It Always Rains on Sundays (51 page)

‘Fingers crossed, eh. Maybe you heard about me too I expect?'

‘Uh huh. You mean about landing the top job – well, I did hear a whisper.'

‘Dam, I've been trying not to spread it around.'

‘It's the talk of the whole town just about.'

‘Really? Gosh, you heard about that? That's secrets I guess.'

‘Kevin's jealous as hell – he's thumping the walls just about.'

‘There you go – what more can I say.'

‘He's as green as an Irish old penny.'

‘At last, my own office with a view over the whole park.'

‘Why not, you've always been a good and faithful servant.'

‘That's true – hard to imagine, my own personal toilet too.'

‘Knowing you, you'll appreciate the extra space I daresay.'

‘It beats pissing in rows that's for sure.'

‘Heh, heh. What a card, listen. It goes without saying, it's been really nice talking to you.'

‘Me too, times a hundred – it's been really wonderful.'

‘Well, goodnight – sleep tight princess.'

‘You know what, nobodies called me princess in quite a while.'

‘Really? You do surprise me … (sings) …” go-old-en slumbers kiss your eyes, smiles caress you when you rise. Sleep pretty maid-en – ‘

‘Oh, you character you. Look, I have to go, okay. Like I said, it's been nice talking to you. Call me again, anytime you like – I'm at your dispersal (get it) – heh, heh, heh.'

‘No prob – don't worry I will. Meantime, I sincerely hope you both hit it off.'

‘Don't count on it – his stupid head more like. One thing for sure. I'm not wearing plaits, not for him or anybody else for that matter, and that's a fact.'

‘Cyn? Cynthia, hold on a sec.
(God you're attractive, I only hope that you are truly appreciated that's all)
. Cyn, are you still there? … God you're attractive, I only hope that you are truly appreciated that's all. Cyn. CYN ARE YOU STILL THERE?'

Too late she'd hung up.

*
*
*

What a night – I've hardly slept a wink. Then, on top of everything I've just had Cynthia on the phone, ranting on – wanting to know how come I haven't been over to pick up the kids. I must've over-slept.

Trust my poor old mother to pick up the phone, poor soul (shouting distance of being an octogenarian!) She caught the whole tirade. Her face was ashen, she handed me the phone. I just caught the back-end, ‘Tell him he needn't bother. Knowing him, he'll still be sleeping off a skinful after an all-night session over at the bloody pub I expect' I heard her say sarkily.

She hung up the phone.

Things just go from bad to worse.

Earlier on she'd had little Julia Roberts, the three year old from next door, helping her to bake ginger-bread
men (not that I hold much with giving kids all this film-star treatment anyway). Onetime our wheelie-bin man, he went by the illustrious name of Winston Churchill – it didn't do a whole lot for him that's for sure. After Cyn's yelly phone-call (that put me in a sour mood for a start) – who could blame me. Next thing, I drove off in a bit of a temper. Unfortunately I accidentally ran over little Julia's baby-dolls head, squashing it flat with my nearside wheel. She yowling the house down.

Sometimes I panic for no reason: ‘Back off kid!' I yelled.

Next thing, half the streets out. Everybody shouting at once, its pandemonium (word must've got out already). You should've heard them. They really hate me you can tell, it's getting pretty scary I'll tell you.

Luckily this is when my mother showed up, just in the nick of time. Rightaway she scooped her up into her arms, she fetched her indoors, jiggling her about, trying to pacify her. Mother tutted, shaking her head. She's blaming me for everything. Little Julia agreed, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked at me with her round, solemn brown eyes:

‘Bad man, bad man' she lisped.

Nobody understands (you feel really awful). ‘Look, I'll buy her a new one' I offered. (That went down like a lead balloon), it made her even worse. Finally, I was sent out of the room in disgrace. I went up to my room to get changed.

Then when I came down my mother's standing in the doorway, wearing her uniform ready to go to the
morning service round at the Salvation Army hut – she was waiting for me. It reminded me, in a v.weak moment I'd kind've half-promised I'd go with her. Her mouth stayed in a straight line ‘What if Jesus had changed his mind just because
he'd
over-slept?' she said bitterly.

After that, I shot over to DeLacey Street. Too late, they were already piling into the car. Nobody gives you a chance to explain. ‘Sorry I'm a bit late' I said. Cynthia was driving – (very wise I thought). She gave me a cold look. She swung her legs up into the chrome-laden pickup truck, completely ignoring me. Instead she stared right ahead, giving her make-up a final check in the rear-view mirror. Red-top nodded, then laughed for no reason. I kind've half nodded.

Finally, she turned. ‘We
were
planning on having a nice quiet bistro lunch over at the Marco Polo brassiere with some friends' she jabbed in icily. Anything to get at me. She opened her hand-bag. ‘Anyway' she continued loftily ‘rather than disappoint the children entirely we're reverting to plan B.' She turned, ‘Hey guys, how about us all going to the Stock-car racing?' she suggested. Bulls-eye. Natch, both kids were highly delighted (yippee!) They both cheered.

I stared glumly – I wouldn't mind it was the first sunny Sunday we'd had in yonks.

Mind you, who'd want to go with boring old Dad anyway. One thing for sure, it made my five mile nature ramble along the canal towpath look a bit yucky. She
broke off mouthing her cherry-red lipstick, then said brightly ‘Who knows where we'll end up. Maybe we'll all end up at McDonalds – who's for McDonalds?' Another big cheer went up.

She looked at me smugly, then turned the key, the engine responded with a loud throaty roar. Everybody waved like morons. They shot off down the driveway, honking the horn, squeezing into the busy Sunday afternoon traffic.

What a bitch – then you wonder why I hate her.

This is what she's like, anything to make me look dull and stupid. All I know is when somebody takes your kids off for the day you don't expect to see them head-lined on the local TV six o'clock news, right. What happened, some idiot must've got this stupid idea they'd all abseil down this highly dangerous rock-face over-looking the beach. Next thing you know they all end up being cut off by the tide – how bright is that? Finally they have to call out the emergency services – sea rescue, police-helicopter, the lot.

Don't you worry, rightaway I'm on the phone in hot-blood. Cyn just laughs. Nobody sees the danger, this is what I said, ‘What next I wonder – a little fire-walking maybe? How about chainsaw juggling, or maybe bungee-jumping?' I suggested. ‘Hey, good idea' Cynthia gurgled. What a hoot kind've, nothings ever serious. Everything is just one huge joke to these kind of people (I tried to think of something smart). ‘Over my dead-body' I said. ‘Hey, good idea' she tittered. Everybody laughed, you could hear them in back, laughing like a bunch of hyenas.

Then, after a pause, Cyn said ‘You know what, why don't you get a life Colin?' then added sarcastically ‘why don't you go and polish your stupid car or something?' Don't worry I fired it straight back ‘Maybe I will – at least it's better than some kind of death-wish' then added, ‘Don't be surprised to get a call from Social Services' I warned her.

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

*
*
*

6:00pm. Cold, miserable wet day. Raining all day (given the choice I'd've stayed in bed) – the only thing that's kept my spirits up is looking forward to going to the theatre with Thelma.

12:30am. ‘Waiting for Godot' well, okay I suppose – at least Thelma enjoyed it. Mind you, my guess is she was as much taken up just to be out as much as anything else. In fact she was pretty much enthralled by the whole thing. Why be surprised, it turns out it's six years since Eric took her out (call it that), Blackpool Illuminations
on a free rail pass. Though, if I'm being truthful, what really spoilt it as much as anything is spotting Gabriel B.T. and party directly across, up in his private box (trust him to come on the same night). That's all I need, pompous oaf, there he is like some minor royalty, ladling out glasses of champagne, guffawing like idiots.

Trust Thelma, she's as bad, ‘Oh, look who's over there?' she exclaimed over-loudly. I slouched down into my seat, staring at my program, hoping he hadn't seen me. Then, just as the lights went down I thought I'd risk taking a quick look. Too late, he'd already seen me. I nodded. He nodded across, he raised his glass, giving me one of his stupid lop-sided grins he always does.

You watch we won't ever hear the last of it I'll bet.

However, about the play. It's only fair to say, it isn't my favourite – indeed no, not by a thespian mile. This is the trouble I'd already seen it a couple of times before. Somehow or other it'd lost that vital element of the
dramaturgy
so to speak – not that there are any. Let's face it, two guys waiting for somebody to turn-up is v.boring to say the least. Then it turns out he might not even have set off – sorry. In my notebook I've put: ‘Good Godo! NOT ENOUGH ACTION (more cloth than pudding).' Maybe it's me, it lacked something. After the first ten minutes I'm almost asleep – I'm counting the chandeliers. Who cares?

Either A, it needed another act, e.g. (in turn giving the guy more time to arrive) – in turn running the risk of an empty auditorium, or B, it had one act too many. Or, finally C, instead maybe we should've gone over to see
Oklahoma at Cleckheaton Congregational Chapel, with the added kudos of having centre front row seats in the stalls.

Trust Thelma, wanting to stay right to the very end.

Somehow or other she must've sensed my discomfort. Finally she said ‘Colin, there's no point just sitting there making loud tut-tutting noises – it won't just jump out at you' she lectured me at the interval. I stared. She shook her head, ‘You've to fathom it out' she added, scooping into her second (v.expensive) tub of strawberry flavoured ice-cream.

However, as things turned out there was more than enough drama going on back at Stoney Bank Street if you ask me. What happened, just to kind've round off the night I'd invited Thelma back for a night-cap (a large glass of Port actually). All of a sudden there's this loud knocking, strange I thought (I thought I'd heard a bit of a commotion earlier on) there it goes again. Mind you, it was a terrible night, really windy, you could hear the rain driving against the windows. I went to the door, I looked through the letter-box – all I can make out is two pairs of glasses, staring right back at me. Good God, (much to my surprise) there's my mother and Auntie Agnes, rain-mates plastered to their heads, both wet through to the skin.

I went to fetch a key.

They both bustled their way in amid a flurry of wet raincoats, shaking umbrellas. Talk about two drowned rats – I'll say, neither looked best pleased. Who do you
expect at this time of night. Mother had a face like a suffering saint, ‘What's the door doing all bolted up and barred?' she said crossly, taking off her rain-mate.

‘I didn't even know you were out,' I said.

Mother glared ‘Course you did' she muttered. Her fingers stopped halfway down the buttons of her dripping raincoat, staring at Thelma, as if seeing her for the first time. Both ladies looked at each other. Auntie Agnes started cleaning her glasses and said little. ‘Oklahoma night, how many more times – course I have' mother muttered sourly.

‘News to me' I said. She was that way out you could tell.

Mother wanted the last word ‘We've been on about it for ages, haven't we Agnes?' She was more bothered about getting her tight shoes off more than anything else, she plonked herself down on the sofa next to Thelma without speaking – you'd've thought she was invisible.

‘Mother, this is Thelma, a colleague of mine from work – remember, I told you about her.' Thelma smiled. No answer. Auntie Agnes half-smiled, as if not wanting to take sides. Mother grimaced, easing her shoes off each in turn, her eyes screwed-up at the centre-light, no doubt fishing for sympathy. ‘Oh dear' I said flatly, not meaning it.

Just to fill up the silence, then I said. ‘We've been to the theatre.' No answer, then added, ‘She also writes poetry, it's a common interest we both share – very good poetry too I might add.'

Still no answer, instead she stared down at her feet, wriggling her toes as if she was a bit surprised they still worked. She pursed her lips, then said ‘My poor feet.'

Some bloody Christian I thought.

Whereas Auntie Agnes, she was different again, in fact her sunny-like nature sometimes went to extremes. Once she'd grasped hold of Thelma's hand she refused to let go, ‘Thelma you say? Oh nice, very nice I'm sure. Oh
very nice'
she repeated, flashing her new set of dentures.

Mother gave her a withering look, continuing to massage her big toe. You have to smile, mother's petty jealousy, it stands out a mile. Nor indeed has Auntie's latest filming commitments gone down too well either. She's almost a regular nowadays. They send out a special taxi, right to her door, all the way from Manchester – all expenses paid and a free hair-do thrown in. ‘Smiling elderly lady with tea-cup' it says on her script. Right up to press she's only said one line,
‘Oh, thenk qu – is this best butter?'
Neither had her mood blossomed any that the so-called ‘luxury coach' they'd hired had ‘conked out.' Out on the moors, right in the middle of nowhere, or even the fact that she'd had to sit over a wheel, both ways ‘Out in the back of beyond, stuck for two solid hours in the pitch-black' she grumbled bitterly, in her end of the world voice.