by T. Traynor
“Anything?” he says.
“There’s a hollow. It’s a bit dark… Ooof! This is when my torch would be useful. If Kit hadn’t used up the batteries.”
I’m crouching down, squinting into the darkness.
“No. Nothing here,” I say.
“Look harder.”
I reach in. My fingers feel something rough against the smoothness of the tree.
“Push it back a bit further,” I say.
Then I can just make it out. Writing.
Robert
missed by Christy
“Believe me now?” says Lemur.
“Wow,” I say.
***
We stay in the den for a while. It’s quiet without the others. Our conversation is missing that competitive feel, when everybody is trying to out-funny each other. There’s a bit of a breeze and the leaves of the tree are rustling above our heads. I’m on the alert for evidence of Christy-as-ghost, but it just sounds like leaves rustling, to be honest.
“If Christy is here,” I say, “what’s keeping him here? Kit asked me.”
“You told her?” says Lemur.
“Yeah – we’d already told my dad, so I thought it was OK.”
“What did she think?”
“She loved hearing the story. She couldn’t wait to find out how it ended. And now she’s desperate to get into the den, to see for herself – I made it perfectly clear that’s never going to happen.”
“What did you say, about Christy?”
“I said I wasn’t sure.”
“Do you think it has something to do with feeling guilty about his brother?” Lemur asks.
“No, I don’t. It wasn’t Christy’s fault that Robert fell. When you do something like that, you’ve decided to do it – you can’t blame anybody else if it goes wrong.”
“I agree. So what do you think the reason is?”
“Maybe it’s not that Christy’s forced to be here. Maybe he chooses to be. Maybe he just doesn’t want to go. There’s too much going on for him to leave.”
Lemur grins. “I like that idea,” he says. “Maybe he’s having too much fun. Perhaps your dad’s right – perhaps Christy’s our kind of ghost!”
We have a really good time, talking about Christy and imagining what he’s like. Then I have to head home for lunch. We’re just leaving the den when Lemur says, “Midge, can we keep it a secret?”
“What? The carving? Aw, no, Lemur – they’re going to love seeing it! Though it might tip Skooshie over the edge.”
“No – the whole Murphy thing.”
“I’m not lying to them!”
“I’m not saying lie – if they ask you, then tell them. But if they don’t, just let it go. Please.”
It doesn’t feel right. I don’t normally keep stuff from the others. But it looks like this is important to Lemur. And when you think about it, it’s not really my story to tell.
“OK,” I say, a bit reluctantly.
“I can always rely on you, Midge,” he says.
I have to push him into a bush, just to relieve the tension.
“Yeah – always,” I say, and I’m off, sprinting down May Terrace before he can get out of the bush.
20
Finally. You know what I mean. It’s Friday. Friday.
I’m looking for a grey t-shirt that I never wear. This turns out to be a mistake, as it attracts unwanted attention.
“I’ve never known you be so particular about what you’re wearing. Is there a girl involved?” asks my mum.
“Mum!” I’m disgusted that she could even think it.
“If there is, I think this red one would be better.”
“I want the grey one.” I can’t, of course, explain to her that I’m looking for something that will not stand out against the green of the pitch or the muddy brown of the rain-and-rust-marked concrete of the stand. If I blend in, I will be harder to spot from a distance. If I wear red, I’ll stand out like a traffic light.
“Stop pulling everything out the drawer. Here – I’ll get it.”
She looks doubtful when I appear in the kitchen wearing the grey t-shirt.
“Is it not a bit small?”
“No – it’s good.” I stretch it down as I reach up for a bowl in the cupboard, to avoid an exposure of belly. As we have breakfast, I concentrate on flexing my arm muscles silently in an attempt to loosen the tight grip of the sleeves round them. I don’t want to keel over if they cut off the supply of blood to my brain.
“Are you constipated?” asks Kit, staring at me in surprise.
“Shut – up!” I growl at her.
***
We spend the day playing tennis. We don’t put a lot of energy into it – we need to save that. For once nobody cares who wins. When we’re done with that, we lie in the grass reviewing the plan. We speak in voices so low that there’s no chance of passing on any actual information to each other. So it’s a good job we’ve had the plan in place for a long time.
Only dinner to get through now.
Thursday is crispy pancake day, all year round. My mum tries to introduce different food in the summer, salads and stuff like that, and she’s welcome to, just not on Thursdays. Kit and I won’t have it. Chicken and mushroom is our favourite. I like Bru’s idea of moving time about, but if I was offered a superpower I think I’d go for the ability to make stuff bigger. Like insects (think of the fun you could have in class with that one!). Like my boat on the boating pond at the park (just mine – I’d leave the others the right size). Like wee dogs that are being barked at by big dogs. Like me. But I’d start with crispy pancakes, because they are ridiculously small, even for Kit. They disappear in a flash. I’d do her a crispy pancake the size of her whole plate. Mine would be the size of the table. It’s a happy thought.
But today I’m so excited and nervous, not even a crispy pancake can make me feel hungry. I play with mine in a distracted way, using my knife to squish out the filling.
“You not hungry?” my mum says suspiciously. In a minute she’ll be feeling my forehead and dosing me with some of that disgusting pink medicine that will make me sleepy.
“Just wondering how they make these,” I say, trying to sound like a boy who is a walking miracle of health. I bounce my knife off the pancake surface. “Clever, aren’t they? How they keep all that sauce inside?” Then I eat the whole thing in two enormous mouthfuls, making “Yum!” noises to show how much I’m enjoying it. Trying to do both things at once causes me to choke. My mum just shakes her head, but it looks like I’ve managed to escape the horrible medicine.
We meet up inside the back entrance to my flats, which is tucked in too far to be visible from our window.
“Now for the tricky part,” I say. “Somebody needs to retrieve the jemmy and prise the iron sheet away.”
“Already done,” says Hector.
“How?”
“I did it last night, when it was dark,” says Lemur.
“We didn’t want to attract attention by doing it now,” says Hector.
“Are you sure? It doesn’t look like it’ll open.”
“That was the idea – we didn’t want it to look tampered with. Watch. Agent 1!” hisses Hector. (It was his idea to give us all code names.)
Lemur darts across the road and up the grass. The iron sheet pulls away easily and within seconds he’s out of sight.
“Agent 2!” That’s me. The corrugated iron is a deep-rust red. I have time to study it while I’m waiting for the others – Skooshie, then Bru, with Hector bringing up the rear. In less time than we could have imagined, we’re all inside, ready for Phase Two.
We creep through the overgrown grass and weeds on the outside of the embankment. Skooshie has volunteered to take the lead – he’s going at the vegetation with his arms like an explorer hacking his way through the African jungle. We pause in a particularly dark patch where there are trees to give us cover. It’s just the other side of the fence from the place where we made the Cathkin Berry W
ine. It’s a whole new world. Before we can stop him, Lemur has scrambled up the embankment.
He turns and gestures. “Come and look!”
We risk it. We clamber up the steep slope and peer over the top. In front of us the terracing falls in regular steps, down to a very short, white wall. Beyond the wall, the green of the pitch extends forever.
“Wow!”
We slide back down the slope and keep going. The undergrowth is denser now. We have to come part way up the embankment sometimes just to find a path through. We keep crouched down, trying to blend in. I was dead right about the grey t-shirt.
Finally we’re out of the undergrowth and looking across at the stand a short way off – just a piece of open grass between us and it.
“Ready?” says Hector. We sprint in turns, the same order as before. When I collapse beside Lemur, he’s lying back looking up into the rusting roof above us.
“At last,” he murmurs.
We sit, surveying the park and feeling triumphant at our achievement. And then it’s time to explore.
“Look – you can see where the turnstiles were!”
“Can you imagine the crowds of people queuing to get in?”
“Look! Look at me! I’m running onto the pitch right where the players came on!”
“Can’t you hear them shouting to their team mates? ‘Here – here – pass!’”
Up close, I can sort of see why my mum went on about it being pretty dangerous. It’s been so neglected over the years that it’s falling apart. We need to jump over the holes, leap to safe ground as surfaces crumble away beneath our feet. We climb up exposed girders, competing to see who can get the highest (Lemur and Skooshie, who both continue to claim victory, even after Hector officially declares it’s a draw). The creak of the roof is not exactly reassuring.
It’s absolutely magic.
I stop hiding, stop worrying that we’ll be spotted. I mean, I haven’t forgotten I’ll be in big trouble if I am. But I’m realising that whatever happens, it will be worth it.
“Wouldn’t this be a great place to have a sword fight?” says Bru, as we run up and down the terracing on the far side. “Think of François, up against six Spaniards, leaping about, bamboozling them all, cutting off the edges of their ridiculous moustaches with a quick flash of his blade.”
“I’ve always wondered why it’s not pronounced ‘swurd’, like ‘word’,” says Hector. “Swurd fighting. I am François,” he adds in a ridiculous French accent, “the best swurd fighter in all of France!”
“Because that would be abswurd,” says Lemur with a grin. We groan.
“It’s because swurd fighting is something totally different,” I say. “It’s when you’re so amazingly brilliant, you don’t need weapons. When you just hurl cleverly worded insults at your enemy and crush him with those.”
“On guard,” says Hector.
We take up a fight stance.
“Monsieur, you are a FOOL!” I thrust forward with an imaginary sword as I shout it.
“And you, monsieur, are a BRAGGART!”
Murmurs of appreciation from the others as Hector flings this at me. I laugh it off, François-style: “HA, HA, HA, HA!”
“Your farts, monsieur, smell of flowers.”
Hector staggers back, as though hit hard. He tries to rally.
“Your face, monsieur, looks like a Wagon Wheel… That somebody has chewed.”
I flinch and clutch my shoulder. A hit, but not a fatal one.
I step in for the kill. Time for something special.
“Do me the honour, monsieur, of admitting that you play football like a girl!”
“I’m a goner…” croaks Hector. He staggers about for a bit, then slumps over the white wall that runs around the pitch.
He waits for the whoops of appreciation to die down, then rights himself and says, “Actually I don’t – and you know it. And if we had a ball, I’d prove it.”
We don’t hear what Lemur says, as he runs off in the direction of the stand. He reappears in a minute, clutching a football.
“Where did you get that?”
He grins. “I threw it over the fence yesterday morning.”
“Aw, cool move, Lemur!”
We take turns defending, attacking and in goal. And I am proud to tell you that we play the football of our lives. I don’t know if it’s because of the pitch. On the grass you bounce – it’s like running with springs on your feet after the skitey orange grit of the recs. Or maybe it’s because we’re inspired, playing in the very place where all those Third Lanark players sprinted and passed and shot, where they won their matches – and lost some – years and years ago.
I’m running faster than I’ve ever run before, the ball at my feet. I boot it up the field to Skooshie – a long, perfect punt. I watch him racing into the sun, Lemur and Bru trying to fend him off, Hector hopping about on the goal line. And maybe I’m imagining it, but in the sunlight, in the blur of movement, it looks like they’re all wearing red.
With each goal, we turn, arms spread wide, to accept the applause in the stand – High, high, high!
It’s good that Cathkin sees us at our best. It’s right. We don’t know it, but this turns out to be the last game of football we ever play together.
I can’t help glancing occasionally at our living-room window, just once or twice. There’s no one there. As I’d hoped, the blinds are pulled down against the evening sun.
But somebody is watching. One floor above, Mr Murphy is standing at his window. I don’t want to make Lemur feel bad by reminding him of the other day, so I don’t say anything. I just hope seeing us brings back some nice memories for the old bloke.
Hector, Skooshie and Bru are all still totally absorbed in the game. Lemur’s having a rest on the grass at the side of the pitch. He’s staring at the stand like he can’t believe we’re actually here. He grins at me when I throw myself down beside him.
“As good as you thought, Lemur?”
“Better!”
The others get tired eventually and come to join us. The sun’s dropping in the sky and we’ll have to go soon. We’re making the most of our last few minutes.
Hector reaches forward and captures a spider that’s on his sandshoe.
“That one’s been there since we were in the stand,” he says, impressed. “Showing the amazing power of the spider to cling on, whatever happens… How many spiders d’you reckon there are in this whole park?”
We consider.
“Loads,” says Bru. This sounds likely and we all nod in agreement.
“I ate a spider once,” says Skooshie, randomly.
Hector, Bru and I snort with laughter. The announcement is news to Lemur. You forget sometimes that he hasn’t always been around.
“Ate a spider? When?”
“Primary 2, I think. I was tricked.”
“You weren’t tricked into eating the spider, Skoosh,” says Hector. “You were the one who suggested the spider-eating, if I remember correctly. You were tricked into eating it alone.”
“Yeah,” Skooshie admits. “We agreed we’d do it on three – one, two, three, spider down the hatch – we had a spider each, we weren’t sharing. So one, two, three – I’m crunching, I’m swallowing—”
“And we’re just looking at him, totally amazed he could have believed we’d ever do it!” says Bru, laughing.
“All for one and one for all, and all that,” Skooshie protests.
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you do just anything. Did you really think it was a good plan, spiders for lunch?”
Skooshie gives a huge grin. “Not really. But I had an idea it would make me a legend!”
“And it did!” says Hector. “Everybody at school talked about you for weeks! We seriously considered changing your nickname to Spiderboy.”
“Why didn’t we?” asks Bru.
“He was too disappointed in the outcome,” I say. “It didn’t give you the superpowers you hoped for, did it, Skoosh?”
“You’re right there,” I say.
We walk back across the pitch. Up and over the embankment, and out through the corrugated iron fencing.
Skooshie, Hector and Lemur head off up the hill. Slowly, because Skooshie’s got the jemmy down his sock and up his t-shirt again. Bru and I walk towards the flats. We hear them talking as they go.
“I’d have eaten the spider with you, Skooshie,” Lemur’s saying.
“I know you would, Lemur,” says Skooshie. He gives Lemur a friendly shove in appreciation and they disappear into the darkness.
21
And the next day …
Well, it feels a bit flat.
And it doesn’t happen gradually, not like a soft bike tyre that slowly lets you down. Oh no. When this happens, it’s more like a balloon going
POP!
A big“What do we do now?” cloud blocks out the sun. No one has the answer, not even Hector.
***
The day starts off well enough.
We’re sitting in the den and we are full of it. First of all, we seem to have got away with the whole thing. If my mum knew anything about our exploit – or even suspected anything, there are people living on the outskirts of Edinburgh who would’ve heard her shouting. But not a peep. We’ve actually managed to pull it off!
We re-live the whole Cathkin experience, loads of times, chipping in with all the details. We each do a Top Three list of favourite moments. Playing on the pitch is picked by everybody.
“Yeah, nice one planking the ball, Lemur!”
“What about you, Bru? Top absolute favourite?”
“It was all brilliant,” Bru sighs. “But maybe the best bit was lying back in the stand and hearing the Cathkin roar in my head, thousands and thousands of people cheering.”
“Aw, fantastic…”
“You know that kind of noise that you can feel in your chest? It just seems to fill up your whole body?”
“Yeah.”
“SUPER-BRU! SUPER-BRU! SUPER-BRU!” Skooshie improvises.