It Always Rains on Sundays (57 page)

This is the trouble, he's such a downer over just about everything.

Something lighter I thought – I tried changing the subject: ‘Oh, by the way Calvin, how's that Thai bride of yours?' Trust me to say the wrong thing. He sighed. ‘Bloody Norah – not you as well!' he exclaimed crossly. (I'd struck a nerve.)His face scowled under the flashing street lights. ‘Don't bloody-well ask' he said, then added ‘There's no pleasing some people. I've bent over backwards for that woman. I've even shaved my sodding chest, Thai food, dragon tattoos – you name it. She spends half her life on the bloody phone, rattling away,
talking to her stupid mother over in Thailand. We've called it a draw – I've thrown in the towel., enough is enough.'

‘Sorry to hear that Calvin – pity,' I said.

His voice came out of the darkness, just behind my head. ‘Not divorced yet then?' I shook my head. ‘No' I said.

What's it to him anyway I thought.

‘Don't blame you mate – you're well shut if you ask me.'

He was really starting to get on my nerves.

What got me, next thing if he didn't start complaining about the car. ‘Phew. Jesus Christ, it's bloody hot in here pal I'll tell you that' says he. Tell me something I don't know already, I thought. ‘Fords are well known for it – especially Mondeos. Ask anybody you like,' he continued.

Mind you he's a right Johnny know-all if you ask me. All the same he needn't think he can pull my car to bits.

‘My God, I hope it isn't going to bloody blow-up' he piped up.

What stopped me I don't know. I'd all on not to turf him out by the side of the road (plaster-cast or not). Now he'd reminded me it felt hotter than ever – I'd to keep wiping the windscreen. After that I daren't even take my eyes off the temperature-gauge, I'd to keep wiping the wind-screen with my sleeve. ‘Hell-fire' he suddenly exclaimed. ‘I can hardly breath – I hope you know your bloody engines boiling-up pal,' he yells.

Just over the brow of the next hill I stopped the car to fill up the radiator. I cranked down the window to let out some steam. Outside it was blowing a gale, cold
sleeting rain, slanting off the fells, rattling against the glass. I climbed out of the car. I showed him the plastic water-container I always carried just in case. I stuck my head in ‘Oy. Anymore out of you and you're out – got it?' He nodded ‘Bad leg or not. OKAY?'

After that we drove on in complete silence.

4:30am. In my notebook I've put ‘Message in a bottle.' I keep having the same recurring dream. That's what woke me, it's really strange. Cynthia who else, even in my sleep she's still there, dogging me everywhere I go … Summertime, everything's peaceful, a beautiful sunny day I'm lying on the beach, kind've dozing in the sun … high sun-lit clouds … white shimmering sails, like galleons, scudding over the Atlantic of clear blue sky …

This is when I see Cynthia, she's wearing this long white diaphanous gown, walking along the sea-shore, leaving her footprints in the sand. All of a sudden she spies this bottle floating in the sea … she wades out after it. Suddenly everything changes, the whole sky darkens – everything's eerily silent, and no birds sing … There's this distant, solitary figure – a man. Right at first I'm not too sure. Then when I look, it turns out Cynthia isn't quite so alone as I thought. Oh God no – I might've known … Red-top (
skimming pebbles UP the beach
). Who else could it be, yep, it's him right enough.

Too late – I knew it was too good to last.

Meantime Cynthia wades out to retrieve the message-bottle, she holds it aloft in triumph. Alas, this is
where I have to intervene. ‘Hey, wait a sec – not so fast lady' I yell. ‘Who says it's for you anyway?' However, Cyn being Cyn, she refuses to hand it over. She leaves me no choice, I confront her – I kind've wrestle it from her grasp. Finally, I cast the bottle far out in to the sea.

Final scene, we're all standing, three in a row, silhouetted against a fading backdrop of sea, sand and the dark red disc of a setting sun. Last thing we see is the message-bottle, floating further away, getting smaller and smaller … to who knows where … WHAT'S IT ALL MEAN?

Poem: (to Cynthia, a fragment) – of what might've been.

Message in a bottle …

Oh wondrous seas, far distant shores

(Oh) but one word my heart implores.

Ebbing and flowing like time and tide,

Could she but read the message inside …

*
*
*

8:00pm. Mother's hardly speaking, consequencently we ate dinner in silence. Fine by me (Dover-sole for a change – v.nice). All this started over me keeping her awake,
we ended up having an almighty row. Only now she's going round telling everybody I'm not right in the head (‘Men in white coats next!' she cried). Then, on top of everything she's blaming me for making her late for her meeting round at the Salvation Army hut (huffy to say the least). Pity – right up to then I'd had rather a nice day.

She slammed out of the house.

You'd've heard the door slam in Timbuktu I'll bet.

Nobody understands (I waited until I heard the gate). I whipped upstairs to fetch a few cans from my stash, up in the attic. Peace at last, I stretched out on the sofa to watch Simpson's on TV. After the first big clap of thunder I saw her umbrella where she'd left it over by the door. I raced after her. Too late, I stopped outside the corner-shop to catch my breath. Filled with guilt, I slopped back in my carpet-slippers, holding my newspaper over my head, listening to the big spots of rain.

In my notebook I've put: ‘Had lunch with Thelma, v.good! (I THINK I MIGHT BE IN LOVE).'

We went out on the roof. Thelma had found a red ball stuck in the gutter – we started a game of catch. Mind you Thelma is the undisputed worst catcher in the whole world I'll bet. Her wild returns are really something to behold, she had me running around like an idiot. That said, I'm not much better I suppose – I'd even miss the baby for sure. She just stands there, laughing like a hyena, killing herself.

‘Hey, I'm not a friggin gazelle' I yelled out, chasing
after the ball for the umpteenth time. After that things started to improve, we exchanged throws for quite a time. Somehow or other I felt really happy for once, isn't that strange?

Then, all of a sudden she said ‘Oliver's stopped coming to the Operatic Society, I hardly ever see him. His phones off too for some unknown reason.'

‘Oh dear. Too bad,' I said.

She'd made me miss my catch. I trotted off after the ball. I returned the ball. ‘What about us?' I called out ‘me and you I'm meaning.' Her turn to miss an easy catch. She laughed, then loped off, chasing after the ball. She stopped herself just in front of the low parapet wall.

She shielded the sun from her eyes

‘What about us? Tonight you mean – you are coming I hope?'

Mixed-up, she meant old Docket's leaving party I expect. Not that I'm looking forward to it that much (not if it's anything like last time at least). What with corny jokes and long drawn-out speeches, not to mention strangulated vowels, e.g. ‘Thenk queue for caming hoar this heav-en-ing' etc, etc. That said I owe him a lot, the latest is he hasn't been too good – not true (leastways I hope not). Last time I saw him there was a man up in his office, chalking-up a fitting for a new three-piece worsted suit. So, what does that tell you. My guess he'll live for a hundred at least.

She was waiting for me. Somebody had to say something.

‘No, you and me I'm meaning. You're unhappy, or
not very – you've said that yourself quite a few times – put up-able you said. Maybe it's time to make a move.' She shrugged – it could've meant anything. This is the trouble, that's as far as it ever gets.

We continued on with the game. I sent her a simple underarm catch – it went straight through her hands. She chased after the ball, finally blocking it on the re-bound using her foot. She walked slowly back, shaking her head, then said ‘Colin, I can't leave him – not again.' We exchanged looks. ‘Well, not right now at least.'

Typical I thought.

I nodded – well, that's up to you sweetie I almost said. Personally speaking I don't see any problem – (not from what I hear at least). Let's face it, hubby Eric, he's getting more paranoid by the day (or indeed night come to that) – looking for phantom intruders. Thelma stood there in her night attire, holding the lantern, the woman's a born saint in no mistake. That's not counting the more personal side of things (boudoir-wise I'm meaning) alluding to their, shall we say, so-called ‘love life.' Least said on that one I thought. Mind you, not that it was ever all that cracky before from what I hear. So Thelma said, curtailed somewhat drastically I fear (the term ‘groin injury' also ‘strangulated hernia') spring to mind, sustained it would appear by trying to manhandle three-hundred pound pumpkins single-handed into the back of his ancient Landrover, without taking the elementary sensible precautions, (e.g.) Wearing his special belt, or indeed ‘ball-brace' as she so delicately put it.

My guess is it's a lot worse than she's letting on.

Thelma's voice startled me. ‘Anyway, what about you?' she repeated. I shrugged. What is there to add that she didn't already know? We carried on with our game in concentrated silence, throw, catch … (each to our own thoughts) throw, catch … Trust her to throw the ball before I'm even ready – I felt it whizz past my head (too bouncy by far), I hadn't a chance. We both watched it ricocheting off the chimney-stack, heading for the boundary wall – luckily it stopped. I galloped off after it. Soon out of breath, I plonked myself down for a breather … Thelma's voice came distant, ‘Oh, do take care Colin?' I nodded.

Below me, you could see the busy street traffic through the bare branches of the wintry trees – people getting on with their lives. My mind was all over the shop, mostly with what she'd said earlier. No wonder I'm all mixed-up. This is the trouble, she's like a pendulum. What with picnics and pie-making, and I don't know what else. Sometimes she's all over me, then she's saying ‘Oh God – I've just seen this really fabulous little cottage – it's really cute. Just wait till you see it' she's going. So, then, I go just to humour her – usually it's on Primrose Hill or someplace like that, called Honey-pot Cottage, or maybe Penny-pot (onetime there was even a marmalade cat in the front window called Archie) with a winding path and a front porch with pink rambling roses around the door.

Like I said, those times she can't get enough of me – that's women I suppose. Right now it's up to her, right. Honey-pot, Penny-pot or Piss-pot, I'm easy either way I'll tell you.

Thelma waited for the ball – this time I made doubly sure. I sent her a gentle under-arm catch. No problem, she caught it easily on the bounce. She held on to the ball. She'd had more time to think, picking-up from what she'd said earlier ‘Eric's been really good. He's never even mentioned it.' I nodded. No doubt she'd be meaning her Italian lover next door (like I said, I'm a bit ambivalent about the whole thing). ‘Well, good for him' I muttered, part hoping she'd heard me. She returned the ball. I paused. She clapped her hands waiting for the ball, I threw it back. Thelma hadn't a chance (
too hard by a mile
) the ball flew past her head, zipping away, bouncing over the asphalt, angling sharply, finally disappearing over the low parapet wall. We exchanged looks, then peered gingerly over the edge, just in time to see the tiny red ball rebounding off the roof of a passing taxi-cab.

We both laughed, in turn startling a bunch of argumentative rooks in the top branches of the bare wintry elms – at once aghast, wheeling away, squawking into the wind, black rags against a cold December sky.

My arm tightened protectively around Thelma's waist. She smiled, then flushed, she squeezed my hand, turning towards me ‘You're very bold today Mr. Quirke' she said quietly. I turned, followed by what turned out to be a long lingering kiss.

Old Docket knocked on his window, then pointed at his watch.

*
*
*

6:30pm. Home early, there's a Poetry Society meeting, scheduled for to-night (that's unless his lordship decides to cancel it right at the last minute). If I'm being truthful I'd been rather hoping Thelma might've put in an appearance – somehow I v.much doubt it. An emphatic N-O in fact. Oh, well, please yourself ducky I almost said. Frankly, I couldn't care less.

Massive post! Cynthia's been round with my backlog of accumulated mail (it was all in a pile behind the door when I came down). This is what she's like, she's like a thief in the night, nary so much as even a knock on the door. Sadly and alas it looks like my ‘Message in a bottle' poem I sent her has all come to nought I fear (talk about pissing into the wind – I'll say). ‘YOU WANT PUTTING IN A BOTTLE YOU STUPID SOD!' she'd scrawled across it in big red letters. Mother found me kneeling behind the door on the doormat, wailing loudly with my head in my hands. She'd just got back from her all-nighter hospice vigil over at the Immaculate Sacred Heart of Mary. Not that she cares (her supposed to be a bloody Christian too). She was running late, she walked straight past me, nary so much as a second glance. Don't you worry, all she's bothered about is the bloody kettle not being on. Nobody
understands – what's somebodies marriage anyway, my petty little goings on don't matter I suppose, they are but as chaff in the wind.