must've decided enough was enough. ‘That will do Mangy' she repeated. Next thing she lifted the whole thing, bird-cage and stand, disappearing once more behind the curtain. Distantly I could still hear her ‘Mr. Quirke has travelled rather a long distance. He doesn't wish to be listening to you my girl, I'm sure' she crooned.

Dead right I'm thinking.

Later I discovered that the noisy, shit-dropping, tatty excuse of a bird, it wasn't saying ‘Shit!' after all. She was in fact calling out the name ‘Pitt' referring to its owner Quentin Pitt. He's the guy who'd contacted me that time before – her son in-law it turns out, and who it turns-out ‘at this moment in time' had unfortunately been called away his mother in-law lamented, apologising for his untimely absence.

This is when her business persona took over, now dressed in a smart black pinstripe suit and white blouse, wearing make-up (too much I thought). She cleared a space on the sofa, then indicated by pointing a long scarlet fingernail, telling me to sit down.

She broke off from sorting out her desk, she looked up, she spoke in quick-firing bursts. ‘I'm afraid Quentin's
out' she repeated ‘no doubt about it, he'll be absolutely devastated – very disappointed indeed.' I nodded. ‘Devastated,' she repeated.

Finally she found what she'd been searching for (my file presumably). She glanced at it, then said ‘Um,' then swung one black stockinged leg, one over the other. ‘He's over at Portland Place, he's doing a reading for B.B.C.3. Dylan Thomas – he'll be mortified' she stated abruptly.

Again I nodded. She gave me a lipsticky smile and twirled her pen, ‘Rage, rage against the dying of the light!' she raged, loud enough to startle the Macaw bird (I could hear it twittering over the other side of the curtain). She looked at me over her heavy-rimmed glasses, ‘Now, there was a poet' she said. ‘Yes' I agreed.

Then, after a pause, she said ‘No doubt you are aware Colin, publishing is a strange animal, it's unpredictable – an adventure into the unknown as it were' she looked at her nails, a pause. Her eyes focused, then narrowed as if looking at me for the first time (weighing me up I expect). What she saw I'm not sure, a yokel on his first visit down to the big city I expect. Speaking for myself I was looking at a rather intense woman with jet black hair and a low-cut fringe. What with her low speaking voice and heavy-rimmed glasses, she put me very much in mind of Roy Orbison.

She continued ‘It has always been regarded somewhat as something of a gamble, a two-way thing – that's the nature of the beast I'm afraid' she went on. ‘Here at Torchlight, we always take great professional pride' – again Mangy interrupted mid-flow (‘Shit! Shit!') it
squawked. Her eyes closed, she touched at her temples, ‘Oh, do shut up Mangy, please!' she pleaded using a pained voice, adding ‘Mr. Quirke isn't the slightest bit impressed, that I can assure you' she cried out.

Too right I thought, in fact Mr. Quirke's starting to get a bit pissed off.

However, old Mangy did not shut up, worse if anything, its incessant shrieking drowned out everything. She dived through the curtain ‘We can't hear ourselves think Mangy' I heard her yell, then adding ‘Mr. Quirke hasn't come all this way to listen to you my girl we have business to transact.'

She returned quickly, offering me a lipsticky smile of apology, as far as Mangy is concerned, whether she'd strangled it, shot it or stuffed it I'll never know. After that we got straight down to business, picking-up from where she'd left off. She opened a folder ‘A profitable venture, commercially viable, yes?' I nodded (I was expecting her to come to some kind of point). She paused, something must've decided her to change tack. She uncrossed her legs, then leaned forward in her chair. She handed me some samples from her folder ‘presentation is everything, yes. Don't you agree? Morocco-bound, soft leather, hand-tooled gold inlays, finest quality, gilt-edge, glossy-finish paper – exceptional workman-ship, yes.'

She made it hard to say no, go for it points were piling up already.

Once she got started she couldn't find the brake. That's when she dropped the bombshell, about the money I'm meaning. Somewhere in the region of
£3000:00p give or take – my contribution she called it. Zonk (warning bells) her voice became distant (‘Bearing in mind the high cost of modern day publishing and distribution' she went on). Don't you worry my mind was busy already. Mostly about how stupid I'd been. Vanity Publishing (good title) – very appropriate in my case.

Oh God, it'd just hit me, it's wider implications were just starting to sink in, telling Cynthia for one thing. Then there's the Poetry Society, the next meeting just about due, it didn't bear thinking about (I'd swallowed it whole-sale). Telling anybody for that matter all my poetry friends. What do I tell them? Gabriel Biggar-Titte for one, that's even worse, he'll wipe the floor with me. Who can blame him, he'd even tried to warn me. Like a fool I'd refused to listen. Anybody else, they'd've seen it coming a mile off. What a dope, right.

Her voice chimed into my thoughts ‘Think of it Colin' her coffee cup clattered back onto her saucer. Our eyes kind've bumped. She pointed, her hand swept up in a flutter of bright fingernails ‘My children' she exclaimed indicating a wall of bookshelves behind her desk. I stared (by now I was barely listening) ‘Out into the big world. From the cradle of conception, right through to production of the finished product. That's not counting the positive feedback we'd garner from our huge list of long-term subscribers. Then there's the internet of course. No question, you're onto an absolute winner, believe me' she concluded.

We exchanged looks. That's just it I didn't.

She waited for my reaction, instead my eyes were drawn to her ultra-bright lipstick, (it's left a faint bow on my cup from the time before) – the stuff was everywhere … ‘Think of it Colin – it could be yours up on that shelf' I heard her say. My eyes followed her gaze, shelves lined with thin volumes of verse, each with the emerald green and yellow logo on the spine, that said Torchlight Publications. (London). Mostly by women (I'd looked at them earlier on) each with names such as Poppy or Pippa or April Rose … is this what I wanted?

She could sense my hesitation. She re-crossed her legs, then twirled her pen, ‘Look, what if say – how does paper-back sound, yes. Just an idea' I nodded slowly (according to her the figure she had in mind was pretty reasonable) – it just about covered the production cost. ‘Oh, nothing tacky you understand – just to trim the sail, reduce advertising and so-forth, no cutting corners of course.'

Again we exchanged looks.

‘It has to be your decision of course' Edna said.

Don't worry I'd already decided.

Time to go, I picked up my coat. Already I'm wishing myself home. Let's face it, this lady was only here for the money you could tell. What made it worse she didn't really care about my poems either.

‘Don't miss this golden opportunity' I heard her say.

I said I'd think about it.

*
*
*

Two hours to kill before train time. I wandered around, looking at the various sights, munching an overpriced bacon-roll. One thing for sure nothing changes, people rushing about – nobody smiling. Maybe it's me, after that I couldn't get away fast enough – the big city wasn't for me either it seemed.

Still raining. I sat under a shelter over-looking the river. I started a poem all about London (it just about sums it up I thought):

Trafalgar square was busy today,

I met a nice young man name of Warren.

I've bought a bronze Lion from him by the way,

And I'm in with a chance for the column.

*
*
*

The train back up north was packed. I was lucky to get myself a seat – you could hardly move. Curiously enough, just when you need your own space everyone I meet wants to talk to me. This from a belligerent soldier, returning to Scotland home on leave. ‘Hey pal (he stuck a bottle of whisky in my face) ‘Wull ya tac a wee dram wi me?' he insisted. I shook my head remembering to smile.

Lost in my own thoughts – next thing a woman sitting right across (a shopaholic by the looks of things). I counted six labelled bags. She was desperate for a cigarette. She leaned over ‘You don't mind me having a quick drag?' she hissed. I shrugged – all I wanted is some peace and quiet. She lit up a long tipped cigarette, pulling
her cheeks in as far as they'd go. She watched herself exhale at her reflection in the rocking window. Meantime the happy fusilier had fallen sound asleep with his legs in the aisle. Good idea, I tried to do the same. Soon after that she lit up again. She saw me looking (there's a big sign NO SMOKING). ‘You don't mind?' she whispered. Again I shrugged, by now I'm past caring. Do what you like I thought with dull interest – have sex with the wild Scotchman and smoke at the same time, who cares.