It Always Rains on Sundays

wait. Something’s working, going by the mighty turnover of boyfriends, surreptitiously leaving the house most mornings.
    Finally, what did it for me, they both lit up these long black cigarettes with gold tips, the pair of them, languidly blowing out avenues of acrid blue smoke that smelt like smouldering rags. That’s all I need, never so much as a thought about poor little Lucy’s bad chest. Mind you, that’s Avril yet again – Cyn had given up. It just shows – now she’s going through nine hundred a day I’ll bet – that’s at least.
    This is when I had to come out – the whole place was like a kipper-shop.
    Lucy said her pet rabbit Ben needed fresh straw. Frankly I was glad of the excuse I’ll tell you. It was nice to get outside into the fresh-air, at least the rain had stopped.
    After that I thought maybe I’d make a start on trimming my ten foot topiary golden privet hedge – my pride and joy. Somehow or other I always find it rather calming. Not long after, Mr. Heap from over the road came over, trundling his old wooden wheel-barrow loaded with garden tools. He just likes to watch I suppose (his Alzheimer’s getting even worse you can tell) a keen gardener himself once upon a time. Somehow or other, for some unknown reason his unwavering stare was really starting to get to me – if I’m truthful I was makinga right old tit of it. I wouldn’t mind, that’s a job I usually love doing. Somehow I wasn’t in the right mood one bit.
    Finally, I sent him home. ‘Go home Horace’ I said.
    He stared gently. I repeated it ‘Go home Horace, there’s a good chap’ I called from my lofty perch. I watched him wondering off over the road (un-heeding of traffic) trundling his old wheel-barrow, garden tools rattling. He turned into his own gateway, his wife waved ansiously from the front porch – it’s sad. I waved.
    It started to rain. I sat in the conservatory staring at my reflection in the glass. I tried writing, again I hadn’t the right mood – I ended up doodling a diggy poem about Avril next door:

    Avril, Avril – are you on the pill?
    How generous you seem with your favours.
    Cars pile up your drive – we see them arrive,
    You might at least think of your neighbours.

    Finally the rain stopped, the sun slanted through a break in the clouds. I decided I’d take the kids over to Stoney Bank Street to visit their grandmother. Much better than being stuck in doors all day, a walk in the fresh-air, it’d do us good. Just because me and Cynthia have had a bit of a tiff, there’s no reason depriving the children of a happy family outing I thought.
    Their faces dropped a mile. You’d’ve thought she was Cruella. ‘Oh nooooo!’ they both moaned – this is a lonely old widow-woman (I hadn’t even mentioned walking) dying to see her grand-children. No, they’d far ratherwatch gremlins on TV, stuck in their rooms all day. That’s Cynthia, poisoning their minds – spoiling them rotten, coercing them with lurid promises of Chicken-lickin nugget suppers and such like. This is what she’s like.
    As things turned out maybe it’s just as well – I came back even more depressed than ever. There’s nobody home (that’s what it looked like), curtains drawn – the whole place looks deserted, strange I thought. I knocked even harder – still no answer, also the side gates bolted. I’m starting to get a bit worried. You start to think all kinds of things. I remembered the door-key hanging on a string behind the door. I ran round the back, then clambered over the wall.
    I made my way through the semi-gloom into the living-room. There’s an eerie silence, the fire had sunk to almost nothing, it was grey and dead looking. That’s a first I thought (even the clock had stopped). Mother was stretched out on the sofa, she fitted exactly end to