It Always Rains on Sundays (23 page)

It just shows – they were my ace-card. I was counting on them, my last ditch. One final scene, each in turn, begging me to stay, hanging onto my leg, hot tears, lots of yelling, ‘Daddy, don't go, pleeeeeze! Don't go, don't leave us. NOT WITH HER.'

Though if I'm truthful, I suppose part of me was still half-expecting Cynthia to change her mind. Instead, everybody is really happy, reggie-music flooding through the whole house. It's as if everything's normal, you'd've thought they were sending me off to the beach for the day, it's like a jubilee day – there's no dignity hardly at all. They're all helping me load-up, cramming everything into the Mondeo. Everybody smiling their heads off, then waving me off.

Don't you worry I won't forget that Cynthia, not ever.

It keeps coming over me like a big wave.

Three miles as the crow flies, it might as well be three thousand.

I've phoned twice already.

‘It's me Colin.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘How come, how did you know that?'

‘Colin, I'm about to go to work.'

‘No. Right. Only I was just thinking. How are things over at your end?'

‘Fine! Everything's, well, fine I guess.'

‘That's wonderful. Um. Good, just thought I'd better check.'

‘What could change – you called me less than an hour ago.'

‘Hey, really? It seems longer somehow.'

‘We're fine, take my word. Everything's hunky-dory.'

‘Fine. That's great, really great… Colin – over and out, right?'

‘Sorry? Pardon me?'

‘You sound so near that's all.'

‘I am – it's just up the road. I'm surprised you use a phone, you could shout at a pinch.'

‘Hey good' I said (heh heh) always the joker, right? Right, fine, I'll sign off… Fine then, that's really nice. How's the kids, not too upset I hope?'

‘Uh? About what? They're fine also, both fine – just like before.'

‘How's the cat?' I joked.

‘Sorry?'

‘No, I just wondered that's all.'

There was a pause. ‘Brian's fast asleep on the sofa, I'll tell him you were asking, okay. He's fine also. Look, I have to go.'

‘Listen (
how can she be so cold?
) Cyn, listen, I can't find my, um … My in between my toes thingamy. I've looked everywhere.'

‘Toilet bag? Have you looked in your toilet bag? It's with your asthma spray.'

‘Hey, right. Thanks, the one with the flowers, marigolds I think.'

‘Marigolds? No, that's your shoe-stretchers. You'll have to unpack.'

‘Right, you're right. It's me, I ‘ve been putting it off I expect. Cynthia, look. Listen, I've been thinking.'

‘Colin. I have to go. I'm running late already.'

‘Oh, right, listen. I've still got my old bed. Amazing, right?'

‘Really? Well I'll be. Oh, that's nice.'

‘You think? Me too. I think that's really amazing.'

‘Me too, it'll be just like old times. Listen, I have to go, okay.'

‘Right. Look, maybe I'd better sign-off – phones are wonderful when you think – don't you?'

‘God. Colin, you've only been gone a few hours.'

‘Really? It seems much longer somehow. Okay, have a nice day.'

‘Thanks, don't worry I will – oh, you too.'

‘Uh? Oh, well I don't know about that – you know me (heh heh). Oh, listen good luck driving to work, okay – lookout for the raised manhole – remember, I told you about it. Bastards, I've reported it three times already. This is the trouble, nobody listens. Nobody cares that's why. Listen, this is another, watch out for the Old Penny-bridge corner too. It's an absolute killer, take my word. Remember my accident – it wasn't my fault by the way. I swear on Lucy's life, she hit me. Nobody believes me, I have seventeen witnesses, a whole bus queue. Every single day, you take your life in your own hands, am I right? No, but am I right?'

‘I'll call you later, okay?'

‘Right – go, go, you'll be late for work. Listen. I'll give you a good tip, always remember to give the appropriate signal. IN GOOD TIME – THEN CANCEL.'

No answer. I waited. Somehow it'd gone really quiet.

‘Cyn? Cynthia, are you still there?' I said. Just as I thought, she'd hung up the phone.

How could she be so heartless?

No wonder I'm depressed.

I stared out at the dreary view from my old bedroom window – no wonder. Not a patch on DeLacey Street with its panoramic vistas. Howarth Moor in the far distance, purple moorland as far as the eye can see, set against a back-drop of the Yorkshire Dales. Whereas now, instead we've got a busy road, heavy trucks loaded with stone from the local quarries, waiting at the traffic-lights, throbbing engines, churning out diesel fumes. Fox's Garage over the road, garish neon-signs, swinging in the wind, that went, ee-yor! ee-yor! all night. That's going to take some getting used to I thought grimly. Just to prove my point, distantly I could hear an ice-cream van, chiming-out Edelweis, getting closer (is that the same time every single day or what?) I closed the windows. Finally I pulled on the curtains, blocking out everything.

Seeing my old room, that didn't help. Nothing has hardly changed – it's like a time-warp, not since the day I got married, same flaking, no-colour bluish walls, shadows where pictures once hung. My eyes flicked up at the ceiling, same damp-patch up in the corner, only bigger, like a map of India.

Mostly books, I heaved my cases onto the narrow bed, still vaguely familiar with its faded quilt, propped up on one corner on a pile of Knowledge is for Life encyclopaedia's. No doubt a fight with my older brother Alan over something or other.

Mother tries to put on a brave face, (as ever), stoic to the hilt. This is the trouble, I'm right above the kitchen, you can hear everything. Odd times you'll hear loud laments and wild accusations, also suppressed anger – I'd to use both hands to undo the hot-tap. She always knew it would all come to a bad end, she keeps saying. Though, mostly she bites her tongue and says little, though occasionally you might hear the odd bad word, e.g. ‘that bitch' or, ‘brazen hussy.' Maybe it's me, part of me thinks she's a bit pleased about the whole thing if you ask me – put it this way, it hasn't stopped her singing Jerusalem around the place I notice.

Nights are going to be the worst – I know I won't sleep.

1:30am. Look at the time. Talk about the longest day – I'll say. Cyn's even stopped answering her phone – I've stared at the phone till it rocks. Meantime I've had more time to think. She planned the whole thing. Though, mostly I blame Avril, she's a really bad influence. Mind you, I'm lucky they didn't do me in and have done with it.

Right now I'm angry (
very
) who can blame me, I've given that woman the best years of my life – she casts me aside like a pair of old worn out boots. Now look at me, I'm pathetic. I'm made to feel wretched by her coolness
towards me, my resolve tempered only by memories of happier days of yore.

One consolation, I still have my poetry at least. This is the trouble I can feel the bitterness creeping in already, (it's just what I've been afraid of). All this pent-up, vitriolic anger, smouldering deep within me like a volcano, e.g:

Bitter Ending

Mother, clear the small back room

Make-up my old blue bed.

I need a place of peace and gloom,

Somewhere to lay my head.

I'm coming out of quarantine,

She treats me like a dog –

(etc etc)

That's as far as I've got – no doubt more will follow!

*
*
*

What's the point of it all? Feeling very Mondayish – I've phoned in sick. In fact, the way I'm feeling right now, I may never work again!

Three letters! Living here post is my last link with civilisation:

Letter (one): ‘Christmas in Lapland' it says. Oh terrif.

‘Three nights in an authenticated igloo, inc. Elec, and FLUSH TOILETS! etc etc. Plus a husky-dog sleigh-ride into the midnight sun. MEET SANTA IN PERSON! Back in time for NEW YEAR!'

Nah, maybe not – the way things are going they ain't gonna be any NEW YEAR.

Letter (two): Eeek! From Edna Batte (Mrs.) Torchlight Publications. London.

‘Dear Colin (just a polite reminder) we're still waiting for your final decision. What it is (just to put you in the picture as it were.) Rowland Peach, our head of printing, is just about due to take his annual vacation, usually he likes to take his Robin Hood Forager tourer caravan down to St Ives – it would tie everything up very nicely from our end of things.

Quentin sends his best regards.

Edna Batte (Mrs.)

Executive Editor.

P.S. Why not take advantage of our current 10% discount?'

Letter three: From old Herbie Tribe. Wow – he's been
offered a job at Cambridge (a professorship no less). Not that I'd blame him – hard to believe, he actually lives on what he makes from poetry (four kids! – scary I call it). Take it I cry! I'm sending him some more poems.

*
*
*

8:00pm. God, I'm down – I couldn't be downer even if I tried. Even at work, everyone's noticed how glum I've been. Even old Docket stopped to have a word ‘Oy cheer that face up' says he. ‘You'll be scaring off the customers at this rate' he added. Mind you he's right, it's no good feeling sorry for yourself – I mean I do try. Why burden people with my petty troubles that's my motto.

Sometimes it's as if the whole worlds against you. At lunchtime Thelma had planned a picnic lunch out on the roof – even that little perk (curtailed to say the very least). What's happened is they've finally started repairs up on the flat roof. Meantime we're having to put up with hoards of workmen clod-hopping all over the place, spraying tar and what have you. How long that'll last I don't know. God, they're an uncouth bunch. What with ogling the girls, making crude innuendoes – the final
straw, somebodies phoned up, they'd spotted a guy,
urinating from the roof
. What next I wonder?

It makes you feel ashamed to be a man.

So now I'm worried about the birds getting their feet stuck.

‘Why not go down to the basement?' Thelma suggested. Who else eh – why didn't I think of it? Trust old Thelma to save the day.

‘You're very quiet today Colin?' Thelma commented after a lull. I nodded.

No doubt she'd sensed something's amiss I daresay. You can tell, I hardly even touched my fish-pie, normally I love beetroot. Mind you I'm surprised she hadn't twigged already. Odd-times she'd catch me off my guard, despondent, sitting on the floor behind the counter with my head in my hands. Looking through family photos out of my wallet – happier times, in days of auld lang syne I'm meaning. Oh, I wish…

That's another thing too, she never pry's (I haven't told her as yet). Early days – I could even be back home this time next week. Like I say, matter of fact questions, nothing but, ‘Did your wife get home alright? How about the children, Jamie and little Lucy, did they all enjoy their holiday over in Orlando too? I'll bet – playing in the sunshine all day. I'll bet it was wonderful.'

Bless her I thought (even remembering their names too) – how many right?

We went into silence. ‘They weren't sick on the plane then – sooner them than me. It's a long trip after all. Onetime I've been sick on a plane myself. No thank you,
it's horrible, and that was only to the Isle of Man. I wouldn't wish it on anybody, not even my worst enemy. No thank you' she told me conversationally.

She was only trying to take me out of myself I suppose.

Then she tried to start up a conversation about poetry – that didn't work either. ‘Oh, you've no need to entertain me' I said, adding ‘Cyn isn't remotely interested in poetry one bit. We might as well be on different planets. Onetime I was telling her all about Poets on the Underground. Cynthia thought it was something connected with coal-miners.'

She nodded, then shrugged.

It gets even worse, almost in the same breath, then if she isn't telling me she's moved back in with bloody Eric (I was a bit taken aback to say the v.least) she saw me look. Again, she shrugged. ‘Well, I've been giving it a lot of thought lately' she said ‘anyway, we've both agreed to let bygones be bygones. Give it another shot kind've, simple as that.'

There's even more, nor does it end there – not only that. Anyway, then it turns out they've just had an overnight tryst in a motel near Leeds in the honey-moon suite no less, called the Golden Cock. Oh, tra-la I thought (apparently it's the worlds capital for growing rhubarb) – it all sounds very exotic I'm sure.

Oh well, you'll make up your mind in a bit, I thought.

Time to go back to work, she picked up her bag. ‘Oh, nice one. Good for you' I lied.. I followed her up the stone steps, absentmindedly looking at her legs. She
turned, ‘Eric said it's the best night he's had in his entire life' she giggled. Silly woman (oh pleeeeeeze, spare me the gory details I thought). Talk about twisting the bloody dagger I thought. This is the same man that stays up all night, waxing his giant-sized marrows don't forget. Try as I might I'll never understand women.