Rob suddenly stopped pacing and for a second, a frown flashed across his face.
‘How many tickets have been sold for the game on Saturday?’
Having embarrassed herself on the night of the Northampton game, Jane had been keeping a relatively low profile ever since. Having reflected on recent events, she had finally come to realise that the most important thing going on in their lives at that moment in time wasn’t their relationship, it wasn’t even Charlie, it was the football club. Because whatever was going to happen to her family in the future was inevitably going to be influenced by the outcome of events at George Park over the coming ten days.
As a result, she had made herself promise to be as supportive as possible, while doing nothing which might rock her husband’s increasingly leaky boat.
It was for that very reason that Rob and Jane were sitting in the silent calm of their kitchen eating breakfast to a soundtrack of Eamonn Holmes and the Sky News team who were busily relaying them news of the outside world.
However, if Jane thought they were in for a quiet morning, she was dragged back to reality by mention of Rob’s name and the sight of reporter Sarah Williams standing outside George Park in front of a queue of what looked like a couple of hundred City fans.
‘Excellent,’ said Rob as he turned the sound up. ‘It’s packed.’
‘That's right Eamonn,’ said Sarah excitedly. ‘Well as you know, City chairman Rob Cooper needs his side to secure three points to earn his £6 million fortune.’
‘And if they don't get them, he loses everything, right Sarah?’ asked Eamonn.
‘That's correct. Well yesterday, Rob Cooper announced that he was offering free tickets and travel to any City fan who wanted to go to Saturday’s game at Wycombe.’
‘You what?’ asked Jane horrified.
‘Shush,’ said Rob as the reporter continued. ‘I can’t hear.’
‘And I'm down here with what looks like hundreds of fans who-’
The reporter was suddenly drowned out by the fans gathered around him who suddenly started singing:
We love you City, we do
We love you City, we do
We love you City, we do
Oh City we love you!
The reporter thrust his microphone under the nose of one of the group.
‘So what do you think of this gesture from the chairman?’
‘I've got a couple of gestures of my own he can have if you want to see them,’ replied the fan. The comment drawing laughter from all those gathered around.
‘Twat,’ said Rob from his kitchen.
‘And what about you sir?’ said Sarah to another fan. ‘Do you think City will do it for him?’
‘No bloody chance. Two draws will do me. That'll leave the fat tosser one point short.’
‘That’d be perfect,’ said another.
‘Yeah,’ said a third. ‘And it’ll serve the scummer right.’
The camera panned out as the fans broke into a chorus of:
We want one
We want one
Jane grabbed the remote control and turned the TV off.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said angrily.
‘What now?’
‘Why are you bothering with those pricks? Why aren’t you giving the bloody players shit?’
‘You don't understand,’ sighed Rob.
‘I understand one thing, if you're not careful, in two weeks time we're-’
‘We’re what?’ interrupted Rob.
Jane went to speak but realising that she’d said more than enough, she pulled herself up.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, suddenly contrite. ‘Sorry. I know you know what you’re doing.’
Rob looked at his wife and after a second or two, relaxed into a smile and reached across to squeeze her hand. a gesture she appreciated more than he could possibly realise.
‘I hope so love,’ he said. ‘I really do.’
Chapter Forty Three
If there was a vehicle better suited to eating up vast mileages of motorway and gobbing them out the back end than a Bentley Continental GT, Rob could not imagine what it might be or what it would cost. It was quite simply the perfect long distance machine and on the numerous occasions Rob had considered the possibility of failing his task, among the most painful images was the one which involved him handing back the keys to his car.
Usually, because he found it too upsetting, Rob had always tried to keep this particular nightmare buried in the dark recesses of his brain but as he had readied himself for the journey to High Wycombe that morning it had been at the forefront of his thinking. With events on the pitch seemingly way beyond his control, he had realised that this might well be the last opportunity he would have to experience the kind of luxurious solitude only a hundred and twenty thousand pounds worth of car could provide.
As a result, he had decided that whatever happened today, he was going to do his utmost to enjoy every single second of the three hour, 170 mile blast south. So by the time he peeled off the slip road onto the M1 and drifted across into the fast lane ready to make light work of the journey, he had everything just right; the snacks, the drinks, the music and the temperature. Rob had even programmed in his favourite Australian female voice to his SatNav.
In short, everything was perfect, save for one simple thing - he also had a passenger.
Normally, Keith Mayes would have travelled to the game on the players’ coach, but with them going directly to the airport after the game, he had switched to plan B which was to make the journey on a smaller coach with some of the staff.
Sadly, this plan had been dashed by the demands of the press who had seemingly encamped in even greater numbers outside George Park and with time pressing, he had been forced to send the bus on its way and resort to plan C. This being to cadge a lift with someone else. The trouble was, there had been no one else, at least no one with a spare seat. And so as a desperate last resort, Keith had called Rob who seeing the name Keith Mayes on his screen and assuming that he would already be en route, had answered.
Which is how the two men came to be sitting in silence as the Bentley took them south, the interior filled not by Rob’s favourite Northern Soul compilation or even by conversation, but by TalkSport and a discussion about the unfolding situation at City. However, having listened to himself being called everything from a knob to the anti-Christ, Rob fairly quickly began to feel himself getting irritated and so in an effort to remain at least reasonably calm, he switched the radio off and plunged the car into opulent silence.
‘Here we go,’ said Mayes suddenly.
Rob smiled to himself. Years of travelling up and down motorways following United had honed his ability to spot a supporters coach the second it hove into focus and so by the time Keith spoke up, he was already well aware of the line of three green and white buses up ahead just as he had been of the numerous blue and white bedecked cars on the motorway travelling south with them.
‘How many are going?’ he asked as he finally managed to make out the words City on Tour and Eastwood Branch which were written on the large St George Cross filling the rear window of the last vehicle in the convoy.
‘Officially, twenty two coaches,’ replied Keith as they sped past the stragglers, ‘but there are a few independents and plenty going by other means.’
‘So did all eighteen hundred tickets go then?’
‘We could have shifted double that, but the police wouldn’t let us have any more. Good job for you really. It is something of an expensive gamble.’
Rob sniffed in acknowledgment as he noticed another clutch of coaches up ahead and yet more cars displaying allegiance to his nemesis.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s not exactly my money is it? Just a chunk of the profits I made for the club this year.’
‘A fifty thousand pound chunk,’ replied Mayes slightly irritably.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Rob. ‘The way it’s looking, you’ll have an extra six million in the a
ccount come next week.’
The car settled back into silence but with traffic slowing up ahead, Rob was forced to ease off the throttle until the Bentley was travelling along at a sedate forty miles an hour, slightly faster than the buses in the inside lane.
Inevitably, the speed differential soon resulted in them drawing alongside and even with a line of traffic between them, it didn’t take long for the inhabitants to recognise the vehicle which had featured so frequently on news bulletins in recent weeks.
‘Arseholes!’ laughed Rob as he glanced across at the four sets of buttocks which suddenly appeared pressed up against the windows.
‘At least four anyway,’ replied Keith as he waved at the supporters who were now mouthing abuse and gesturing in their direction.
‘Don’t wave at them!,’ said Rob disapprovingly. ‘Bloody hell Keith, don’t you know anything? Never acknowledge anyone who’s giving you shit. It’s a sign of weakness.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Keith, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Unlike you I rarely have anyone wanting to give me shit, so I wasn’t aware of the protocol.’
Rob glanced sideways at his passenger as he eased the speed back up to keep pace with the thinning traffic in front of them.
‘Come on then,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Come on, you’ve been dying to get it off your chest all season, so now's as good a time as any.’
‘Hats off?’ said Mayes after a short pause.
‘What?’
‘It’s a military term. It means you can speak freely without fear of repercussions.’
‘OK. Hats off.’
‘I think you’re a shit,’ said Keith sharply. ‘I think much of what you’ve done this season is shit and I think what you’ve put everyone involved with this club through is shit. How’s that?’
‘Don’t mince your words, will you?’ said Rob. ‘You wouldn't want to spare my feelings.’
‘And yes,’ continued his passenger. ‘I hope you fail. Not just because you’re a shit but because if you do, the six million comes to City and we could do a lot with that money.’
‘Plus you get to keep your job.’
Keith Mayes laughed.
‘That’s so typical of you, you think everyone's on the bloody take.’
‘You mean they’re not?’
‘No, they’re not.’
The car fell back into silence but Rob could feel that there was something else to come. In the end, he couldn’t stand the suspense any longer.
‘Will you spit it out, whatever it is?’ he said.
‘Well actually,’ said Keith after a short pause, ‘I just wanted to say that I've been quite impressed with what you’ve done on the financial front. Very impressed actually.’
Rob sniffed and fixed his eyes back on the road.
‘Thanks. Fancy telling my missus that?’
In all his years of following football, Rob had experienced every emotion he thought possible. From the very highest of sporting highs to the very lowest of lows, he had ridden out each and every episode, safe in the knowledge that come the next game or the next season, the slate would be wiped clean and the soap opera that is football fandom would begin all over again. He had however, never gone through anything like the depths of despair he was experiencing at that moment.
It had started well enough. Inspired by the return of Pete MacDonald, City had come out fighting - and despite Rob’s pre-match suspicions, had actually spent most of the first half on the offensive. The pressure finally resulting in a scrambled goal which, in spite of the constant and extremely vocal abuse of their chairman which poured from their ranks, had actually been loudly celebrated by the travelling hordes.
The second half had been a different thing entirely. For City had come out after the break and played as if they were taking part in a pre-season friendly.
Tackles were half-hearted, passes mysteriously lax, and tactics, if they could be called that, bordered on the laughable. When it inevitably came, the equaliser had been greeted with as much relief by the City fans as it had been by the other three sides of the ground - and from then on, the game had almost descended into farce, neither side seemingly interested in doing anything which might put their point at risk.
Then it was over, and the roar which greeted the final whistle was unlike anything ever heard in the ground before. Indeed, to call it a roar did it an injustice. It was a tsunami of sound which, forged by the combined efforts of almost ten thousand jubilant celebratory voices, echoed around the ground like an unstoppable force. If anything, it actually seemed to grow louder by the second. And it was all focused upon one single, solitary figure sitting quietly in the directors’ box.
Not that Rob heard much of it. Instead, he had gone into his own Saving Private Ryan mode, lost in his thoughts as his worst nightmares took one step closer to being a reality.
A thump on his arm dragged him back to real time and Rob looked up to see the smiling face of Keith Mayes staring down at him.
‘Come on Mr. Chairman,’ he said. ‘I think you need a beer.’
Rob sighed and followed the club secretary toward the bar, while in the background the jubilant City fans were once again in full cry.
We want one!
We want one!
‘Ungrateful twats,’ he mumbled to himself.
Chapter Forty Four
Having followed football for many years, Rob had accrued an extensive and colourful vocabulary. It was well known at United that if you needed a good expletive, Rob was your man.
So given the day he’d had, by the time he arrived back at the house he was armed, primed and more than ready to unleash a torrent or two at anyone who might be foolish enough to cross his path. As a result, he was pleased to see a posse of journalists camped outside his gates as he slowed the car to a halt and waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic.
‘Right you bastards,’ he muttered, even as they spotted his car and sprang into life. ‘I’ll give you a bloody quote.’
‘Dad,’ said Charlie calmly. ‘Bad idea.’
Rob glanced at his son, realising that sitting beside him was a wise head on teenage shoulders.
‘I know,’ he sighed in response. ‘Would have made me feel better though.’
He watched them preparing for the frenzied ten seconds of activity which most had no doubt spent hours waiting for, then smiled to himself.
‘Let’s have some fun shall we?’
Charlie looked at his father for a second, then shook his head as he turned off the indicators and instead of turning into the drive, blasted off up the road.
‘You’re such a child.’
Half an hour later, having driven past his own house and feigned entrance five times, a giggling Rob finally turned into his drive, his entrance timed perfectly to allow him to drive through the open gates without having to come to a halt, despite their best efforts to impede his progress.
‘Feel better for that?’ asked Charlie, slightly embarrassed by his father’s childish behaviour.
But even as the gates began to swing closed behind him, Rob slammed on the brakes and with a cheeky wink to his son, climbed out and walked back up the drive in the direction of the gates.
‘Such a kid,’ sighed his son as he too climbed out and began walking toward the house. ‘I’m sure he’s turning senile.’
The clamour which greeted the gates reopening had bordered on slapstick, but Rob had ignored the chaos and the frantic questions and simply stood and waited until some sort of order descended.
‘I have a short statement to make,’ he said through the bright lights. ‘And I will not be taking questions afterwards. Is that OK?’
With a rumble of approval signifying it might not be OK but was better than nothing, Rob smiled warmly until it was as near silent as he could possibly have hoped for. He coughed to clear his throat and at the same time clicked the fob in his pocket causing the gates to clunk into motion, much to the
consternation of the waiting pack.
‘All of you can just fuck off!’ he said before adding with a smile, ‘thank you and good night.’
Rob stepped back as the inevitable furore exploded but only once the gates had fully closed did he turn away and walk back up the drive, whistling happily to himself as he did so.
Not even the sight of Jane waiting for him as he walked through the front door could dampen his good humour, although the look on her face suggested that she was certainly in the mood to do just that.
‘Evening dear,’ he said cheerfully, realising that she would find his tone extremely irritating. ‘Nice day?’
‘I don’t know what you’re so bloody happy about,’ she growled. ‘Because of you and your-’
‘Pride? Arrogance? Stupidity?’ he suggested.
‘Oh I'm glad you think this is funny. I always knew you were bloody useless.’
‘OK Jane,’ he said. ‘Give it a rest.’
‘No I won't give it a bloody rest. I knew you’d fuck this up. Christ knows why I stuck it out for so long. What a bloody mug I was.’
Rob suddenly became aware of Charlie standing half way up the stairs with a horrified, hurt look on his face. Jane followed his gaze but if anything, her face hardened.
‘This is your dad Charlie, he's a bloody failure at everything. Always has been, always will be.’
Close to tears, Charlie looked at them both beforehe turned away and walked up the stairs.
‘Nice one Jane,’ Rob barked angrily. ‘How come you’re not out with your rich mate anyway? It might be the last chance you get.’
Before she could answer, he turned and followed his son up the stairs.
Charlie was wired into his computer by the time Rob poked his head around the door.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked with a smile.
Charlie shrugged his shoulders in the universal teenage signal of acknowledgment, so Rob walked in and sat on the bed beside him.
‘Don't mind your mum mate. She's- well a bit-’
‘Of a cow,’ said Charlie angrily.
‘Hey,’ said Rob, playfully slapping him on the knee. ‘Bit of respect. Well OK,’ he continued after a pause. ‘But she’s still your mum, remember?’
Wings of a Sparrow Page 21