It Always Rains on Sundays (35 page)

What about me, I don't count I suppose.

My mother isn't much company either that's for sure. I've been trying to teach her how to play poker (somehow or other it isn't the same playing with matches
is it?) Mind you, all she ever wants to do is play stupid ‘fish,' and drink gallons of over-sweet cocoa all night. By nine o'clock I'd had enough, it was doing my head in. ‘Why can't we just settle down, watching a nice western on TV?' she keeps saying.

Finally I decided to go up-town – who knows I might get lucky.

‘Right then, I'll be off' I said.

No answer. Her eyes stayed glued to the TV screen. Some old movie, I'd seen it before quite a few times. All about this rookie cop who's younger kid brother gets gunned down in this corny as hell stakeout. (‘Don't worry Ma, no matter what Stevie won't've died for nutin, okay?') She bit into another dark-coated peppermint-cream, waltzing it ecstatically around her mouth – I could've stolen the whole house.

‘Don't wait up, chances are I'll be late back.'

‘Don't forget to take a key' I heard her say vaguely.

Nothing changes much that's for sure. Three warm beers later, by then I'm more than ready calling it a night. Why go, when you know it's going to be a complete waste of time, all you end up doing is standing around in some noisy bar, half-deafened by really loud music, leering at some bored barmaid. So, why am I here? I called it a night.

Next thing you know I'm cruising around the red-light district – how pathetic is that (take your pick, girls galore). Somehow it's not the same. Then, just as I'm
about ready to drive off, this girl comes over, she knocks on the window (she's young, it's hard to tell with all that make-up). She leaned in, a sharp-faced blonde, whitish, wiry hair, forced smile, pert nose, big steady made-up eyes, sweet flowery perfume, it filled the whole car. She said her name was Auriel (‘Aw-reel' the way she said it). Her eyes darted about, she spoke quickly. She came right to the point. Long-time? Or, short-time? – it's business, right? Only, if we did it in the car it's best, that way I could drop her off at the Kentucky Fried Chicken she told me, her eyes a-flutter. ‘That's if you know wa I mean?'

I nodded. ‘Well …' I said.

Somehow or other, any allure that I might've had earlier on melted quickly away. We both saw the police-car sliding slowly past the end of the street. She stepped on her cigarette sending out sparks. ‘Oh fuck' she muttered crossly. She hurried off, hands deep inside her coat pockets. I drove off under hurled abuse.

Mother had fallen sound asleep in front of the TV (I switched it off before it melted into a puddle). Next thing I purposely made a lot of noise to wake her up – Sunday tomorrow. She'd be glad I did she needed to be up for the early service – I was doing her a favour.

4:00am. Can't sleep – at least I've got a poem out of it:

WORKING

She walked the wet street parading her beat,

Struck her heels and strutted her wares.

She strode off with flounce, hair on the bounce,

Swinging her bag like she hadn't a care.

She stood under the light her face chalky white,

Made more so by the red gash of her lips.

Black mascara eyes, boots tight to the thighs,

Tapped her foot and stuck out her hip.

Under the sodium glow she watched the car slow,

From old habit she made her eyes flutter.

She opened the door like she'd done it before,

Tossing her cigarette into the gutter.

*
*
*

Nice hot sunny day – wonderful in fact. I've spent the whole day with Thelma (not that it boded that well at first.) Let's face it, I'm not cut out for espionage – all that conniving I'm meaning, not to mention improbable coincidences. All that, and who should we bump into but
Arnold Calderdale & Co, a big party of them out in the middle of the moors, about half the Library service out on an archaeological field trip.

Typical I thought.

You might just as well put up a banner on top of the Townhall. Not that anybody said anything as such (the odd look maybe). We just stood aside, letting them all file through the turnstile, exchanging mundane comments regarding the changeable weather. No doubt, by the time we got back it'd be the talk of every public library in the whole West Riding of Yorkshire you can bet. Things could only get worse – bumping into Eric. Thelma's husband for one.

What happened is on our way back we called into Noddy Extra's for fish and chips. We sat on a wall, next to a group of cyclists. Next thing, who should come trundling past but Eric driving his ancient Landrover, towing a big trailer-load of manure.

Mind you I might never have known then if Thelma hadn't mentioned it. ‘Oh look – there goes Eric' she commented casually, dipping her hand into her chips, recrossing her legs.

I nearly fell off the wall I'll tell you. Trust Thelma, she thought it was funny ‘Don't worry, he'd be too busy watching the road – he's as blind as a bat without his glasses.' Even so it still bothered me.

Somehow or other it spoilt my whole day.

*
*
*

8:00pm. Horrible day at work (sometimes I really wonder what I was put on this earth for), I really do. God, when will it all end? Cynthia hasn't been in touch either, for a whole week! I drove past the house on my way home from work – the whole place looks deserted, curtains drawn, something's amiss for sure – it's really strange. I'm at my wits-end.

No wonder I'm worried, as a last resort I've even phoned-up the local cop-shop (about ten hours later) somebody picked up the phone. Finally, this was a woman, say no more, right. ‘Oh, good evening' I said ‘sorry to bother you, I know your busy. Only I'm trying to locate a missing family – yes, completely disappeared.' Nobody could've cared less, I'll tell you. ‘It happens' she told me in a couldn't be arsed kind of voice – ‘domestic' she called it. She said to give it a few more days (she refused to give me her number). ‘You wouldn't say that if it was Simon Cowell' I said.

Typical I thought – I mean I do try.

Same at work, on top of everything else old Docket's on the warpath again. Evaline Walker's gone A.W.O.L. – yet again. It turns out she's sloped off in the dead of night with the new Irish window-cleaner. Luckily, just by chance he was pulled over by the motorway police to have his tank dipped (it just shows, the fickleness of fate)
– checking for red diesel apparently. Anyway, the upshot is they've confiscated his ladders. She's been done on a lesser charge, for what they call ‘knowingly aiding and abetting a felony.' So we'll see.

10:00pm. The mystery deepens – I've just been over to Delacey Street to check things out kind've. Everything's in complete darkness, same goes for Avril's next door. WHERE IS EVERYBODY?

Poor old Brian out on the front step (he looked half-starved if you ask me). Nobody gives a shit, left to fend for himself I expect. Talk about looking lost and forlorn.

‘Looks like were both left out in the cold brother' I said.

He mewed once, as if to say ‘Oh, hello old chum. That old bitch, look at me, I'm frozen through. She's left me outside all night – I'm freezing my balls off!'

I offered him a Polo-mint. He flicked his tail, then shot through next doors privet-hedge. I heard a scream. Then, when I looked there's Ms. Thrush standing on top of her lime-stone rockery, holding a lantern. Her face went tragic under the light ‘Are you alright Mr. Quirke?' she enquired, one hand clutching at her robe (she put me in mind of Britannica). Trust her to be out at this time. ‘Everything's pretty much hunky-dory' I tried to reassure her.

She stared, her face showed deep concern. Finally she would insist on giving me a card from the Crisis Centre. ‘Call me anytime. Day or night, twenty-four seven' she said tremulously.

Talk about Mother Teresa. ‘Thank you' I said.

God, the tales I could tell about her – why can't people mind their own business. It wasn't that the summer before last. That time she had four strapping Aussie back-packers camping out in her backyard for six weeks, drinking and carousing all night.

1:30am. Latest report from over at DeLacey Street, everything is pretty much the same, that is
apart from one thing
, the only difference is, the curtains are tightly drawn. Everything in total darkness. WHAT DOES THAT TELL YOU?

Well, I know what I think. More likely they've been in all the time, laughing at me behind the curtains I bet (kids farmed out for the night). No doubt having a romantic cosy night in I expect – just the two of them, candle-lit bathing. Peruvian pan-pipes playing softly in the background, no doubt followed by a light aphrodisiac, oyster and champagne supper I'll bet …

3:00am. I've pushed a note through the door. ‘Cynthia, call me A.S.A.P. – V.URGENT!!' Also a P.S. in the form of a short barbed verse:

Cyn. Cyn, where have you bin?

I've been trying to call you all day.

Expect you're in bed with Kevin the Red,

Where the skies are not cloudy all day.

*
*
*

8:00pm. More Mondeo trouble I fear. Don't ask, she's rattling away like a bag of empty tins. I'm surprised I landed home I'll tell you. Then, on top of that I've had Cynthia on the warpath yet again (v.high horsey in fact). First thing this morning, her face was like thunder – shouting the odds – this is a public Library, don't forget.. No wonder everybody looked. Next thing, who should walk past but old Docket & Co – I saw him look.

Luckily, I kind've marshalled her away, behind the Theological Studies display, I managed to calm her down.

‘I don't know why you're getting so steamed-up,' I said.

Apparently, what's upset her more than anything is that poem I wrote, I said ‘All I'm asking is you keep in touch.' She glared ‘We've had a long weekend – so, where's the problem?' I shrugged. ‘It doesn't seem a lot to ask. I am at the end of a phone after all.'

Her face said it all, she held up the poem I'd sent her. ‘Anymore of your stupid poems, you'll be at the end of a rope you daft twat' she fumed, then added ‘What if the kids had seen it, or even Kevin for that matter?'

Don't tell me Red-top can read I thought.

Aubrey Docket gave me a curt nod on his way back – I saw him look. I nodded (you wonder what she's going
to come out with next). Then when I look Cyn's making weird faces at Ms. Walker.

She turned. ‘We didn't get back from the coast till after midnight. Next thing, I see there's you, skulking around in the garden, like a thief in the night.'

‘It's the children I'm worried about.'

She gave me a withering look. ‘Then, on top of everything I've had that silly cow from next door on the phone every five minutes, telling me about Social Services. God knows what sort of a tale you've been telling her – the only way I could get rid of her is to make an appointment for next week.'

Good idea. ‘Hey, counselling. Maybe we should've thought of it sooner.'

She stared, ‘Don't be a bigger prat than you can help, you prat. Don't be surprised to hear from my solicitor' she warned.

Something lighter I thought. I changed the subject. ‘How did it go, did you win?'

She shook her head ‘No-way, it was a complete fiasco. We'd've won hands down but for Avril, what with her covered in sticking-plaster, that and bumping into people. After that we'd all to wear disabled-stickers. Then people were saying we were only after the sympathy vote – you can't win.'

‘Aw, too bad. That
is
bad luck' I lied.

Her voice softened ‘You don't seem to understand Colin, line-dancing, it's my whole life. Especially now with the semi-finals.' ‘Good luck' I said.

She gave me one final warning ‘No more poems, or
else.' Then, just when she's going, I remembered to tell her about the big football game coming up – it was meant to be a big surprise.

She was over by the door, she scowled ‘No-way' she exclaimed.

‘Too late, I've already bought the tickets.'

‘You'll have to cancel, sorry' she yelled loudly.

Everybody turned to stare. I hadn't intended it to turn into a big shouting match. (I could feel my temper rising by the second). ‘Just in case you've forgot – I am their father' I cried out. She stared. ‘Pah – some father' she jeered.

‘Don't pah me madam. Like it or not, I'm still your husband – even if you are shaking-up.'

Her face was like thunder. ‘Next time it's the law' she repeated. She stormed out, leaving both doors swinging wildly in her wake. Something made me look up. Aubrey Docket stared down from the first landing. His face was impassive, he didn't look none too pleased you could tell.

He crooked his finger telling me to come up.

Thelma's wrote me a lovely poem – it's really cool. She must've slipped it into my briefcase at work (she's trying to cheer me up I expect) – I shall treasure it forever: