It Always Rains on Sundays (26 page)

Luckily were both men of the world. I waited, watching him work. Finally I said ‘You know how it is Calvin – it's only a stopgap, it's only a very temporary arrangement of things, of course.' Calvin nodded thoughtfully. He sucked on a Polo-mint and said little, meantime he carried on without a pause skimming envelopes into various slots without a pause, taciturn to say the least, his flat murmured, ‘Oh aye?' covered everything.

‘Storm in a tea-cup if I'm being truthful' I said.

He nodded, then sighed. He popped another Polo-mint in his mouth. ‘Well, I'm right sorry to hear that Colin. I always thought you two were nailed on – it just
shows' he lisped. He tapped the side of his nose with a brown-stained forefinger, then gave me a broad wink. ‘Leave it with me Colin' he said. He reached up to a wooden beam just above his head, in yellow chalk, across it he wrote squeakily: ‘RE. QUIRKY – VIA STONEY BANK STREET' He gave me the thumbs up, then offered me a Polo-mint.

I shook my head, ‘No thank you' I said.

This is the trouble with some people. Just because we've had a bit of a tiff so to speak. They think you're all in the same boat as them (albeit swimming alongside maybe). Even so I hardly think we've come to the old nod and a wink stage of things, not yet hopefully. Next thing you know they're making out you're having a divorce.

Still in the same frame of mind, first chance I got I called up the phone company to check out the DeLacey Street phone not working. You feel really stupid, they have you on hold for yonks (listening to Handel's Chorus). Finally, I demanded to speak to the supervisor. Nice guy, supreme in fact – it turns out we both used to be in the same Freemasons (not that it made a pennyworth of difference). ‘How strange, most people have their own mobile-phone these days' he repeated.

This is what I'm up against, ‘Not everybody pal' I told him smartly.

Finally, I even tried pleading ‘Look, I'm in limbo Leslie, it's my only lifeline – I must have communication with the outside world. Right now I'm living on pure
adrenaline and handfuls of Disprins.' Too late he'd hung up – I ended up talking to a machine.

However, some good news at least.

Next thing I'm summoned up to old Docket's office, pronto. Ms. Walker's voice, screeching from the top landing ‘You're wanted rightaway, it's urgent!' No wonder everyone looked. Rightaway, my stomach flipped right over (it's that voice of hers). What now I thought – bad time-keeping for one thing. Why be surprised, I've hardly slept – four hours a night that's at most.

Trust me, thinking the worst. It turns out I'm wrong (I couldn't be wronger in fact). Instead, he couldn't've been nicer, he's Mr. Charming itself. ‘Hah, Colin. Come in, come in old chap – grab a pew' says he, smiling broadly, flashing his new dentures. He pushed out a chair using his foot, then went over to his coffee-percolator. He turned ‘Cup of coffee, right?' then added ‘This is proper coffee, not that pappy stuff out of the bloody machine.' We both laughed.

It just shows – no doubt he'd be feeling a bit guilty I expect. What happened is the day before I'd walked into his office. Okay, I forgot – I should've knocked. LOUDLY. Next thing, surprise, surprise, who's kneeling down right there in front of him? Only Ms. Prim and proper (I'm so shy, don't even look at me) Evaline Walker, his P.A. that's who – put it this way, she ain't picking up pencils that's for sure.

It just shows – you think you know people, right.

No wonder the guy's all over me, he can't do enough.

He took a bottle of whisky and two glasses out of the
bottom drawer of his desk (he thinks I don't know), pretty soon I'm drinking my third glass of genuine malt whisky. I'm starting to change my mind about him. He's got this nifty piece of furniture in there that also doubles as a pool-table (he plays a not too bad a game of pool I think). After that we got really pally. Next thing you know I'm telling him everything. Mostly about me and Cynthia, about how things are – about my hanging by a thread marriage. Also about my kids too, how I never hardly ever get to see them anymore. Sometimes it's good just to talk to somebody.

He's a really good listener too.

He shook his head sadly. ‘Tell me about it' he said.

So, then he's telling me all about his own troubles (this is his third marriage). It turns out, him and his wife hardly speak to each other – they even have separate sides of the house. It's only the dog that keeps them together.

Smallish world, right? We clinked glasses.

10:30pm. Finally, I've managed to speak to Cynthia over the phone. ‘How come you can't even pick up the phone?' I said. Talk about cool, either that or she's drunk. ‘About what?' she crooned in her usual flat, either way kind of voice. ‘Okay, about me seeing the kids for one thing.'

‘You know how it is – I've been very busy.'

‘That's just it. I don't know anything – nobody ever answers the phone.'

Don't worry this time I didn't even give her an inch.

That's something else that bothered me – all this
hurly-burly going on in the back. All the time I'm trying to talk, people talking and laughing. All this loud music I'm meaning, it's as if there's some kind of party going on.

This is what I said.

There was a long pause. ‘Oh that' her voice stayed casual. ‘Oh that' she repeated ‘a couple of friends round having a drink. So where's the problem?'

‘I just wondered that's all.'

‘Look, will this take long – I have friends here, okay.'

Amazing. First time we speak in over a week, she's itching to get back to all her goofy friends. She can't wait to hang up. She's working me up already, I can feel my stutter coming on already. So then I said the first thing that came into my head ‘Well, I – I – I, you know what. I haven't been sleeping too good, y'know.' I'd just remembered I'd forgotten to fetch my special pillow. ‘My Hungarian Goose-down pillow – the one with the lavender.'

‘Aw, too bad' she lied. This lady couldn't've cared less if you ask me.

‘Sleep is important.'

Another pause, this time longer, then she said ‘You've phoned me up just to talk about your friggin pillow? You've called me a dozen times, that's at least.'

‘Uh huh – it helps me sleep. Like I said, sleep is important.' All of a sudden then it hit me, about my special pillow. ‘I thought maybe I'd come right over. That, o-o-okay w-with you?'

Her voice exploded in my ear ‘DON'T BOTHER I'LL POST IT' she yelled down the phone.

*
*
*

1:30am. Stoney Bank Street. I've just got back from DeLacey Street. Some party, right – it's worse than I thought – the whole place is lit up like a Christmas-tree (who's paying for that little lot I thought). Music blasting away – oh, those poor neighbours I thought. Even my own driveway, fancy pickups and 4x4s with personalised plates churning up the grass. They're blocking the whole cul-de-sac. You could hardly move.

Okay, ask anybody you like, killjoy I am not. Cynthia is perfectly entitled to indulge herself, having her own little get-togethers I'm sure. However, I don't ever re-call having that kind of shindig – wild partying I'm meaning. Not on a week-day night – not with work to go to the next day that's for sure. However, I'd come thus far (call it a hunch). I decided to investigate a bit further.

Easier said, (parking my car for one thing). Luckily I found just the spot, well out of sight, by commandeering Mr. Tupperwell's driveway up on the top crescent (not that he'd mind). Unfortunately the old fellow is back in dock with a dicky-hip. (I must remember to send him a card). Look at me I thought – Trust it to start raining. Here I am, a respectable citizen, wet through to the skin, pitch-black, sneaking round my poorly neighbours front garden in dead of night, pushing my way through privet hedges – spying on
my own house
he added.

Let's face it, I'm not cut out for subterfuge.

However, soon all is rewarded. All of a sudden the front door is thrown wide open, next thing these two
hooligan types, drunks we'll call them – louts. I can describe them no other, fooling around, whooping loudly, next thing they both fall down the steps, sprawling into the shrubberies.

It gets even worse, then to my horror, one of them, the tattooed one of the pair (the one without a shirt). Much to my utter dismay he proceeds to urinate all over my Saffron Odyssey prize-roses. There he is for all the world to see, arcing like a good un. Then, his mate – even worse (as if) he's throwing-up all over the bloody shop – ruined my pom-pom dahlias, that goes without saying, of course.

Grand I thought – I'd to turn away.

Don't worry, by then I'd seen more than enough. Time to go. Deep in thought I steered the Mondeo back in the direction of Stoney Bank Street, listening to the steady, thump, thump of the wiper-blades. Meantime my mind was busy with all kinds of things. Cyn mostly – this time she'd pushed me just that little bit too far. What next I wonder? What about my children, are they witness to this kind of behaviour I wondered? One thing for sure, I was more determined than ever to have a face to face confrontation, and sooner rather than later.

Surprisingly enough mother was still up. It turns out she'd been called out to do an all-nighter vigil over at St Jude's hospice. She stood in the doorway of my bedroom wearing her pink duffle-coat and plastic rain-mate tied under her chin, the landing light behind her shining like a kind of halo. No doubt she'd see how melancholy I was.
I flopped onto the bed. ‘Mother, I'm low – I've surpassed my bloody nadir' I said.

She rushed over, she knelt by the bed. ‘Oh, son, son!' she exclaimed.

Rightaway, she commanded me to bed at once, out of my wet clothes. She brought me a big mug of oversweet cocoa and six Garibaldi biscuits on a china plate. She stood over me until I'd drunk every single drop. ‘Ta mother' I whispered. She nodded, then started to do up her coat, ready to set off on her errand of mercy. I yawned sleepily (God knows what she'd put in it?) She placed both hands on my head, her voice trembled with emotion, ‘Just remember Sonny-Jim, I shall be praying for you all night – even until the small desperate hours of the morning' she said in a small voice. ‘Thank you mother' I said.

She stood by the open door. ‘Good-bye son' (she made the sign of the cross). Distantly I heard the front door close with a thud. Soon after that I fell into a sound sleep. It's the best night's sleep I've had in ages.

*
*
*

6:30pm. Home early – progress at last, well hopefully at least. Time for a showdown. I've arranged a face to face meeting with Cynthia over at St Jude's 7:00pmn sharp.
(I've left Thelma holding the fort at work.) Who else eh – she wasn't to ask twice. ‘Good luck,' she said.

Cyn really hates it if I phone her at work.

Too bad. For once I got straight through. I'm determined to have it out with her once and for all. ‘Listen' I said ‘about last night, right. What's going on? This time you've gone too far.'

‘WHO IS DIZ?' a woman's voice answered.

‘Madam, this is your husband speaking' I said.

Not a good start, all I can hear is her stupid work colleague, butting in, talking a mile a minute, ‘Tin-thee-ya – ya get the pool-ice, okay. Tin-thee-ya, diz crazy guy agin, he keeps on cuming on de tell-phone, es pair-vet. Ya call sicur-rat-tee, ya hear!'

Finally Cynthia picks up the phone. ‘Bertha, it's okay, it's my stupid husband' I heard her say. ‘Colin, this is a hospital. Do I call you at work – no I do not' she yells. Well, that's a whopper for a start. ‘This is the trouble, you don't call me at all' I said.

Then she's saying I've called her a dozen times, that's at least. ‘How many more times. Emergencies only, 24 seven – it's for casualties only, got that?'

‘I am a fucking casualty' I yelled.

She slammed down the phone. Rightaway I redialled in hot blood – I could feel my temper already. Cyn's phone bounced up on the first ring, ‘Colin, not now I'm at work, how many more times – do you want me to call security. Security, is that what you want?'

‘Hey, good idea. Tell them I'm planning a murder, okay. Look, about last night?'

‘Why, what about last night?'

Finally somebodies listening. This time I'm ready, don't worry I had a list down to the floor. ‘Number one, regarding the welfare of my children for one thing – going by what I witnessed, last night, urgent questions arise. Wild parties I'm meaning, not to mention parking violations. Also I thought we'd both agreed I get to see the kids every Sunday at least…?' It'd gone quiet, too quiet.

No answer. I waited – all I can hear is a long buzz. What a bitch, right. She'd hung up on me. She left a message on my answerphone at work. There's just a chance, maybe she might be able to fit me in in between seven and seven-thirty. ‘Thank you, thank you' I grovelled aloud.

Just in case I made sure I got there early.

When you step out of the lift Cynthia's reception counter is right there in front of you. Don't worry she'd seen me alright. I waved (she completely ignored me). There she is, making out how busy she is, answering about ten phones all at the same time.

She pointed to the row of crowded seats.

Bitch I thought. I found myself a seat on the back row.

Those kind of places, they really give me the shivers (I can't help it). I'm surrounded by people on crutches, people with plaster-casts, lopsided heads, all kinds of things – wheel-chairs galore, you name it. Then when I look, right next to me there's this smelly old guy with a scraggy grey beard, wearing an eye-patch. Then I
remembered, he's that old tramp character from over in the park that time. Mark Twain I'm meaning. Don't worry, I looked straight ahead.