When It Rains, I Think of You

It’s as well I live alone. I must look a mess, slumped on the sofa in my pyjamas, eyes glued to the television news with my hand never more than a centimetre from a whisky bottle. The bottle’s contents seem to be evaporating at an alarming rate. I’m sitting here alone, talking to an old photograph as if you might reply. I always think of you when it rains, and I’m certain you’d think of me too… if you could.

You would remember the day we met. You were running through the swirling wind towards the bus stop by The Bell in Hounslow when your umbrella betrayed you, wrenching itself inside out. I offered to let you share mine and took you to the Magpie & Crown in Brentford, so you could warm yourself and dry off in front of the fire. In truth, it was as much an excuse to talk to you as it was an act of kindness. I’d been stealing glances at you for weeks on the 237 bus. Did you ever realise it wasn’t my stop? Not my bus, even. Once we both got off in Brentford High Street, I always crossed the road and caught the bus back to travel home via a different route, vowing that tomorrow I would summon the courage to talk to you. If you knew, you never let on.

Then there was that picnic in St Paul’s Recreation Ground. How suddenly the skies opened! We scooped everything up and ran, unwilling to trust the trees with lightning flashing around us, and ended up huddling beneath the bus shelter by the County Court. My memory flashes back to that day every time I happen upon the same smell. The dusty stench where the summer dirt oozes out of the pavement, blended with its liquid liberator. I coined the word urbichor for it, the urban cousin of petrichor. I’m sad it never caught on. Imagine little old me, name-checked in the OED.

We stood there drenched. The rain had matted your hair into wet rats’ tails. With your eye makeup running like ink, you looked like a character from a horror film. I can only imagine what I must have looked like. Standing in silence, with the rain hammering against the metal shelter roof, you seized my face and shouted, “Let’s get married!” Not a question. A command. I either didn’t notice or dismissed it as shouting over the storm. It seemed only natural to agree.

And who could forget the wedding? It rained without pause. Your mother’s face mirrored the sky, dark and angry. Her (and your) plans for an outdoor do in the Waggon & Horses’ garden ruined by a combination of rain and your Uncle Simon’s cheap canopy, which leaked worse than a sieve. I remember the gruff mutterings and resentful glares as the guests shuffled their way inside the pub for the hastily relocated reception. By evening, we all reeked like wet dogs, staring at soggy sausages on the buffet table. Most families would have laughed about days like that after the event. Not you or yours, though. It was shameful. Something to sweep under the carpet and never speak of again; like the syphilis your grandfather brought back with him from the war.

Then there was the honeymoon. Something you’d not considered when you arranged a summer wedding and honeymoon was that it coincided with Goa’s monsoon season. I wandered along empty, rain-slicked streets, mesmerised by lush greenery and abandoned temples. Sunsets burned across the sky, breathtaking in their bold colours. You, the beach lounger, experienced none of it, instead preferring to stay inside the hotel sulking. You spoke perhaps a dozen words all fortnight, as if I controlled the weather and deserved the blame.

Rain marked every memory of our life together. I should have noticed the signs, heeded the messages in the sky. But I was young. Reckless. Blind.

Rain even enveloped your mother’s funeral. We had arranged the reception at The Swan Hotel in Staines, as it was a short walk from our house along the river. Later that afternoon, however, after a few too many gins, you stood in front of all our friends and relatives to make your speech. I distinctly remember the sound of the rain thudding against the window as you swayed and tottered, with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, while announcing that with your mother’s inheritance, you no longer needed me. The sharp glare of hostility you shot at me as you slurred about how I had taken the best years of your life. Instead, you planned to travel the world, chase the dreams you abandoned at eighteen. Once they had recovered from their shock, everyone was so sweet and supportive, even more so when you never returned. Your sister still comes by to keep me warm during those weekends her husband pretends to be away on business so he can bed his assistant in a cheap hotel room.

The rain has me thinking of you tonight. These storms have been awful, with no respite for nearly a month. Rivers overflowing their banks; train lines closed; in some areas, this downpour forced some people to row to their local shops. When I arrived home from work and turned on the TV, to my astonishment I realised the news was focusing on our old street. Mr and Mrs Johnson’s house in particular.

You would remember them, I’m sure. Two doors down; that enormous dog the size of a small pony; the lime green Chelsea Tractor. This afternoon, half of their back garden succumbed to the storm and disappeared into the Thames. As I watched the grainy security footage showing their garden slithering into the river, I had to choke back tears. Hours later, I’m still sitting here, transfixed by the 24-hour news channel and thinking of you. I hope the rain stops tonight and desperately hope this awful weather causes no more damage.

After all, if that landslide continues to our old garden, there’s a good chance they’ll find your remains. And that, my dear, would be most inconvenient.