“Adi’s home.”
He paused in his scrubbing. “But Mum said you had to stay away from Aunty Karen!”
I nodded. “And I will. But Karen’s house was only where Adi lived. His real home was the Castle.”
The good thing about eating out of the frying pan is that it reduces the amount of washing-up. We were on our way fifteen minutes later, with the cereal sitting heavily in my stomach. It’s only a short drive, so another ten minutes saw us pulling into the car park in front of Delford Vale Football Club’s stadium – aka ‘The Castle’.
Sam got out and leaned on the door, looking up at it. “I see how it got its name,” he said, indicating the false battlements running along the top.
I shook my head. “It was ‘The Castle’ long before that was built. When I used to come here as a lad, the main stand was just a rusty metal shed, with a wooden lean-to for a ticket office. But we still called it ‘The Castle’.”
“Really? I remember coming here as a kid, and when everyone called it that, I assumed it was an actual castle. I didn’t know better until I went to a real castle on a school trip! So why is it called that? Come to think of it, why is it ‘Delford Vale United’ when we’re nowhere near Delford and there’s no vale in sight?”
“I’m pretty sure I told you all that.”
“Yes, sure, but it would have been a few years ago, wouldn’t it? I may have forgotten the details…”
“Or you weren’t listening in the first place! You were more interested in getting ice cream, or a hot dog. Or both.”
“That I do remember!”
I sighed. So much for my attempts to pass wisdom down the generations. Well, perhaps I had a second chance now. “Come this way, and all your questions will be answered.”
I led him towards the stand, but instead of going into the club shop or the bar and restaurant (unsurprisingly named “Adi’s”) next to it, we went round to the side, to a small door labelled “No Unauthorized Entry”.
“Are we authorized, then?” Sam asked.
I entered a number into the keypad next to the door, and it clicked open. “They haven’t changed the access code, so yes.”
We took a flight of stairs up to the first floor, and entered into a large room full of display cases and cabinets, lined with photographs and team banners. The Vale colours – yellow and purple – were everywhere: on flags and scarves and ribbons and signed shirts of different styles.
“Trophy room,” I explained. “And club museum.”
“Wow. Impressive. Reminds me of your office, only more so.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not much of a collector. All I’ve got are a few things Adi or other players gave me over the years – just a few signed balls, some photos. And Adi’s shirt from his first FA cup final.”
“And the cricket bat.”
“Yes, that’s probably the only thing that isn’t football related. Not signed by Adi, of course!”
A woman popped her head out from behind a cabinet containing signed footballs. “Excuse me, we are closed at the moment. Can I help you with something?” She did a double take. “Oh – Graham! Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you.” She came towards us, smiling. “And who’s this young man you’ve brought with you?”
“This is Sam, whom you may remember as a cute little lad who was always charming you out of sweets. Sam, perhaps you remember Angie? She’s the curator and resident expert in all things to do with The Vale.”
Under thick chestnut hair, Angie’s skin was starting to look a little worn, I thought. But then she must have been in her forties, I reminded myself.
“Sam? Really? Well look at you all growed up!”
Sam shook hands. “Sorry, I don’t remember you, Angie. Though I think I remember the sweets?”
“You should – you had enough of them! I hear you’ve been off seeing the world. Nice to see you back again.”
“Sam was asking about how The Vale and the Castle came by their names. I’m sure I must have told him, but he either wasn’t listening or forgot it all when he went globetrotting.”
“Oh, well you’ve come to the right place for answers! Come and look at this.”
She marched off to the far end of the room. Here the photographs were black and white, or even sepia, and the club colours more faded.
“1902,” she announced. “Castle Vale Football Club, quarter-finalists in the FA Cup, where they were beaten 2–0 by Nottingham Forest. A huge achievement for what was just a local team. Mostly farm lads from the villages along Castle Vale, which was a couple of miles south of the town, back then. It’s mostly housing estates and industrial parks now.” She indicated a grainy picture that showed two rows of serious-looking young men in long black shorts and striped shirts, most of them with impressive moustaches.
“They were dirt-poor, had to have a whip-round in the local pubs for the money to travel to the venue. But they had magic in their feet.”
She pointed to another picture. “This was them in 1903. Didn’t do so well in the Cup that year – came up against a top team early on – but see that silverware on the ground in front of them? Mid-Counties Challenge Trophy. They barely conceded a goal that season. They won it again in 1904, along with some other county and regional competitions.
“But in the meantime, there was another local side that wasn’t doing so well.”
The third photo showed a team in white shorts and hooped shirts. They were flanked by a portly gentleman in a top hat, and the moustaches were even more luxuriant.
“Delford Mills FC. Unlike Castle Vale, they had a bit of money behind them. Sir Randall Delford, owner of the Mills, was a bit of a sports enthusiast. Very athletic in his youth, apparently, and liked the idea of having his own team. So he bought some suitable land on the edge of town, had a pitch laid out, built a stand, and recruited some likely lads from his factories.
“The only problem was, they weren’t that good. Well, to be fair, they weren’t terrible. They did win a few matches, here and there. But they had nothing like the talent of Castle Vale, who comprehensively beat them every time they met. The Mills’ best performance was when they got to the final of the Mid-Counties in 1904: The Vale beat them 5–0.
“Now, Sir Randall might have tried to rectify that by recruiting the Vale players for his team, but he was a canny man, and he was thinking about the business side of things. He realized that The Vale had already made a name for itself, had attracted a lot of local support, and he wanted to keep that.
“So instead, he proposed a merger of the two clubs. Delford would get the players, the players would get a new ground, some proper kit, and they’d get paid as well. The new club would be fully professional and what’s more, they’d have a good chance of getting into the Football League. Sir Randall had heard rumours that the league – just two divisions in those days – was going to be expanded to twenty teams in each division, and he wanted to be in on that.”
Sam laughed. “So Delford Vale United! Obviously. That way Sir Randall keeps the name and gets the publicity.”
“To be fair, he was making a big investment as well,” Angie pointed out. “He bought the land that we’re on now, had a new ground laid out, with a proper stand and terraces…”
“Stand for the gentry, open terraces for the commoners!” I explained.
“… and changing rooms for the players, even! Facilities they’d never dreamed of before.”
“The Vale supporters hadn’t dreamed of turnstiles either. Sixpence to get in was a bit steep when a farm labourer – like most of them that had been following The Vale – only earned a few shillings a week.” I grinned at her: it was an old argument between us.
“But they were joining the League, Graham. It wasn’t just a kick-about on some farmer’s field any more. This was the big time, and Sir Randall wanted the new team to be true professionals. He paid the players well, and they didn’t have to provide their own kit any more, either.”
Angie pointed to the back wall, which w
as entirely taken up with football kits, neatly laid out behind glass. The first in the collection was clearly the oldest – long black shorts and a long-sleeved shirt in greyish-white, with vertical stripes in a sort of dark grey with lilac tones.
“Is it original? Only it’s faded a bit,” Sam said.
“Oh, yes, this was one of the shirts worn in that first season. Back then they didn’t have the colour-fast dyes we have now, and they boil-washed the kit after every match. But originally those stripes were purple, reflecting the colours of Sir Randall’s family crest, and purple has stayed The Vale’s colour ever since.”
“And the ground became ‘The Castle’?”
“A bit of a local joke, at first. They called it ‘Randall’s Castle’. But the ‘Castle’ bit stuck.”
“How did they do?”
“Not bad at first.” Angie waved her hand at the team photographs, the tattered tickets and programmes, the signed footballs. “They won promotion in the 1908–09 season, and held their own in Division One. They never managed to collect any silverware, but they always seemed on the edge of it, and the locals packed the ground for every home game.” She threw a glance at me. “In spite of the ticket prices.”
“They were new fans, though,” I pointed out. “Not the farming folk that had supported the original Vale. These were mostly town people, with a bit more money in their pocket. But Randall did OK out of it.”
She shrugged. “He was a businessman.”
“That he was,” I agreed, conceding the point. Angie, I suspected, always liked the romance of a noble title and loved the connection with The Vale. My socialist leanings made me suspicious of anything resembling wealth or privilege. But arguing over people long gone to dust seemed pointless.
“Not bad at first, you said?” Sam asked. “What happened next?”
“The war happened. The Great War, as they called it then.”
One end of the room was dominated by a large picture of the War Memorial, taken on Remembrance Day in 2005 – the hundredth anniversary of the club’s founding. I remembered it well. I’d been there. In the picture, Adi was laying a wreath.
Angie looked at it wistfully. “Three of the names on there were Vale players. But many of those who came back never played again. Some were wounded, some had their lungs damaged by gas, some were just too traumatized. Oh, they recruited new players and The Vale went on. But it was never the same. The old magic was gone. For the next sixty years, the team just hung on. A good season was when they stayed around the middle of the League: a bad one was when they went down.”
I nodded. “That’s what we grew up with, me and Adi and every other local kid. The Vale was almost a joke: we still supported them, still went to the matches, but nobody expected much from them. In fact everybody thought that they’d disappear altogether in a season or two.”
“Everybody but Adi,” Angie said.
“That’s right. Adi always thought differently. Even when we were kids, kicking a tennis ball around the school playground, he knew that The Vale would make a comeback. And that he’d lead it. Of course, a lot of schoolboys daydream about being football stars. But Adi never had any doubts. He was going to play for The Vale, he was going to win the FA Cup, the Championship, and every other trophy going. And… he did.”
Angie nodded. “All that silverware –” she waved her hand at the display cases that dominated the room “– all that came with Adi Varney. Two FA Cups, three Championships, League Cup, the UEFA Cup, European Cup, Cup Winners’ Cup…”
“Twice,” I put in.
“… Cup Winners’ Cup twice,” she agreed, “and twenty-three England caps as well! Would have been a lot more, if it hadn’t been for that goalpost hacking him down.”
“Not that it stopped him collecting silverware,” I added. “Some of those trophies are from his days as manager.”
“Sixty years The Vale waited for the magic to come back,” Angie continued. “Then it all came at once, in one man.”
“Not just one man, surely?” Sam saw the look we both gave him. “Come on, he had the rest of the team as well!”
“He did,” I conceded. “And yes, there were some good players. Great players, even. But Adi – he was the inspiration, the motivation, the drive…”
“The magic,” Angie repeated. “And now he’s gone, we’re sliding back down again.” She looked suddenly despondent. “And I still don’t understand why he just suddenly walked away from us. Do you, Graham?”
I shrugged, shook my head.
“You were his best friend, though,” Angie persisted. “If anyone knows why he went, it’s you.”
There was a look in her eyes that I couldn’t meet. “Adi was his own man,” I said, turning away. “Look at this, Sam.” I walked over to a framed newspaper clipping. The paper was faded to yellow, the photograph was grainy, but it was clearly Adi in Vale kit, ball at his feet. The headline was clear as well, big, bold, triumphant letters: “NEW SIGNING SCORES HAT-TRICK”. “Adi’s first game for The Vale, and I missed it! I don’t think I missed many, but I really wish I’d made it for that one.”
Angie sighed, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Graham. I know he hurt you too, leaving like that. I just thought he might have said something.”
“Well, the thing is, Angie, I was wondering if you’d heard anything from him.”
“Me? No. Not a word.”
Her turn to look away, but not before I saw the glistening in her eyes. Nevertheless, I persisted.
“It’s just that I thought I saw him the other day. Not that it was him!” I added hastily as I saw the look on her face. Who knew that hope could be so painful? “That is, I’m pretty sure it must have been just someone that looked like him. But… I just thought that if it had been Adi, then he would have come here. To the Castle, that is. Or at least someone would have heard if he was back.”
She shook her head. “No. I haven’t heard anything like that. I don’t think anyone has.”
“Right. OK. As I said, it was just a lookalike. I can’t imagine that Adi would come back and not come here. Can you?”
“No. But then I never imagined that he’d ever leave, either. Not after thirty years of total commitment, player and manager.”
“Yes. Right.” I glanced round at the trophies and mementoes. Without Adi, the room would have been more than half empty. “I thought I might go up to the bar, have a word with Johnnie, if he’s in?”
She shrugged. “Yes, he’s there. Go and ask him if you like. But I’d advise against it. We all took it hard when Adi left, but Johnnie said that if he ever saw Adi again, he’ll kick away his stick and beat the… Well, Johnnie can be a bit basic in his language. Really, it’s best not to bring the subject up.”
“Yes. Right. Sounds wisest to let that go. I knew Johnnie was upset by it. I hadn’t realized it was that bad.”
“He can’t let it go. He broods about it, and the more he broods, the angrier he gets. None of us can really understand it, that’s the thing. If we knew why…” She shrugged.
“OK, we’ll leave it then. Thanks, Angie. See you around.”
“Sure. Anytime.”
Sam and I walked back down the stairs and out to the car park in silence. “She was in love with him, wasn’t she?” he asked as we reached the car.
Very perceptive. “Yes, I think so.”
“Did anything happen between them?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Not for sure. Perhaps. Probably. Adi… well, yes, he had… affairs. It wasn’t the best side of him. But he was always very discreet, never let anything out in public. At least, not until he went to the States.”
Sam got in and mulled it over as I started the engine. “Who’s Johnnie, and why is he so mad at Adi?”
“Johnnie Muldoon. First-team goalie for most of the eighties. And Adi’s next best friend after me, I think. Johnnie had to retire in 1989, heart condition, and Adi installed him as manager in the members-only bar up on the top floor. When Adi left, Johnnie
took it very personally.”
We left the Castle behind and headed back into town.
CHAPTER 4
“No one has given more to his town than Adi, but this may prove to be his most enduring legacy.”
Declan Healy, speaking at the opening of a new sports hall at the Adi Varney Sports Centre
“So where next?” asked Sam.
“One more place to try. If Karen hasn’t heard anything, and Angie hasn’t either, then the only other person to ask is Declan.”
“Declan?”
“Declan Healy. Another Vale player, but he retired in ’82. Stayed on as assistant trainer for a couple of years, then Adi recruited him for another project.”
We took a right, got onto Queensway, and headed south.
To our left was a vast scar in the landscape, acres and acres of crumbling, abandoned, and mostly burned-out buildings. As the road climbed we could see further, to the wasteland that had once been Delford Mills – almost cheek by jowl with the town centre. Even at this distance, we could see that it was busy, with bright green and yellow machinery crawling over it like an infestation of mechanical ants.
“What an eyesore,” Sam commented. “About time they got round to doing something about it.”
“It took a tragedy to get things moving,” I commented, waving a hand at a swathe of fire-blackened ruins. “They think that a dozen people died in that.”
Sam glanced at me and our eyes met. “And Mum was nearly one of them,” he said.
“Yes.”
It wasn’t something to discuss. I hated coming this way.
We left the Queensway at the next roundabout, and doubled back through some side streets.
“Adi and me, we grew up not far from here,” I commented. “Rough area then, all terraced housing, not these nice little semis. Not as bad as Delford, of course – they were the real slums!”
“Everybody has to have someone to look down on, eh Dad?”
I smiled ruefully. “Yes, I suppose it was a bit like that.”
We turned off down a lane between the houses and came out onto a wide open space, laid out with playing fields and dominated by three big buildings. A large sign across the front of the middle one announced a welcome to the Adi Varney Sports Centre.
Local Legend Page 4