It Always Rains on Sundays (58 page)

Then it turns out they were having a Hawaiian Night round at the Mechanic's Institute, evidently it's all in aid of this African village (no-one can pronounce the name) they're hoping to raise enough money to buy a nanny-goat – it'll be a bit of company for Horatio the donkey they donated the year before.

Typical I thought, all she cares about is her own selfish hedonistic night-life if you ask me – coconut-shells for one thing, that, and where she can get hold of some raffia-grass at short notice to make herself a hula-hula skirt.

She came out of the kitchen, nibbling a cracker. ‘Any chance of a sausage sandwich mother?' I said. No answer, instead she stomped off upstairs (‘To rummage through my drawers' she yelled.) ‘What about me? What about me?' I cried to the ceiling.

Her voice shrilled through the floor-boards ‘Grow-up Colin!'

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12:30pm. Wonderful news. I've been celebrating over at Tony's Tavern, Thelma's won the poetry competition (I still can't take it all in). Aftertaste of Honey, I stuck it in without her knowing. Nobody else knows, everybody had to use a nom-de-plume – all I could think of is The Dark Lady, Shakespeare and all that, it sounded rather mysterious I thought. She'll be over the moon I'll bet.

Trust Thelma to miss out on her big night. Mind you,
maybe it's just as well (new member and all that) it's bound to cause a bit of friction in some quarters. What happened she'd had to go over to Clitheroe to visit her sister Pauline (on an errand of mercy she called it). Only, now the latest is there's a v.strong possibility she's fallen preggers (again?) She's hoping it's a simple calendar mix-up. No wonder she's worried, she's already got three kids – each to different fathers I might add.

So much for dancing smoochies with muscular builders from Accrington I thought.

God knows what colour this poor little sods going to turn out. I thought I'd only thought it, I must've said it. ‘Why? Have you a problem with that?' Thelma challenged at once. I shook my head. Sometimes it's easier to lie. ‘None whatsoever' I said.

About the P.S. meeting. I wouldn't've missed it for the world. There's never been anything quite like it, not even in the long history of the Middlesmoor and District Poetry Society, going back to the early thirties. You could feel the tension, standing-room only. Everybody filled with excitement, waiting for the announcement in eager anticipation.

Meantime, our excitable chairman was running around here there and everywhere like a headless chicken – in fact the whole thing was starting to get to him you could tell.

Things weren't going to plan, everything was running late. Unfortunately, the mayor and mayoress,
who'd been invited to do the honours had been double-booked. It turns out, it'd been a toss-up between the Poetry Society prize-giving – either us or else the Moorsiders and District Glee-singers annual pantomime. (Little Bo-peep as it happened). Though, what probably swung it in their favour is the novelty kudos of having an all-male cast I expect.

Luckily instead Angela Headstone, the elderly widow of the late and highly regarded Vicar of Briarmoor, a rather sweet, elderly white-haired lady with a dicky hip (also almost stone deaf it turns out). She'd very kindly agreed to step into the breach at v.short notice. They'd to send a special car fitted with a wheel-chair ramp, all the way over to the Harrogate Hydro (both ways) – so, what all that lot cost maybe we won't ask.

Frankly it was all turning into a bit of a farce if you ask me.

Meantime something made me look over at the long centre-table, Gabriel Biggar-Titte, seated in his usual high-backed carver-chair, resplendent, wearing a new (v.expensive looking) cream dinner-jacket and crimson bow tie. Surrounded by all his usual sycophant cronies. His eyes rested greedily on the large ornate silver trophy, raised up on a dias as a centre-piece just in front of him, brightly polished silver, gleaming seductively under the Morano chandelier – waiting for the lucky winner.

Wishful thinking or what? Horrible, horrible – was he expecting to win? (
what a pisser that would turn out to be
). He caught me looking at him. He nodded, smiling thinly, then turned away.

That's all I need. Anybody but him – even Ivy Duff.

Finally, they were ready to make the announcement. Everyone waited with baited breath, everything went quiet – all eyes were fixed on the piece of paper shakily held in the widows veiny hand, her thin falsetto voice seemed to fill up the whole room… ‘And, the winner is … ‘After-taste of Honey' she exclaimed.

Next thing there was an eruption of loud spontaneous applause, there was a pause (in my head there's a loud gasp) ‘God, that's Thelma's poem!' Everybody started talking at once, they're all wanting to know who wrote it. Gabriel arose from his chair, his hand went up waiting for silence. He nodded. She cleared her throat, her voice came loud and clear. ‘The Dark Lady' the old lady announced. Everybody clapped.

Next thing, everyone's jabbering at once, staring around. They're all wondering the same thing, dying to know who this mysterious, so-called ‘Dark Lady' might be.

‘Dark Lady – hey, that's Shakespeare isn't it?' the man next to me said. ‘So, where is she?' a voice piped up. Like I said, I can hardly believe my own ears. What stopped me I don't know – it was right on the tip of my tongue.

Nobody coming forward to claim the prize, this changed things. Gabriel B.T. wasn't too happy that's for sure – (bad enough that it was a woman) his whole table in fact, shaking their heads, huddling together, whispering in deep consternation.

Gabriel's beside himself, things were going from bad to worse. Rightaway he was up on his feet, he tapped his
glass with a spoon, trying to restore some kind of order. ‘People, people!' he cried. He waited for complete silence, he said ‘Well, I don't know about you people. However, the rules are categorically simple – no winner, no prize I say.' Not everybody agreed, already there were murmurs of dissent from several quarters – a few booed. Gabriel looked visibly shocked, (he could see he was losing it). ‘What I might suggest' he began to say, amid loud shouts of protest (‘Down, down, show of hands' they all cried). His voice got even higher ‘We have to have a proper presentation after all' he shrilled in protest.

However this time he was shouted down. This was a matter for the whole committee. Gabriel's face was a picture, he looked as if he was about to burst into floods of tears ‘No winner, no prize! No winner, no prize, that's what I say' he wailed. They all huddled into a hurried confab at the far end of the room. Then, after talking it over between them they came to an unanimous decision. There'd been a democratic vote and a worthy winner had been chosen – as for claiming the prize, who knows. They might not even know about it yet, there could be many reasons – illness for one thing.

Time to move on, that meant delegating someone to read out the winning poem – surprisingly enough that honour had been bestowed on diminutive Caroline Snegg's the tiny-voiced primary school-teacher (an incongruous choice I'd've thought). That said I was proved wrong, after a shaky start she came through with flying colours. Excellent in fact judging by the enthusiastic ovation she got at the end.

No doubt about it Thelma would've been very proud.

Indeed, a good choice of poem most people thought. Not so Gabriel Biggar-Titte, of course. His whole table in fact, that goes without saying. He positively hated it, you could hear his voice above all others ‘Sentimental doggerel rubbish – bad enough that it rhymed' he exclaimed (amongst others), calling it ‘utter tripe' and ‘pathetic drivel.' His cronies seated around the table all agreed ‘Hear, hear. Hear, hear' they chorused.

He poured himself a stiff drink. He lifted his glass, and said ‘cheers,' he gulped it down in one go. He shook his head, nor had it helped any ‘That a bloody woman' had won it, he repeated, adding, ‘And, even that stupid cow hadn't the common courtesy to turn-up' he lamented loudly.

Mind you, if I'm being truthful he'd been a bit tight-faced all night come to think. Others had commented too, ‘All week more like' Rita Elmwood chipped in who runs the local newsagents. So then it turns out that the doll-like new girlfriend Friedka liaison was in fact well and truly over already, she's got it first-hand from one of the cleaning-ladies that worked up at the Grange. Serves him right I thought – who could blame her. Nobodies so much as set eyes on the long flaxen-haired young damsel in over a week. That's not lasted long I said to myself gleefully. Hopefully she's had the remarkable good sense to scarper for good. More likely she's been picked up by Social Services – with a bit of luck they've sent her back home on the next bus.

Poor old Gabriel. Everything was going wrong, I tried to catch his eye, he nodded vaguely, trying to smile but
didn't quite make it. He shook his head, his fingers absentmindedly traced over the fancy scrollwork of the silver trophy just in front of him.

He sighed, then took a big drink from his glass.

This isn't how he'd imagined it, it was a big disappointment all round in fact. What's wrong with people he must've thought – all that mix-up over the Mayor not turning-up too, or even Councillor Patel and family come to that. He'd let him down too (he'd promised him faithfully) – he'd even shook hands on the steps outside the mosque.

Again, he sighed. There was a sudden burst of raucous laughter from the table over by the door. I followed his gaze. ‘RESERVED FOR PRESS AND GUESTS' it said (no doubt that's something else surplus to requirements he must've thought). He raised his glass, offering a thin smile to the lone reporter, and even younger photographer sent by the local Examiner office – some hopes I thought. They were both well away going by the sounds of it, his booze no doubt. Not that there's much to report so far. I could just imagine the headline: ‘WHO'S THE MYSTERIOUS DARK LADY?'

Again, there was another roar of loud laughter from the same table. He stared, barely disguising his look of contempt – talk about rubbing it in. Luckily he'd had the foresight to keep his best 76 claret (etc, etc) well out of the way, downstairs in his well-stocked cellar. That's some consolation at least.

He refilled his glass – not for the likes of that tribe he no doubt thought.

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MY BIRTHDAY (that's the stupidest song ever if you ask me). God, how embarrassing – 42 cards! Two from the kids, also one from my dear mother. That's not counting one from Auntie Agnes, that says ‘Get well soon!' (no doubt her hearts in the right place). All the rest are from my mother's Sisterhood Guild. Mind you, it's always nice to be prayed for I suppose.

No card from Cynthia I notice?

First thing my mother's in my room, opening up the curtains – blasting me with bright light. She'd brought my breakfast up on a tray (a boiled egg with a smiley face and toasted soldiers). ‘Who's a lucky boy then!?' she yelled. What made it worse, then she's telling me she's organising this big party for me round at the Sisterhood Hall. That's all I need, there's nothing I hate more than birthday parties.

Don't you worry, luckily for me I had a really good excuse. I'd already said I was taking the kids downtown to buy Christmas presents. She laughed heartily, then pushed back her denture. Even better she enthused, it'd give her more time to get things organised for tonight.

Trust it to rain on my birthday. Thelma had made this
surprise picnic lunch, includeding a cake and a candle. Undeterred by the weather she still insisted we go out onto the roof, we ended up under a golf umbrella, bracing ourselves behind the chimney-stack out of the wind. However, what dampened it even more is Thelma's cool reaction regarding having won the poetry competition. ‘I thought you'd be pleased' I said.

Anybody else they'd've been over the moon I'll bet.

‘‘The Dark Lady of the sonnets'' I repeated – I still thought that pretty clever. ‘Yes, I know who Shakespeare is' she said sharply. She was more preoccupied picking her way into a pomegranate if you ask me.

We drifted into silence, looking out at the steady drizzle.

‘Then there's the cheque, don't forget that' I said.

She shrugged, it could've meant anything. She turned to face me ‘Colin, you don't appear to understand – winning's wonderful. It's about what's in it. That's what bothers me. Everyone knowing, or at least making a good guess, about … well about – ‘

‘About you, having it off with the guy next door you mean?'

She flashed me a look. ‘Oh thanks, such eloquence. No wonder you're a poet' she said dully, delving into her pomegranate.

She's right, I hadn't thought about it from that angle.

Not too surprisingly the rumour-mills were churning already, everybody dying to know who this so-called ‘Dark Lady' might be (some more ludicrous than others). Alison for one, I'd heard that from quite a few people myself. That being the case no doubt Gabriel B.T.
is still trying to work-out which of his neighbours she's supposed to be having an affair with exactly. Let's face it he's only got one, his close friend Adrian Topham who lives right across over at the old Manor House. However, that does cloud the issue somewhat, him being as queer as a proverbial nine bob note.

After that I deliberately changed the subject. ‘I've arranged to take the children shopping for Christmas presents' I said. She shrugged, then smiled for the first time, showing lots of pink teeth ‘Sooner you than me' she commented.

That's how it got left.

Thelma was right, taking the kids shopping it isn't a good idea – never again (finding someplace to park for one thing). Shops brimming over with over-jolly shoppers, everybody pushing and shoving, long queues – underneath it all they're all bristling with attitude you could tell. Same goes for the kids, only worse, within half an hour they're yelling insults at each other in great earnest. Finally we decided to call it a day, we ended up buying holly-decked gift vouchers for everybody, end of.