The Last Summer

by Iain Crichton Smith

  So far, the early stages of the game had been a bit of a scrimmage without either team showing any decisiveness and the spectators had begun to shout: “Come on, get a move on.” “Stop dancing and get the goals.” Just beside him Malcolm could see Barker, a tall friendly fellow who was considered a bit of a local wit and who was shouting out, “Hey, you there with the taxi-cab ears, miss the ball.” A group had gathered round him to listen to his sallies and clapped and shouted at the slightest movement, greatly pleased when the Tank slipped and fell flat on his face as he was accelerating past Donny. Malcolm could see that Colin was having difficulty in holding the right winger, who had a trick of selling the dummy. Once he even ran past Colin without the ball at all, Colin followed him, and the right half closed in with it. From that time onwards Barker kept calling the right winger the Invisible Man. So far Malcolm himself hadn’t even kicked the ball. He was beginning to think that things were going badly with the defence and was moving back up the wing to see if he could get hold of the ball for himself.

  At that moment disaster struck. The right winger again eluded Colin and swung the ball back to the Tank. As Donny rushed in, rather late, the Tank unleashed a shot from about thirty yards out. Snobby didn’t even see the ball. Malcolm watched him, agitatedly shouting insults at Colin and the defence in general, and throwing the ball angrily down the field as if he felt that everyone was to blame but himself. Later he could still see him leaning negligently against one of the goalposts talking to one of the spectators and obviously explaining how he couldn’t have saved the shot.

  The ball was centred. Malcolm saw Donny go over to Colin and speak to him quietly. He could imagine how Colin must be feeling. He also saw Dell speaking to him before the game was in motion again. This time the ball came over to the right. He moved with it, accelerating, feeling that familiar sensation of power and delight coursing through every pore of his body like a sluice opening, the ball at his right toe, keeping his eyes on it, never raising them, hearing vaguely the sound of cheering as he swung over to the right hugging the touchline, looking ahead of him low down, seeing two massive legs, like pillars in blue advancing, flicking the ball between the legs, making for the corner flag and then finding those pillars in front of him again. Strange how fast the back was though he was big. He sent the corner over but nothing came of it and the ball was in the centre of the field but this time he saw that Donny was advancing towards the Tank, cutting him off from the pass, shadowing him, his face grim and set and white, sending it down the left wing where it was lost again.

  Blue Stockings was quite close to Malcolm though he didn’t speak to him. Massively he chewed his chewing gum, resting his hands on his hips. Malcolm studied him, looking down at the huge muscled legs. What had he learned in that first burst? He had learned that Blue Stockings was faster than he had thought. He also had a lot of weight though he hadn’t used it yet. Perhaps if Malcolm could accelerate fast enough on his inside this time instead of on his outside he might beat him. He wondered if perhaps he was equally good with both feet.

  The ball had come through to Trig just behind him. With careful deliberation Trig slipped the ball past an opponent towards Malcolm. The crowd were shouting for the ball to be sent over to the right wing and Donny had decided to do this now. Most of the balls were being fed towards Malcolm, Trig and Trog. Malcolm trapped the ball and advanced on Blue Stockings as the other team rushed back to close their defence. He swung the ball over to Trog coming in fast and ran for the corner flag. Blue Stockings was caught between the two of them. He tried to block the pass but Trog had come right up to him before slipping the ball through to Malcolm. Immediately it came to him he hit it with his instep curving it up into the penalty area. It dropped into the area but the goalkeeper cleared it upfield with his gloves together. Again it swung out to the opposing right wing. The winger was on his way again, bobbing and weaving, Colin running alongside him. The winger stopped dead and as he did so Dell, who was covering up, swung the ball over to Donny who kicked it first time into touch as the Tank rushed in.

  The cries from the touchline were frantic. “Come on, hurry up. Get a move on.”

  The ball came down into the centre again. Nobody had been watching Trig, who had steadily been playing the opposing inside right out of the game. Cultured, smooth and nerveless—the born footballer without flash or panache—he broke through at a fast run, gained control of the ball, sidestepped an attacker, flicked it sideways to Trog who shot the ball into the net as the goalkeeper advanced, eventually diving to the wrong side.

  In the ensuing pandemonium Malcolm was beginning to realise that this team wasn’t as good as he had thought they were. True their right wing and their centre were dangerous but as he clapped Trog on the shoulders he suddenly thought: I was frightened because they are bigger than us. The strategy was to force them towards their left wing, their weak side. He would mention this to Donny at half time. It was just like playing draughts, watching out for the weak side. He felt himself part of this village team as the game progressed. He liked playing with Trig behind him. Trig had been with him in the same class at school and so had his twin brother. They were both working on the fishing boats and were small, quick, natural footballers trained on that stony pitch in front of the school which was bumpy and full of stones.

  What a fine evening it was, too, for a game of football, not too hot, with the sun slightly warming the pitch and buttering it to a clear yellow. How white the goalposts looked. He wondered how Colin was feeling. He wasn’t having a good game at all. And Donny—had he forgotten the war for the time? Before he knew where he was the whistle sounded and he ran over to the centre of the field with the rest of the team. They had no oranges so they took a swig of buttermilk each.

  They all clustered round Donny, who was sitting on the ground tying his laces. The other team was clustered in another part of the field. He crouched down between Colin and Dell, arms round their shoulders. Without thinking he squeezed Colin’s shoulder slightly, noticing the sweat on his hair.

  “What do you think, Donny?” he said. “Their left side is weak. Can’t you force them over to our right?”

  Donny laughed gaily. “We’ve got them,” he shouted, holding up his fingers and then locking them against his palm, his red face shining with a gipsy coarseness. And then suddenly he began to sing a Gaelic song, his voice reverberating over the pitch as if to prove that he wasn’t at all breathless. All the spectators began to cheer as that voice rolled over the field resonant and strong, as if Donny had really forgotten the war and was back again in a world of careless youth.

  Snobby sat in a corner by himself talking to a spectator. He was saying: “The backs are too slow. They’re too slow. What chance did I have? He had a clear goal.”

  Dell inched himself over to him and then, kneeling, said, “Why don’t you shut up, Snobby? Why don’t you just shut up?” Snobby looked at him in a startled manner and then bent down and began ostentatiously to lace shoes which hadn’t been unlaced.

  Colin wasn’t saying anything. He looked white and drawn. More than anything he wanted to play well. Dell whispered to him: “Keep up to him. Don’t give him room to move around. That’s what you have to do. We’ll beat this lot any day,” he said aloud, staring belligerently at Blue Stockings who was calmly picking his nose, sitting in a marmoreal pose.

  “Come on then, lads,” said Donny rising. “Let’s get them this time.” Funny how he had changed since the war. There was a new ruthlessness in his voice. Malcolm looked over to the edge of the field and there was Sheila standing on the touchline with a group of boys round her. She stared right across to him, smiling, but he didn’t smile back. He felt as if he were living in another world.

  Snobby was saying as they got up, “I hope they give me a better chance than they did last time. I didn’t have a chance with that goal. I didn’t even see it.”

  The whistle blew and they were off again, playing against what sun there was. Actually the glare h
ad gone out of it, leaving the light bland and even but not dazzling.

  It was their turn to kick off. The ball swung over to the right again but the movement petered out. It was sent to the centre by the opposing side. There was one stunning moment when the Tank was in the clear again, shouldering his way forward by brute force and unleashing a shot which Snobby, with two gloves together in classical style, did well to punch over the bar before falling on the ground.

  “He’s an exhibitionist,” said Malcolm to himself, “an exhibitionist. That’s all he is.”

  The corner was cleared and the ball came to him. He trapped it neatly, looking briefly around him. Trog was coming up alongside him again, his maroon shirt fluttering, as cool as ever, not a hair out of place. The centre forward was also up. Blue Stockings was coming up fast. Malcolm made as if to accelerate, then as Blue Stockings was all but on him, he back heeled the ball to Trog who raced for the corner flag. The pass came back absolutely true. He looked up quickly. The defence was coming up. He swung the ball back towards the oncoming Donny who swung it over the bar with a terrific shot. Now the crowd were shouting, “Come on, boys, you’ve got them ruined.” He heard Barker saying, “See that Tank. Someone should put chains on him.” He smiled briefly, wondering if Barker himself had ever played, and began to run. He hadn’t done much running, in the first half. Now he wanted to run, to be all over the field, to forage for the ball instead of waiting for it, but he controlled himself, confining his runs to the touchline. His schoolmaster had said that his main weakness was that he did too much running, but “You’re no bad,” he grudgingly admitted. Actually he had already scored ten goals for the school that season. He began to think of old Warhorse as they called him, an ex-sergeant major of the First World War now a PT teacher, who would actually shout in his stentorian voice, “Up school”, without any shame whatsoever. Strange how when one was involved in a football game one did have these feelings of communion. One couldn’t remain detached. You were dependent on your right half, on your inside right, on your centre forward for supplying the ball. Sometimes after a game he would be almost in tears. How ridiculous.

  Here was the ball again. He looked at it as if at something from another world. What was he doing here? What was the ball doing here? He approached it, annexed it, saw the blue legs again approaching, said to himself, “This time. This is it.” He knew absolutely instantaneously that this time there would be a goal. He knew this with an intuition that had nothing to do with logic or with weighing odds or with calculation. The familiar feeling flooded him again. He was practically opposite Sheila but he had completely forgotten about her. He was in a world of his own, open only to the cheering of the crowd and to flashes of colour on all sides of him. He had passed Blue Stockings, hardly even aware that he had done so, since his gaze was completely concentrated on the ball, and all else he saw was boots and stockings. He saw another pair of legs in front of him. He sidestepped, allowing his body to think for him, cutting off his mind almost completely. He swung the ball over to the goalmouth. He saw a flash and that was Trog again and the ball was in the net. As he clapped Trog on the back like a maniac he could almost have embraced him. Oh Lord, what a marvellous thing it was to play together like that. He could not remember having done anything himself. All he had seen were legs and boots, he knew nothing of the mazy weaving run which had led to the goal.

  The ball went towards their own goalmouth. There was Colin. He was going into a sliding tackle. He was passed again, the right winger was coming up. He was crossing. The Tank was rising to the ball. He was bulleting it into the net. There was pandemonium. What on earth was happening? Why was Colin playing so badly? What was Snobby shouting now? The idiot. Why couldn’t he shut up? Like a puppet there waving his hands and spitting on the ground at the side of the goalpost.

  The ball was centred again. It was coming over towards him. He couldn’t control it. Blue Stockings was sending it back up the pitch. There was frenzied cheering and counter-cheering on all sides now. It was like being inside a furnace. Their whole team was collapsing. He ran up to help the defence. Now Donny was bringing it up himself, his face set grimly. Colin was running up beside him. So was Dell. Donny was signalling to him without looking up from the ball. It came over to him. He breasted it down. Blue Stockings was almost on top of him. He stopped dead, holding it under his right foot. He flicked it between Blue Stockings’ legs. He cut in with it faster than he had ever run in his life. He ran on, leaving the ball where it was. He dived over to the right. He felt Trig coming up behind him. The ball floated up in the air. What was happening? He looked up at the ball floating. Donny was jumping and he had missed. Please God, he said, please God, let Colin score. Let Colin score, he almost shouted. For an eternity the ball hung in the air. Colin was climbing towards it in slow motion. He headed it. It landed in the goalmouth. There was a terrific scrimmage. Dell had come rushing in and the ball was in the net.

  He lay on the turf looking up at the goalposts, the sky, the legs, the players. What a game! What a fantastic game! Trig was helping him to his feet. He spoke for the first time, “We’re going to win now.” That was all he said and Malcolm knew that he was right. In a few minutes the game was over and they had won.

  And soon they were standing by the bus saying goodbye to the other team and to the Tank, who did not appear at all disappointed and was asking Donny how married life agreed with him. Then the Tank was drinking beer and Malcolm knew that he would never be a great footballer though he had the makings of one. He knew it first because the Tank took the defeat so lightly and secondly because he was drinking the beer. And he felt sorry about this.

  He felt sorry too for his brother, the more so when suddenly Sheila came rushing up to him with a theatrical gesture and threw her arms round his neck. He disengaged himself, keeping his face stern and pretending to be displeased.

  He had his arm around Trig and he was saying: “We could be a great team.” Trig didn’t say anything. He was shaking out his jacket which had been lying by a goalpost. Dell came over.

  “Have you thought about what I was saying to you?”

  Malcolm knew that he was talking about the village team and didn’t know what to say.

  If only I could play for them, he thought. But then there were so many other things to be taken into account. And looking back on it coolly he realised that it had not been a very good game. Donny had taken too long to control the midfield. The goalkeeper was a histrionic idiot. Even now he was saying to one of the spectators: “They’ll have to change their defence before I play again.” He didn’t even want to take his gloves off but stood about in his gear not wishing to be parted from it.

  Malcolm and Dell and Colin walked home eventually across the moor, very quiet as the excitement drained out of their bodies. The sun was now setting. Colin’s face was turned away from Malcolm’s. One of his laces was trailing but he didn’t seem to care. Suddenly he said: “That’s a rough team, that lot.” And Malcolm knew that he had lied to himself and he felt sad.

  Leaving Dell they went together to the house in silence. Their mother watched their approach as the bus carrying the opposing team home roared along the village road.

  21

  IT WAS JUST after the Latin class that Ronny came over to speak to him. “Can I talk to you a minute?” he asked. “There’s something I wanted to say to you. Private.”

  “Oh? All right then.”

  As it happened they both had a free period at the time. Ronny must have known about it before he came over. Typical of him to have checked. They walked together outside the school as they were allowed to in good weather if they had a free period. They sat down below a classroom window, their legs sticking out towards the sun and an art class which was clustered round its teacher, a rather old woman with grey hair curled in an obsolete nineteen-twentyish way.

  “What was it you wanted?” said Malcolm looking sideways at Ronny. Funny how sardonic he looked—that was the only word he could think of
to describe him—sardonic. A clean-cut face like a Roman one on the back of a medal or a coin. Clean jawbone, dark eyes laughing, slow, careless, negligent expression.

  “It’s difficult to know where to start,” said Ronny. “I suppose you don’t like me.”

  “What was it you wanted to say?”

  “It’s true one does get bored now and again,” said Ronny. “I suppose James told you about me. I’m sure he must have done. He tells everything. I’ll tell you something. I’ll be glad to get out of here.” His eyes moved upward as if he were looking for a plane in the sky. “We haven’t really talked much and yet I think you would be a quite interesting person. I was interested to hear of that In Memoriam article. I wish I had thought of it myself. It was original.”

  Malcolm remained silent, leaning against the shadowed cool stone. Further out in the sun it would be warmer.

  Ronny suddenly seemed to come to a decision. “The fact is I wanted to talk to you about Janet. That girl admires you, you know.” He paused. “In fact if we were living in the eighteenth century I think we might have a duel. Blunderbusses at eighteen paces.” Ronny laughed a little.

  “Why would we have this duel?” said Malcolm “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah, that’s because you don’t understand Janet or me. She’s very pretty you know. No one knows that better than you. Everyone knows that you like her, that you admire her ‘from a distance’, isn’t that right? I think she finds you interesting because you’re so aesthetic though of course she wouldn’t know what the word means. She’s not very brilliant, you know, but then I don’t suppose you have to be very brilliant if you’re Janet.”

  “I wish you’d get to the point.”