It Always Rains on Sundays Read Free Book Online Page B

out on the kids, tugging Lucy’s hair like a mad thing – poor little bugger, her head nearly came right off – I said I’d do it.
    All this not speaking, it’s really doing my head in. Though, what really pisses me right off, her, using the kids as a go-between I’m meaning, e.g. ‘Tell your father if he’s looking for a shirt he knows where the ironing-board is.’
    Both kids looked at each other.
    â€˜Tell her I’m going to the effing pub!’ I yelled.
    ***
    Then I got a better idea, instead I’ve been busying myself making a fool-proof hiding place for my new Poetry Journal. This is the trouble with people like Cynthia – you never know where she’s going to strike next. I’ve cut a hole through the floor-boards, out in the conservatory, the idea is to kind’ve slide my grandmother Cloughs old mahogany chest of drawers over the top of it. Why didn’t I think of it – it weighs a ton.
    Meantime I’ve been sorting through some of my old poems. This is Cynthia, this is before we were even married. It just shows – she couldn’t get enough of me in those days:

    Give me a sign …

    Colin, are we an item, are we ad-infinitum,
    Or are we both wasting our time?
    We’ve been going out for a year thereabouts,
    All I ask is you give me a sign.

    My best friend at work. Yvonne, she’s a clerk,
    She and her Raymond’s only gone out a short time.
    They’ve got it all planned, they’ve put up the banns,
    Mind you, it’s yonks since she saw a sign.

    I’m starting to doubt what loves all about,
    Is it love or is it just lust?
    All you do is grin – you don’t hear a thing,
    And, would you please take your hand off my bust?

    It’s not really enough to be your ‘bit of stuff’
    Just going to bed when you feel inclined.
    Even if the answer is no,
    I just want to know,
    All I ask is you give me a sign.

    Show me a sign it said – she’s chasing me right. Know what, I’ve a good mind to show her that. We were married a couple of months later at the local Methodist Chapel (much to the bitter disappointment of my mother I might add). We had a small family get-together at the Assembly Rooms, followed by a (so-called) honeymoon – a wet week in Llandudno in North Walesin a two-star hotel. We’d to move out after a couple of nights because of the seagulls, keeping us both awake with their incessant screaming pre-dawn chorus.
    ***
    Avril came round later on (she was looking a bit worse for wear too come to think). Cyn took her through to the living-room while they waited for the kettle to boil. No doubt showing her my bit of handiwork over the chimney-breast I expect.
    They were having a good laugh over something that’s for sure.
    Rightaway Avril plonked herself down on the sofa, pulling her legs under her making herself at home. Soon after that they picked-up where they’d left off the night before, both drinking lager out of cans.
    She saw me looking, she tugged at her skirt, then giggled, ‘Hair of the dog’ she slurped, laughing her nanny-goat crazy laugh.
    I swear to God, she has the stupidest laugh in Christendom.
    Next thing the music goes on – only really loud I’m meaning. Not that it bothered them. They just talked right over it, you could hear everything. They were having this deep discussion all about, what Avril kept calling ‘boob enhancement’ (I saw Jamie’s eyes widen). However, from what I could gather she’s waiting for her insurance money to come through – going by the sounds of it she’s quite a list – it’s as if she’s trying reinvent herself, literally bit by bit.
    There’s no holding her these days – she’s out of control. She’s trying to speak nicer too, her voice is softer – sexier too. One thing she’s perfected already is speaking in quick breathy gasps – I can’t