by Bud Craig
“Listen, Brenda,” I said after a while, “maybe Tony just needs a break.”
“A break?”
Now what could I say?
“He’s probably gone off somewhere to think things over where nobody can...make any demands on him.”
‘Make any demands on him’, nice one, Gus.
“What?”
She was obviously unimpressed by my words of wisdom.
“When he does decide to come back he’ll be more able to face up to things.”
“What has he got to face up to,” said Brenda. “I’m having the bloody baby.”
There was no answer to that. None of this was fair on Brenda, that was for sure. She got up.
“I’d better go, let you get on. If you hear from Tony, you will let me know, won’t you?”
“Definitely.”
I walked with her for a while until we got near my house.
“Well, I hope everything gets sorted out OK, Brenda,” I said.
“Thanks,” she said, touching my hand.
As she walked away, doubtless still worrying about Tony, I heaved a sigh of relief. Was Tony worth worrying about, I asked myself? I was silently cursing him for causing all this bother. At home, I tried to get back to work but it was hard to concentrate. I thought back to the day at the cricket. During the afternoon Tony’s mood had changed. He’d rambled on, complaining that his life was ruined; that he didn’t want to marry Brenda but was being forced into it; that he’d be stuck in Little Hulton all his life.
“The world was opening up for me,” he had said, “now it’s closing in on me.”
Bloody drama queen, I thought, as I replayed the words in my head.
“It’s all right for you, Gus,” he had said at some point, “when I’m living in wedded bliss you’ll either be at University, with loads of posh birds throwing themselves at you...”
I’d let out a hoot of laughter at this.
“Or you’ll be playing for Salford. Either way you’ll have the women flocking round you.”
I could see his point. Not about the women, but I did have something he didn’t have: choice.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day I was trying to get to grips with the ablative absolute when somebody knocked on the door. Assuming it was Brenda, I went to answer it, wondering if I could face any more of her angst. I’d tried to put Tony and his letter out of my mind, but it had been impossible. Phrases from it kept coming back to me; I had remembered more of it than I’d thought. If only I could remember Latin grammar as easily. I opened the door, trying to think of something to say to Brenda. This dilemma was rendered irrelevant when I saw a man in blue overalls on the doorstep. Tony’s uncle.
“Hello, Vic.”
He was only a few years older than his nephew, early twenties perhaps.
“Can I have a word, Gus?”
I asked him in. We went into the front room, where we sat facing one another. My offer of tea was turned down.
“I can’t stay long,” said Vic, “I’m on my dinner hour.”
Thank goodness for that, I thought.
“I just wondered if you’d seen Tony.”
Someone else looking for Tony. The expression pain in the arse sprang to mind.
“No, not since Saturday – at the match, you know.”
He nodded.
“Oh, yeah, I saw you there, didn’t I?”
There was a superficial family resemblance between Vic and Tony. Both were short arses; their hair colour was similar.
“Yeah, a good day’s cricket, that,” he said, “Good player, that Gavaskar.”
“Yeah. He upset Tony though.”
“How come?”
He took out a packet of Park Drive.
“On the way to the ground,” I explained, “Steve bet Tony 50 pence that Gavaskar would score a century for India. Tony took the bet.”
“Tony would have taken any bet. He was always losing money on the horses. PD, Gus,” he said, offering me the packet.
I refused. Vic took a box of Swan Vestas from his overalls and lit up.
“At 143 for 7 Tony said it was a dead certainty he’d win the bet,” I went on. “Then Gavaskar and Abid Ali started to build up that partnership.”
“Yeah, brilliant that was.”
I pictured the Indian opening batsman hitting a boundary to bring up his century.
“When Gavaskar got his ton, Tony said, ‘that’s all I need.’”
Vic grinned.
“I bet he was sick as a parrot. Maybe that’s why he’s gone off.”
Unlikely, I thought, but it was just after the bet went wrong that Tony’s mood had changed. Could something as trivial as losing 50p have been the final straw?
“I don’t suppose you know where he is?”
“No idea. Have you tried his mam? Or Brenda?”
He put his fag in his mouth and inhaled deeply.
“Yeah, they reckon he’s buggered off somewhere,” he said.
“That’s what Brenda told me,” I said. “I thought he’d be back by now, exams start soon.”
Vic looked deep in thought and took another drag from his cigarette.
“Brenda thinks he’s never coming back,” he said. “She mentioned summat about a letter.”
“Well, she seemed a bit emotional, you know, might have got things out of proportion.”
He smoked in silence for a while. For a man in a hurry he was very relaxed.
“It’s a bit awkward, Gus, know what I mean?”
I didn’t but nodded anyway. What was awkward, I asked myself? If it concerned Tony why should Vic find that awkward? More importantly why didn’t people leave me alone?
“I need to see him urgently,” Vic went on. “Very urgently.”
“Right.”
Was it me or was there an air of menace in the room? Vic Kennelly was not a man to cross or so everybody said. Then I remembered a brief exchange of words between Tony and Vic at Old Trafford on Saturday. Vic had stopped en route to the bar to talk to us. Just as he was going on his way, he had stopped.
“By the way, Tony,” he’d said, “when are you gonna let me have that money?”
“Couple of days,” Tony had replied, “I’ll call round.”
Tony had answered too quickly, a touch of anxiety in his voice.
“Champion,” Vic had said. “Wouldn’t want any unpleasantness, would we?”
Tony had sighed as Vic walked off.
“Something else to worry about,” he’d said.
Until now I’d thought nothing of it, having got a bit fed up of Tony’s whingeing by that stage. But was it one of the ‘other things’ he had referred to in the letter? If Vic Kennelly wanted money from you, it was bad news. Now that I thought about it, Tony never seemed to be short of money. He’d had several old bangers in the front garden of his house in Little Hulton over the past year or so. They’d be in bits for ages until he had fixed them. Then he would sell them, presumably at a profit. Now the sound of Vic’s voice brought me back to the present.
“So if you do know where he is or if you hear anything, you will let me know, won’t you?”
The ‘or else’ was unspoken.
“Listen, Vic,” I said, deciding to assert myself, “I don’t know what’s happening with Tony and I don’t want to know.”
Vic took another drag of his Park Drive and listened intently.
“I’ve got better things to worry about. So if I hear where he is I’ll tell you, Brenda, his mam. I’ll even tell Pope Paul if you like.”
Vic got up.
“Champion,” he said.
* * *
I got back to my swotting, feeling smug. That was telling him, Gus, I said to myself. I was confident I’d hear no more about Tony until he came back with his tail between his legs. No such luck. Half an hour later another knock at the door. This time a uniformed policeman had come calling.
“PC Downton,” he announced self-importantly. “Am I speaking to Gus Keane?”<
br />
“Yes.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Keane. I’m making enquiries about an Anthony Peter Murphy,” the constable went on.
I might have known
“Tony? Join the club.”
“Sorry.”
“Nothing. Come in.”
In the front room he sat on the settee, placed his helmet on the table and took a notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. I offered tea and again it was refused. I sat in what I was beginning to think of as my usual armchair.
“Just a few questions, Mr Keane,” said PC Downton, “nothing to worry about.”
“Right.”
“I understand Mr Murphy is a close friend of yours.”
“Yeah, we’ve known each other since...well, since birth really.”
“He doesn’t live round here though.”
What did that have to do with it? It wasn’t as if he lived at the other end of the earth.
“He lived in Robert Hall Street, just round the corner, until about a year or so ago...”
“I see.”
“Then he moved to Little Hulton.”
Then the PC finally got to the point.
“I don’t suppose you know where Anthony Murphy is at this moment in time, do you?”
“No, no idea.”
“You’re quite sure about that?”
I took a deep breath.
“Absolutely positive. Any particular reason for asking?”
He wrote in his notebook.
“This is part of a current inquiry. We’re anxious to speak to Mr Murphy – he may be able to help us.”
I nodded. I decided to say no more unless I had to.
“I wonder, Mr Keane,” the officer continued, “whether you know Mr Sidney Pendleton?”
The name rang a bell but I couldn’t remember where I had heard it before.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t remember reading about him in the paper?”
I shook my head.
“I haven’t really got time for that, exams, you know.”
I hadn’t got time to answer a lot of questions either, but maybe I shouldn’t say so. He tapped his pencil on the notebook, then spoke again.
“Getting back to your friend, Mr Murphy, his fiancée, Miss McDonald, seems to think he’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“In the sense that nobody knows where he is.”
He licked the tip of his pencil.
“Miss McDonald said she’d had a letter.”
I gave another nod.
“Yes.”
“She was kind enough to let me see it.”
I nodded again.
“Can I ask you, Mr Keane, whether you entered into financial transactions with Mr Murphy?”
It took a while to consider this. All I said was:
“Financial transactions?”
“Come now, Mr Keane, you know what financial transactions are.”
Cheeky twat.
“I know what the words mean but I find it hard to think of ‘transactions’ in relation to Tony.”
He wrote down what I said.
“Well,” he explained, “did you buy anything from him at all or sell him any items?”
I shook my head.
“No, I did neither of those things.”
I thought being precise was advisable.
“I see. On another matter, Miss McDonald seemed to be concerned about her fiancé’s state of mind.”
Whatever that meant, I thought, wondering what I’d say if he asked my opinion of Tony’s state of mind. It was getting a bit much, I couldn’t help thinking. If he failed to turn up for his exams would each of his teachers call round in turn to ask for an explanation? Just then I heard the front door open and close. Oh, God, I said to myself. My mam was back from shopping.
“That’ll be my mother,” I said.
Then she burst in with a shopping bag in each hand. I didn’t know whether to be pleased about the interruption or worried about what the hell she would say. When I saw the look on her face, I opted for the latter. She stared at the officer of the law, her eyes resting on his notebook.
“What’s going on?”
She undid the buttons on her beige mac, revealing a blue blouse and dark green skirt. She patted her brown hair into place. People said I looked like her; I couldn’t see it myself.
“This is PC Downton, mam,” I said.
“And what does PC Downton want?”
“I was just asking your son about Anthony Murphy.”
My mother harrumphed loudly. She sat down on the other armchair, putting the bags on the floor beside her.
“Tony Murphy,” she said as though the name were a swear word, “haven’t I always told you he spells trouble with a capital T?”
The PC and I spoke at once.
“If I could just explain, Mrs Keane...”
“Mam, it’s not...”
She ignored us.
“Now he’s brought the police to the house.”
“It’s purely routine, Mrs Keane,” PC Downton managed to get out. “Your son’s not in any trouble.”
“Hmm,” she said, getting up. “It’s all very well for you to say that, but you don’t have the neighbours to worry about.”
She left the room without explanation.
“Now then,” said Downton, “we were talking about Mr Murphy.”
I’d have to get used to hearing my friends referred to as ‘Mr’, I thought, and being called Mr myself.
“Yeah.”
“How would you describe his state of mind?”
I wouldn’t, I almost said. It wasn’t something I had ever thought about.
“Well, he seemed OK last time I saw him. That was on Saturday at Old Trafford cricket ground.”
“I see.”
The officer wrote a few notes and looked at me expectantly.
“He got a bit maudlin after a few pints.”
“Maudlin?”
I thought back to that day again.
“Yeah, feeling sorry for himself. He ‘had to’ get married and he wasn’t happy about it.”
More notes followed this.
“And you think that’s why he’s gone off?”
My mam came in at that point with a tray in her hands. She’d put on the floral patterned house coat that she wore whenever she was at home. She placed the tray with infinite care on the table in front of us.
“Tea, constable?”
“That’s very nice.”
She began to pour tea into three china cups that were normally brought out only on Sundays.
“To answer your question,” I said, determined not to be put off by my mother’s presence, “I don’t think he’s gone off at all. I reckon he’ll soon be back expecting everybody to make a big fuss of him.”
The tosser, I might have added.
“He may not come back,” said PC Downton. “And of course being an adult that’s his prerogative.”
In other words ‘we’re not gonna bust a gut trying to find him if he doesn’t want to be found’.
* * *
Once again I hoped I might have heard the last of Tony Murphy. A couple of hours later I was disappointed. Another knock at the door. This time it was a bloke of my age. Skinny and tall, just under 6 feet, but still a few inches shorter than me. Steve. Well, that figured.
“Come about Tony, have you,” I asked as we went into the front room.
“How did you know?”
I waited until we were both sitting down. Steve brushed his fingers through his light brown hair. It was a little shorter than mine, only just over his ears.
“In the past couple of day I’ve had Brenda, Vic Kennelly and the police round here.”
“Me too.”
He shook his head. I looked at his cheesecloth shirt, white with a thin, brown stripe. I quite fancied one of them.
“What the fuck’s going on, Gus?”
He tapped his feet on the carpet. I liked his corduroy s
hoes too.
“How should I know?’ I said. “I’ve had enough. My mam’s going spare.”
“So’s mine,” said Steve.
I could imagine that only too well. Mrs Yarnitzky ran the corner shop and was the epitome of respectability. I could see the disapproving look on her face, her arms across her chest. She came from a long line of arm folders.
“The worst part of it is,” Steve went on, “this might knacker my chances of joining the police.”
“You what? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He scowled.
“It’s not a question of doing anything wrong. Associating with anyone under suspicion could make a difference.”
I looked at him for a few seconds, wondering if he were serious.
“Sounds a bit unfair.”
“Doesn’t have to be fair. I’ve finished with Murphy after this.”
I could have protested, but couldn’t see the point.
“I can’t afford to get involved with anything fucking dodgy,” he said.
Who could, I asked myself.
* * *
Two weeks later the A-levels were over and there was still no sign of Tony. I had come to the conclusion that he really had buggered off. He must have wanted – or needed – to escape Brenda and whatever trouble he had got into with Vic Kennelly. And he had escaped completely enough to avoid being found. Not that the police were looking all that hard. I remembered what PC Downton had said about him being an adult.
My last exam was on a Friday. I got home about 4.15, running through the timetable for the rest of the day. After tea I’d have a bath and get changed. Maybe play that Paul Simon album Debbie had got me for my birthday. Then out. A couple of pints with Steve in the Park Hotel to start with then meet our girlfriends. Can’t be bad.
On the mat I picked up a letter. A white envelope addressed to Mr G.R. Keane. Not often I get a letter, I thought. I took it up to my bedroom, sitting on the bed and ripping open the envelope. I saw the letter head first: Salford Rugby League Club. Holding my breath, I began to read.
“Yes,” I shouted a few seconds later.
They wanted to sign me. I had to ‘present myself’ at the Willows next Wednesday at 11.30. A contract would be ready for me. They were also offering me a job with TRYS, some sort of rugby charity. I could go to college on day release if I wanted. There’d be no call for the ablative absolute where I was going. I could be playing alongside David Watkins, the man who had scored in 92 consecutive matches. Sick with excitement, I ran down the stairs.