It Always Rains on Sundays (49 page)

‘Look. Cyn, maybe you should sit down, it's just that I've got some great news to distribute, very important news. No well, what it was was – ‘

‘Wait, don't tell me. About, concerning your poetry you mean?'

‘Ah huh. Guess so, prick up your ears baby. Only, the main reason for calling you up at this late hour – just when you're planning to go out to some ritzy, high-class dinner-party over at the mayor's house. What happened is – ‘

‘What? What for Godsake?'

‘Finally, it's happened at long last, my breakthrough.'

‘What? Tell me you fool … Colin, wait, don't tell me … could this by any chance be the ultimate goal, the culmination you've been striving for at long last. All those years of self-sacrifice – which incidentally, now that I mention it finally destroyed our hum-drum, jog along, stuck in a rut. Albeit, happy enough by most people's standards – worth salvaging marriage by any chance?'

‘Uh huh. Guess so I guess. Cyn, the biggy. I've won the BIGGY.'

‘Holy cow. OMYGOD THE BIGGY, imagine that.'

‘Wait, there's more. Then, there's my new job, promotion at long last.'

‘Holy mac – new job also he tells me – what next?'

‘Uh huh, I thought you'd be impressed.'

‘You're right, I'll say – I'm transcendent. Hey, I'm glad I sat down.'

‘Finally huh?'

‘You bet. Wait till I tell them. Listen up everybody, I have some great news to impart, okay – somebody turn-off that crappy, so-called music. Finally, at long last Colin's come up with the biggy. Amazing, isn't that amazing?'

‘Me too, THE MAUD MARY MAY-HOPKINSON duo-prize for short rhymed verse, not exceeding more than twenty-lines in total length.'

‘You-are-kidding? Glory be – The May-Hop prize, what next?'

‘I have the letter right here in my hand – finally, the fruition of all my nocturnal labours, at long last.'

‘Golly, aren't you the big shot.'

‘Uh huh. There's more, plus also my very own keepable forever inscribed trophy, namely a silver ink-pot, complete with quill-type pen, e.g. usually depicted in popular pictures of one Will Shakespeare no less – need I say more. Oh, and the money also, he added modestly.'

‘Jeepers – I'm agog. That's really cool.'

‘Not only that honey-bunny. That also means I'm going to be published, that also means I can call myself a poet at long last.'

‘Holy mac. Wait till I tell them, they're all dying to hear. Okay guys, I am delightfully overjoyed and also very proud to announce, that Colin – by sheer fortitude and determination, ahem – not to mention talent (no wild all night partying and carousing for him, right). No sir. However, by dint of true Yorkshire-grit he's finally achieved the recognition he so richly deserves. Wait for it, Colin has won the Maud Mary May-Hopkinson duo-prize for short rhymed verse not exceeding more than – how many Col?'

‘Uh? Twenty, twenty lines in total length.'

‘Right. Twenty-lines max. How about that?'

‘Money too, don't forget to tell them about the money.'

‘Wow. Hey – hear that gang. Money also, isn't that amazing.'

‘Thanks. Well, I knew you'd be pleased.'

‘Damned right. Oh, Kevin says how much money?'

‘Uh. Five hundred. Cynthia, this isn't about money.'

‘You bet – this is what I said. Wait a sec, Kevin says, would that be hundreds, or are we talking thousands?'

‘Hundreds dope.'

‘Hundreds dope.'

‘This is about art, it's about carefully chosen words on a blank piece of paper.'

‘Too right. American's, why does it always have to be about money?'

‘That's because were British – it's about literature, it's in the blood.'

‘Too right – the man's a scholar. I never doubted it.'

‘Hey, really?'

‘Why would I lie?'

‘Maybe it's me – that lurky-durky doubt sometimes, y'know.'

‘May flowers never prosper on my mother's grave.'

‘Let's face it, you've had a lot to put up with.'

‘Pish – this is what I keep telling people. So, okay, a man paces around the garden at odd hours of the night, staring up at the moon – so what. Leave him alone, he's trying to think. They should try talking in rhyme, that's what I say.'

‘Gosh – you were always my golden spur, and that's a fact.'

‘Don't mench, where would we be without poets?'

‘That's true certainly. Am I really so bad to live with?'

‘I was hoping you wouldn't ask.'

‘Maybe you're right, chairs flying through the windows, right?'

Huh. ‘Poets wives – sharing your disappointments. All those years or rejection, it rubs off – they feel it too.'

‘You're a real star in no mistake.'

‘Thank you I'm sure. There could've been a lot more – who do you think dug the trap for the postman? Believe me you don't even know the half of it.'

‘Those who stand and wait, right?'

‘Maybe you should think about that.'

‘Right – hey, what about that time I wrote that poem on the living-room wall.'

‘Awesome, will I ever forget. I howled.'

‘We laugh now, right.'

‘What about that time you missed my parents funeral?'

‘Uh huh. Don't worry I was never proud of that.'

‘How about that, a double funeral – it's a bit much.'

‘Sometimes I really hate myself.'

‘Lucy's christening, you missed that too.'

‘God – did I really? At least I turned up later.'

‘You're right – what's a couple of days.'

‘It's unforgivable.'

‘One thing for sure, poets are not as other men, and that's a fact.'

‘What about my Poetry Journal that time?'

‘How many more times, that was a pure accident.'

‘Twice? Some accident – three times if I hadn't chased after the salvage truck. Six months work, that's at least.'

‘Think about it, maybe I did you a big favour, after that you wrote better – you said it yourself. Wasn't it Shakespeare who said, wait, I have it right on the tip of my tongue …'

‘Shakespeare? Nah, I would've remembered that for sure.'

‘No wait. No I'm wrong – maybe it was Marcel Proust.'

‘Cynthia, you read Proust?'

‘Uh huh – sure I do. Why be surprised, it's right there in front of me, on top of the stove. It's the only chance I can get to work on my Open University dissertation – it's for my P.H.D. Anyway, blah-blah, another story. It's based on Darwin's theories of evolution, it's called KNOWLEDGE OF THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE, subtitled The Inner Workings of a Woman's Mind. If you really want to know, it's the culmination of my private research pertaining to the nocturnal behaviour patterns of primates, e.g. Men I'm meaning – only this time, purely from the distaff angle of things.'

‘Wow. I'm really impressed.'

‘Aw, the heck – remind me to give you a copy. Right now it's at the British Museum, it's being perused by higher minds – which reminds me, wasn't he the guy who said, “He that readeth and writeth even unto the darketh hours of the night in pursuit of knowledge is ever unblindeth?” Or, maybe it was somebody else.'

‘Holy moly – sorry. I pass on that one.'

‘Don't worry, I know the feeling. After all, what's knowledge if it isn't shared with the common proletariat, right. After you left I took a long hard look at myself – I guess I'm trying to catch up. It's as if all of a sudden I've only just discovered I have a brain.'

‘I'm amazed – what can I say.'

‘Uh huh. I really owe it to myself. Literature I find opens up so many new doors, don't you agree. Drama
especially, it's been quite a revelation I'll tell you. Also, I'm kind've into philosophy – you should try it, it's a scream.'

‘You've really opened my eyes Cynthia.'

‘Thank you I'm sure. Me too, right at the minute we've got this almighty big debate going on all about dramatists generally – the whole class is involved. Chekov, Ibson, Stringberg, etcetera etcetera. Fundamentally it's all about their dysfunctional lack of humour, y'know. Consensus being somewhat divided. Finally, we had this secret ballot, basically it's a toss-up between having these long dreary, really depressing dark winters. Either that, or constipation – it's about half and half I'd say. Maybe you can throw some light on the subject?'

‘Um. That's a toughy. Food for thought certainly.'

‘Personally speaking I'm going for haemorrhoids, but's that's me.'

‘I'm amazed.'

‘Uh huh. Me too – all of a sudden it's as if I've metamorphosed into a kind've more rounded human being. You know what I'm trying to say?'

‘Cynthia – I'm agog.'

‘Thank you. Listen' –

‘The owl looked up at the stars above

And sang to a small guitar.

O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love

What a beautiful Pussy you are –'

‘“You are, you are! What a beautiful Pussy you are.”

Hey, poetry too. Wow, imagine you knowing that. How wonderful.'

‘Uh huh. Do me a favour – it just shows, a couple of months back I'd've probably said you were talking rude. That's if you get my drift. Sure I do, and a few others too, mostly by heart. Also, I'm pretty much
au fait
with each of Shakespeare's 156 sonnets I might add – well okay, give or take.'

‘You mean … Really?'

‘Uh huh. Or mas o menus as we Spanish speakers say.'

‘Gosh. Wait, you're wrong – in actual fact I think you will find there's only 154 – sorry.'

‘Don't worry so do most people. Used to be, right.'

‘You mean?'

‘Uh huh. Again, that's debatable. Only, now we think we've dug up a couple more. That's what comes from rummaging through erstwhile, so-called ‘lost archives' on wet weekends I guess.'

‘Golly – I'm stunned.'

‘Uh huh. Tell nobody, keep it under your hat, okay.'

‘I'm amazed.'

‘Thank you I'm sure. Mind you, if I'm being truthful it's all down to you. Thank you for pointing me towards the rich rewards of English Lit – truly I'm forever in your debt.'

‘You can but try I suppose.'

‘Uh huh. Tell me – let's face it but for you, chances are I'd've ended up unfulfilled, a mere run of the mill house frau, an embittered school-run mother, day-time TV soap-opera buff. No doubt thick as a post no doubt.'

‘Hey, steady on Cynthia, that's a bit much.'

‘You think? Okay, skip it, how's the Mondeo these days anyway?'

‘Aw, y'know. Okay I guess.'

‘Only, I've been meaning to ask. I still miss her – a lot.'

‘I'd an idea you might. You know what, if I'm honest I still miss the old one too.'

‘Happy days eh. We had some happy times – kids loved it.'

‘Sure did – oh, you bet. Oh listen, remember my squeak. I've finally cured it.'

‘Good man. I knew you would – finally eh?'

‘You'll laugh – turns out it's a little plastic duck.'

‘Well, I'll be – what next. Duck eh?'

‘Squeak, squeak. Silly really, small thing I know – all the same.'

‘What's silly? So, where's the crime – you happen to be a proud car-owner.'

‘Maybe I could do with a change. She's a really nice car basically. Don't get me wrong, I also like jazzy four-wheel drive pick-up trucks too.'

‘You surprise me, at least you don't need a fire-chute to get out of the bastard.'

‘Ha ha – good joke.'

‘What joke, it's the gospel truth.'

‘Maybe giving her a new paint job. Samatra Red – bit bold right, for me it's bold. ‘I'm seriously thinking about fat tyres.'

‘Sounds pretty cool.'

‘You know me, it's deciding. I have shirts still in their wrappers.'

‘Go for it – live dangerously for once.'

‘You think? I'm still kind've teetering, y'know.'

‘Do you still pull onto the hard shoulder so people can smoke?'

‘Uh huh. Odd times I do. Though, if I'm truthful it's a lot harder to find smokers these days – it's lamentable in a way.'

‘Listen. I have an acquaintance at work who smokes the occasional Menthol. Remind me to ask her. I think maybe she'd be really interested.'

‘Hey, thanks. I owe you one.'

‘Don't mench – at least it'd get her out of the smokers shelter.'

‘Cynthia? Aw, nothing I guess.
(God you're attractive, I only hope that you are truly appreciated that's all)
. Look Cyn, I have to ask. ARE-YOU-HAPPY? Tell me the truth.'

‘Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh, heh – ‘

‘That bad eh. Sorry, it's just – I had to ask.'

‘Kevin Ranker is a work-shy lazy bastard, that answer your question?'

‘Now you mention it, I admit it had crossed my mind.'

‘Oh c'mon, and the rest.'

‘Tough. So soon eh, tsk tsk.'

‘Don't get me started, okay. He's a lazy lump, end of. All he ever does all day is watch sports channels – slouching in front of the TV, surrounded by pyramids of empty beer-cans, sat in his favourite armchair – bouncing his friggin ball.'

‘Too bad. I'll bet it's the genuine brown leather with
the motorised foot-rest – I'm not surprised. Once upon a time it used to be my favourite chair too. All the same I thought he looked pretty fit – maybe I'm wrong?'

‘Yeah, me too. This is the trouble, nobody knows him, the guy hardly moves – it's the next stage before rigor mortis.'

‘Gosh.'

‘I should've listened – you did try to warn me.'