It Always Rains on Sundays (45 page)

Easier said – this is the mother of my children don't forget. Then, Vinny's voice, thick with sarcasm ‘Do yourself a favour. They aren't worth it, forget it' he said (he hates women generally for some unknown reason). He laughed, others joined in. Finally, then came the voice of reason. Harry the butcher – same goes for him too. He shook his head ‘Don't try to tell me what's right, okay?' he said in a gravelly voice. He picked up his glass ‘Kids grow up, then what? Not in a fucking hundred' he said. Everybody nodded, each had their own story. People usually listen to Harry (he'd been divorced twice already) – another in the pipe-line. He tipped back his glass. ‘Take my word, women are very devious, they plan everything.' He shook his head ‘Trust nobody, they take everything. Next thing you know they're in bed with some other poor mutt.' He reordered. ‘Then they skip with the loot. Not in a fucking hundred' he repeated.

Vinny again, then he came in, he agreed ‘He's right.
Don't try telling me what's right. You'll be lucky to see them on Christmas day. Right Harry? Am I right or am I right Harry?'

Everybody nodded. Harry included ‘Not in a fucking hundred' he said.

I nodded sadly. One thing for sure, Harry knows what he's talking about if anybody does. His last divorce cost him plenty, it cleaned him out. Once upon a time he used to own eleven butcher-shops and a hand-made pie factory, at onetime he was churning-out a mile and a half of sausages each and every single day of the week. (‘It tears the heart right out of you – my wife swallowed everything'), he's flat broke. Last I heard, his wife's living on the French Riviera with some guy half her age.

He spread his large beefy red hands out over the counter. ‘Not in a fucking hundred years' he repeated in a flat voice, looking at his reflection in the back-bar mirror. There were murmurs of general approval. He turned ‘Some good advice brother – get yourself a first-class lawyer, okay.'

Lawyers, I was up to here.

Aussie Bland for one. Don't you worry I won't forget him in a hurry either. Mind you, he's right (easier said than done), I've found that out already. This guy I phoned-up out of Yellow Pages that time, Morri Peel. Don't worry, I was a bit cagey at first – let's face it, most people are only after your money, right. ‘By the way squire, what's it all going to cost? That's if you don't mind me asking?' I said.

He was a bit of a fast talker to say the least.

‘Not a sausage my friend, call me Morri' he says. Right at first he was fine, he was sweet as pie (it turns-out you get so many minutes free of charge). He laughed, ‘right now it's your time you're wasting, fire away.' Then, when I told him who owns the house, after that everything changed.

There was a pause. ‘How long have you been sleeping rough?'

Something must've stuck in his mind when I mentioned the word Library (I think he thought that's where I slept) – in fact he said it twice. Finally I said ‘Look, I'm a fucking librarian – I just happen to work there' I yelled. ‘I have a very responsible job' I reassured him.

After that he was fine, we were back on first names.

So then I ended up telling him everything, the whole sad story kind've. Mostly about old Fe-Fo the red-giant, about him not even having any kind of a job – only being interested in my wife's inheritance (he laughed out-loud). Maybe it's me, for some unknown reason he thought it was really funny. Somehow or other, him being a professional man I'd expected more. Mind you, at least he listened, that's something. So then I said ‘So, in your considered professional opinion Morri – what's my best move?'

He paused, he let out a big sigh. ‘That's a good question' says he ‘She's already beaten you to it if you ask me, one thing for sure, she's getting some very sound advice from some quarters – worth 24 carat gold some people.' I nodded. Then I remembered my erstwhile, so-called best friend, fat Aussie Bland – what's the least
I could expect for strangling somebody (very slowly – with piano-wire?) That ought to have been my next question.

Right at the minute my main concern is about seeing my children on a regular basis. Again, he was sharp as a tack on that one too. ‘Okay-dokey, first off let us assume your ex-wife (he paused) – sorry about that' he snickered. ‘That is to say, your currant wife. She sends them off to school, she keeps them nice and clean, right. Also, another good point in her favour is feeding them on a fairly regular basis – with judges especially. Mental cruelty, that's another, couples who argue – chairs through windows and suchlike. Rather foolishly I'd happened to mention, that one odd incident, that time with the (v.light) chair. Nobody listens, ‘Whoa, whoa there!' I cried. ‘Hold it' I said.

Don't worry I stopped him right there – what about my side of things?

Nobody listens – he'd got it all wrong. So then I said ‘Ask anybody you like, we were an ideal family before that home-wrecker came onto the scene of things. Everybody said that. They'd come up to us in the park, complete strangers I'm meaning, “What beautiful children!” they'd say – one lady especially, “May I take your photograph? I hope you don't mind, it's for my husband. He doesn't even believe some folks can be so happy and contented, not even in the whole wide world,” she'd say.'

‘Wow. How about that, it sounds idyllic.' You could tell he was impressed.

‘Complete strangers I'm meaning. Hard to believe I know. Cynthia used to like going over to the park – me too. “Fancy a stroll?” I'd say. Ask anybody you like.'

‘Hey, that's really nice.'

‘It's a true story. May flowers never prosper on my mother's grave.'

Next thing you know, then he's telling me my times up: ‘Listen brother' he says ‘could you put on a bit of a spurt. Sorry, otherwise I'll have to start the meter. It's how I make my living.'

Bastards – they're all the same. I hung up.

Everything had gone really quiet. Then when I look everybody in the whole bar is staring at me. I wiped my eyes with my coat-sleeve.

‘What …?' I said.

Next thing Asian Kenny, then he piped up ‘Don't worry, I cried too – When Alisha divorced me I cried for a whole year… Okay, maybe it was Sayeeda …'

Everyone laughed, this started everybody, jabbering away at once. Vinny next to me nodded, ‘Let's face it, women always win no matter what, it's a well-known fact.' Harry the butcher agreed ‘Not in a fucking hundred. Take my word – even my own lawyer, he did more for my wife than me. I swear to God. Not in a fucking hundred' he repeated. ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw' they all went.

After that it all got rather silly. Big Oggy right behind me guffawed loudly into my ear, ‘Haw, haw. Haw, haw – you can have my wife, anytime you like' he yelled,
everybody laughed. Others further down the bar fully agreed. ‘Me too' Me too!' ‘That goes for me too.'

After that it all ended up rather jolly. It just shows.

*
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6:00pm. Stupendously dull day at work, the only thing that's kept me going is the Poetry Society meeting scheduled for tonight. Only to find it's been cancelled, yet again right at the last minute. Gabriel B.T. who else. He sent his so-called garden-lad round with a note. Instead it turns out he's having a big bonfire party up at the Grange – not that yours truly got an invite anyway. No doubt he still thinks it was me who called out the fire-department last year I'll bet. Mind you, he won't be saying that, not if the wind changes and ends up burning down his house. No, they'll all be calling me a hero then I expect.

More bad news, the Mondeo's playing-up again. That's all I need – she's making a v.perculiar noise, kind've (wuckle-wuckle, wuckle-wuckle) – it's hard to explain.

That's all I need.

However, some good news at least – about my new job I'm meaning. It turns out the reconvened meeting with
H&H, over at County Hall must've gone better than I thought. It just shows. Frankly, in my view at least, I was as gormless as a billy-goat. Old Docket stopped by to confirm it personally – according to him they were both highly impressed, so he said. So, there you go, what mighty embellishments he'd chucked in we'll never know. I start in the New Year. At lunchtime Thelma went out to buy a special cake and a bottle of champagne to celebrate – which was lovely in a way. Somehow or other it's all been a bit of an anti-climax (she's right, no doubt I should be over the proverbial moon). I mean I do try. Nobody understands, all these mood-swings I'm meaning – it isn't something you can just switch on and off willy-nilly.

This is what I keep trying to tell her.

What happened, she'd spotted me, sitting on the parapet wall of the old Three-arched drovers bridge on her way home, in the bus headlights (‘Looking disconsolately down into the black swirling waters below') – her words not mine. She phoned me up the minute she got home. Thelma was very worried – it's all very flattering I'm sure (‘in a kind of trance' she said). I've already told her, I'm no longer a suicide risk, not as far as I'm aware.

What's the point, truth told, there's only six inches of mucky beck-water, that's at the most. Knowing my luck, chances are I'd only get myself entangled in somebody's cast off super-market trolley, badly bruised (either that or an embarrassing groin injury more like) where's the dignity in that. That's all I need – no thank
you
very much.
However, on a lighter note, I've invited Thelma out to the theatre. Waiting for Godot by old Samuel Becket. It's on at the Grand over in Leeds – I do hope I've done the right thing. Too late, it was out before I knew it, what with the euphoria about landing my new job and what have you (I wouldn't mind I really detest the fellow) – it must've gone to my head a bit I expect.

What happened is old Docket had a few complimentary tickets going spare – perks of the job I suppose. It's something I'm going to have to get used to I expect. It goes with the territory – it's a bit like having your own personal designated parking slot, away from the trees in the executive car-park. Out of the bird-shit I'm meaning.

He shoved a couple into my top-pocket ‘Give these a good home' he says. He touched the side of his nose with his forefinger, then winked conspiratorially ‘That's just for starters' he said in a whisper. All the same, gift-horses and all that, speaking of which I've been waiting for a good opportunity asking him if he'll be leaving his pool-table. There again, you don't want to be pushing your luck too far do you.

Mind you, in all fairness we were given the choice, either that or instead we could've had the option of centre-stall seats to go see Oklahoma over at Cleckheaton Congregational Chapel, performed by the renowned Underhill Pageant Players. However, I'd like to think I'm pretty much
savoir faire
with most dramaturgy right across the board, basically I suppose I'm a knife and fork, middle of the road kind of theatre-goer. Arthur Miller, maybe
Streetcar or Virgina Monologues say – something you can get your teeth into.

What really started it all off, I'd over-heard Gabriel B.T. spouting on about it a couple of times over at the pub. ‘You must come along one evening' he bellowed down the bar. He was in raptures, (mind you he'd go gaga over Popeye the Sailor if somebody told him it was art). Don't you worry, once was enough for me – not that I'd fit in with his goofy sycophant cronies anyway. Sat up in his private box, everybody guzzling champagne, chucking soft-centres at each other – laughing at his feeble jokes. No thanks chummy I thought.

Surprisingly enough Thelma hedged a bit right at first – well, more than that, it was a resounding no. Indeed, we ended up having a rather big debate, (quite a brouhaha in fact). More, it would appear we were hard up against the knotty problem, what to do about Eric's supper it seems. No wonder I stared.

What did I think? (I declined to answer). What had I started – I was beginning to wish I hadn't even bothered I'll tell you. Problem indeed, in short would Eric compromise? For my sins, I suggested making do with Brown Windsor soup in a flask with a Co-op bread-cake (which incidentally I personally thought was a spiffing idea). Not to mention it'd've saved Thelma the laborious task having to cart everything up to the top shed in the pitch dark.

Thelma shook her head doubtfully.

Somebody had to say something. Finally I said ‘Look here, you're doing him no favours, dancing to his tune every time – it'll only make the lazy sod even worse.'

Just as I thought she'd no answer for that one.

What finally settled the matter, she hit on the brainwave idea of simply putting his dinner inbetween two plates, under a low light.

F it I thought, no doubt you'll please yourself anyway.

‘Good idea' I said, by this time I'd've agreed to anything. She can put his stupid head between two plates for all I care.

All that, then on closer inspection, now it turns out my so-called ‘free tickets' are in fact only valid for the less-abled (I'm stymied at every turn). Now I'm worried about getting a decent seat. This is the trouble Thelma's a Virgo, she'd never even dream of making out she's got a gammy leg, putting on a bit of a limp – it's more than her life's worth.

Personally speaking I'm past caring. Either way it's next Tuesday – so now it's up to her.

*
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*

6:00pm. Home early. I've arranged to take the kids bowling. (I've left Thelma holding the fort at work.) Not that she looked overly pleased – it doesn't seem a lot to ask. She's only to turf out the local vagrants, lock-up, and
fasten the chain across the car-park! Mind you, it's nice to know you can depend on somebody at least.