It Always Rains on Sundays Read Online Free PDF

around I’m assailed by summer fragrances, summer flowers, scents of roses, hollyhock nodding … so peaceful, a bower of utter tranquillity … I’ve started a poem:

    SUMMERS EVENING … (A FRAGMENT)

    Oh, little house on DeLacey Street,
    Safe hid midst deep suburbia.
    Gay borders, flowery-tubs doth compete
    With porch – a garland of wisteria.

    Nah, maybe not – what a pisser! (I’ve kicked it into touch). This is the trouble, my minds all over the place. There again you can hardly be expected to be churning-out tip-top quality poetry in the middle of a domestic upheaval. Cynthia’s just been in – you could tell she was in one of her moods. She poked her head round the door, she was brandishing the frying-pan I’d used the day before (I must’ve caught it a bit). ‘Stupid sod!’ she yelled at the top of her voice. Big deal, an accident. Too late, I tried to think of some smart comment. Next thing she’d chucked it clean through the window out into the garden (luckily it was open). ‘Oh, grow up’ I said – ‘well, what else do you expect. Some wives cook for their husbands.’
    Just as I thought she’d no answer for that one – she flounced out slamming the door behind her.
    ***
    2:30am. Look at the time, Cyn’s just got in, I could hear her, thumping her way up to bed, waking the whole house. There’s me wide awake, tossing about on a rickety camp-bed all night – dawn about to leap over the window-sill … No doubt she’ll be straight off to sleep the minute her head hits the pillow.
    3:15am. Just thinking. Cyn I’m meaning. I was just wondering that’s all, all alone in that double bed upstairs … would she have need of me? There again, maybe not (she thinks I don’t know) all that sexual machinery she keeps stashed away in her bedside drawer, sex aids I’m meaning. Nah, no chance – why risk it.
Wednesday 22nd July.
W.H. Davis 1871-1940.
 
What is this life if full of care ,
 
we have no time to stand and stare .
 
(Lost Leg?)
DeLacey Street.
(Post-one).
    8:00pm. (CONSERVATORY). HOT DAY (nice and sunny for a change). Another long (v.long) dull day at work – (no, I mean really dull). That’s libraries I expect – books in, books out – same boring routine day after day. This is the trouble nothing ever happens. What if say, old Docket was suddenly discovered having oral-sex with Ms. Walker his flat-chested P.A. behind the Social Services section? Or, maybe Kirsty and Shiraleen, caught inside the lift in a passionate embrace?
    There again all this scorching hot weather we’re having, that doesn’t help – not when you’re stuck indoorsall day. My mother phoned me this morning (this is at work I’m meaning) the times I’ve told her about that. How many more times – it’s only for dire emergencies I reminded her.
    There was a pause. ‘This is a dire emergency’ she assured me.
    She’s in desperate need of some fresh yeast. It turns out it’s the Annual Sisterhood Tea, round at the Salvation Army hut. They’ve sprung it on her at short notice. Fair enough. Mind you I’m always a bit wary. I could do with my mother, somehow or other there’s always some strings attached. Next thing, then she’s telling me it must come from Ivy Crow’s stall, right at the far end of the Market-hall. ‘Oh, and a bottle of malt vinegar’ (I was right). ‘That’s if it’s no trouble, it’s next to Trotters tripe stall. Tell her your Ada’s lad, she’ll know who you are then’ she added.
    Pretty soon I had a list as long as your arm.
    There was a long pause. I was hoping she’d finished (old Docket’s just about due on his morning rounds). Suddenly she said ‘We’re all in for an Indian-summer by all accounts – it was on the six o’clock news this morning.’