by K T Bowes
All Saints
The New Zealand Soccer Referees
K T Bowes
Amazon Edition Published by Hakarimata Press
Copyright 2016
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s hard work.
Disclaimer
This novel is a work of fiction, entirely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, businesses and events are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author. This work is the intellectual property of the author writing as
K T Bowes.
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A contemporary New Zealand romance which moves from Hamilton in the North Island to the bush canopy of Mount Pirongia.
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Acknowledgement
To the hardworking volunteers who turn out every Saturday and keep the beautiful game safe. Businessmen, grandfathers, fathers and sons, uncles, cousins and brothers don soccer strips and run out onto the pitch. When they cross the white line they turn into savage beasts in the pursuit of the size 5 ball and a harmless game becomes less about camaraderie and all about life and death.
You, the referee are the enemy of their peace; abused, challenged and ridiculed. Yet without your whistle, the game could not begin.
Chapter 1
My jaw ached like someone slammed me in the chin with a sledgehammer, the false joviality wearing thin. The bride glided across the dance floor, her body pressed close to her handsome groom and the silky white cloth streaming after her. My jaded mind worked overtime, drawing an analogy of spilt milk. She would wake up alone one morning and face the fact she’d turned her serial-cheat-boyfriend into a serial-cheat-husband.
“Ursula?” The use of my name drew me back to reality; a football club room in the ass end of New Zealand and I fixed the wavering smile back into place.
“Sorry, what?”
The bride’s mother faced me, flaccid cheeks and an eyebrow raised in challenge. “I said, doesn’t she look beautiful?”
My eyes strayed to the whiteness of the wedding dress and the lie of the fabric stretched taut against the swelling mound between pelvis and navel, straining to escape with every lurch on the dance floor. “Yep,” I answered. “She looks amazing.”
The officious woman nodded with satisfaction and asked the same question of the person seated to my left. Their gushing reply held more genuine enthusiasm and I turned my face away to hide my smile, knowing she’d sit there for ages just to hear further sycophantic praise until the speaker ran out of platitudes.
The man to my right leaned closer and lowered his voice to a hushed whisper. “Does she realise her precious little girl’s carrying a passenger?”
I glanced back at the mother and shrugged. “No idea. She will soon.”
He chuckled and nodded in agreement, pulling a packet of cigarettes from his top pocket. As though drawn to the rustle of the box, the woman whirled round and fixed a beady eye on the guest. “You can’t smoke in here, Mark Lambie. Go outside the back door!”
He rolled his eyes and nudged me on the arm. “Want some fresh air?”
I blew out a breath and nodded, scraping my chair back. “I’m not sure how fresh it’ll be with you polluting it,” I grumbled and Lambie grinned over his shoulder. He downed a tumbler of brown fluid and shoved the guest nearest the door, leaning down to growl in his ear. “Give us a shout when the food comes out.”
“The rabbit food or the proper stuff?” the man replied and Lambie roared with laughter.
“Screw the lettuce leaves, man! I want the real stuff.”
The man in his early twenties grinned and then noticed me following, his face expression assuming a more sombre look. “Hi Ursula,” he said, sympathy etched into the lines on his forehead.
“Hey Craig,” I replied and forced back the false smile, fixing it into place and pushing through the fire exit after Lambie.
I let it close behind me with more of a slam than I intended and chewed my lower lip to stem the pain of the niceties. Lambie seemed drunker out in the sunlight and lurched around like a skittle trying to light his cigarette, finally inhaling a massive drag as the end flared orange. In his late fifties, overweight and unfit, he resembled a tramp in his oversized suit and I felt a flash of compassion but through my own depression. I steadied his uncoordinated list with a hand on his arm.
“You’re a bloody good girl,” he slurred, drawing on the ciggie as though it held oxygen and not cancer. “I didn’t think you’d come today. I told yer dad yer probably wouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?” I stared up at the huge New Zealand sky and wished myself anywhere else but Auckland on a Friday night. Rush hour boomed in the distance as the city emptied like a sink hole, ready to fill back up first thing Monday morning. Lambie put his arm over my shoulder, as much for his benefit as mine.
“It’s too soon,” he said, his words slurring. I smelled the whiskey on his breath and the scent of bitterness rotting him from the inside out. “Your Pete’s not been dead a few months. It’s too soon to be at some crappy wedding with a knocked up bride.” His voice caught and I swallowed and pushed him upright.
“Get it together, Mark,” I said, my voice stern. “Pete died at the end of last season. It was September, bro. We’re in April and the start of a new season. It’s a fresh start for all of us.” I gritted my jaw and inhaled a deep breath, smelling the sea air and craving a walk on the beach. My toes peeked from my strappy sandals, begging to be released into the surf instead of cooped up in shoes at a wedding I hadn’t wanted to attend. “But you’re right,” I conceded. “I didn’t want to come.”
“First premiership game tomorrow,” he said, huffing on the cigarette again. “And we’re gonna lose. Without Pete we can’t stay up in this league; we can’t do it.”
“Rubbish!” I gave Mark a shove and then let go, deciding he’d either sprawl longwise on the cracked car park or rally. He rallied. “I don’t need this!” I said, my voice rising. “Just get it together, bro.”
His eyes looked glassy as they stared at me, his lips pulsing around the pink tongue which peeked out. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen, sweat beading on his forehead and his greying hair slicked back like plough furrows. “Sorry,” he gushed. “Pete was the love of your life.”
My snort sounded cruel and I regretted it as the sound reached my ears. “But I wasn’t his!” I retorted. “Did I ever mention all the Saturday nights when he didn’t come home after a game? Or the messages on his phone from the strays he met at the clubs while he celebrated a win? Probably not. Yeah, I miss him, Mark. I miss being married and hanging onto the hope that my husband might change and settle down. But I don’t miss being second best, I don’t miss lying awake wondering why I’m not good enough to come
home to when he’s forcing himself onto someone else in the back of his car or behind the bins outside a nightclub. What’s to miss, Mark?”
Understanding dawned in Mark Lambie’s eyes and they widened to double the size. “You knew?” He sounded surprised and I wanted to laugh, holding onto the awful urge lest he dial for an ambulance to take me to the psych ward of Auckland General. “He used to get so drunk. We always tried to make him come home with us but him and Pike, they couldn’t seem to stop.”
I nodded, familiar with the after match revelry which left the soccer team hung over and uncommunicative most Sundays during the season. In the summer most of them were nice guys, husbands, fathers, boyfriends and sons. During winter they turned into monsters, screaming and swearing during games fuelled by testosterone and topped off with a trip into town, win or lose. Peter Saint acted that way all year round, his behaviour never altering through the changes of the season. I suspected Mark Lambie knew only half the story and as my stomach roiled in complaint, I knew I wouldn’t be the one to enlighten him.
“Shit!” Spit exploded from Mark’s mouth as he slumped against the brick wall of the club house. His breath caught in hitches and his chest heaved. “I wanted to tell you so many times.” His voice emerged as a wail and I glanced towards the exit, hoping nobody came to investigate. I’d suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime.
“Mark!” My voice sounded commanding, forced from my chest cavity as though calling my thirty-one class members back to order after a windy playtime. “Get it together, dude!” I snapped. “I don’t need this today.”
“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Mark groaned, wiping snot and tears on the sleeve of his jacket. He lurched upright with effort and dropped the cigarette on the ground. “Does your dad know?”
The sneer fixed itself on my face before I could stop it. “What do you think?”
Mark touched me on the shoulder. “Yeah, we pretty much all guessed you didn’t wanna marry Pete. It’s hard to resist the pressure they put on ya. I should know what they’re like. I dropped out of coaching this year but when Terry and yer dad get involved, my word counts for nothin’.” He dragged on the cigarette again. “They came to me during the break and said I had to; promised it would all be different if I came back.”
I laughed and the sound carried across to the building, drawing the attention of the table members nearest the door. “I can’t believe you fell for it. There’s no way they’ll back off and let you coach. They’ll have something to say about every single decision you make. Just like always.” That went for my life too.
Mark’s face puckered in distress and he pushed the cigarette into his mouth, puffing as he struggled to light its successor. “You’re so beautiful, though,” he murmured. “I dunno why he’d go into town when he had you at home. You look like a model with your dark hair and gorgeous face.” He glanced down at my dress, his eyes widening. “And the rest of ya is perfect. All the lads think so.” He lurched again and I winced at the backhanded compliment. Lambie shook his head and his eyes tracked back to the door. “I need another drink,” he stated, an addict in the making. “It’s the only way I’m gonna get through this season.”
The smile disappeared from my lips, replaced by regret. “Mark! If it’s making you so upset, then tell them no.” I snatched the ciggie from his fingers and he ignored the interruption, reaching for another. His body swayed in the process, his knees threatening to buckle.
“Can’t,” he replied, dragging on one while lighting the other with his eyes closed. The raucous cough wasn’t unexpected.
“I’ll talk to Dad,” I offered. “This is ridiculous.”
“No, please don’t!” Mark swallowed and his eyes filled with tears. “You can’t. Bloody promise me, Ursula!”
He yanked the tie away from his neck and cast his eyes around the car park as though searching for something. I followed his gaze and saw a tall man around my age leaning his bum against a white car. He looked familiar and I wracked my brain for his identity. Fine boned and muscular, his trousers sat nicely on a neat bottom and he crossed his feet at the ankles and stared at the floor as he spoke into a cell phone. Mark fixed his eyes on the smartly dressed male and then gripped my upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh. “Promise?” he begged and I nodded. I watched the man’s lips moving as I propped Mark up one handed, guiding him backwards to lean against the rough brick.
“Who’s that?” I asked, masking my interest with a bored tone.
“Foxy,” Mark replied, hawking up a ball of phlegm and spitting it into the gravel. Disgusted, I let go of his arm and he tottered on unsteady feet as the fresh air exacerbated his drunkenness.
“Yeah, really helpful,” I muttered. “Tells me everything I wanna know.”
Mark lurched and the back of his head hit the wooden windowsill behind him. I looked around for help and weighed up the consequences of summoning aid from inside. As I turned towards the doors, Mark snatched at the bottom of my dress, hissing, “Please, no,” as he splattered onto the gravel.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, nudging him with the toe of my sandal. “Get up or I’ll call for help.”
“What’s going on?” The stranger appeared next to me, eyeing Mark from an elevated position. “Too much of the pop, Lambie?” he asked.
“I wanna go home,” Mark replied, grovelling with his face in the sharp stones.
“I’ll get Uncle Terry,” I said, smiling in apology at the handsome male whose elbow brushed my upper arm.
“No!” Mark wailed, tugging on the bottom of my dress. A seam gave way at the back and my spaghetti strap dug into my shoulder, causing me to let out a hiss of annoyance and embarrassment. I felt pleased with my new lace bra but wasn’t thrilled at the thought of it being on show.
“Hey, dude, let go.” The stranger squatted and gripped Mark’s fingers in his, prising them away from my hem. He grabbed Mark by the shoulders and sat him up against the side of the club house. “Sit there a minute, man.” Standing up, he turned his attention to me. “What’s the story?” he asked.
I took a step back, sensing blame in his soft brown eyes. “Don’t hold me responsible! He’s drunk too much and I followed him outside because he asked me to.”
The man gave an upward nod. “What will you do with him?”
I gaped in surprise as the stranger placed the physical and emotional weight of Mark Lambie’s plight on my slender shoulders. Indignation filled my expression and I tossed my trademark dark curls and glared at him through determined blue eyes. “Nothing!” I said, surprised at the hardness in my voice. “What’s it got to do with you anyway?”
He raised his hands in defence and held them inches away from my shoulders. “Nothing at all. I’m just passing through.” He glanced down at Mark as the drunk slithered onto his stomach and exercised his limbs in a peculiar lizard movement. “But we can’t just leave him here.”
“I can!” I snorted. “I’ll send some of the boys out if you wanna stand there and watch him do a skink impression a while longer.”
“No, please, not the boys?” Mark sobbed, rolling onto his back. “Foxy, take me home, man. Ursula will help you. I’m sorry. So sorry.”
I winced and wrinkled my nose at the plea and heaved out a sigh. Foxy’s olive-skinned face leaned into mine so he could whisper in my ear. “Is this about his wife?”
I glanced down at Mark rolling around in the gravel wearing his best suit, the belt holding up trousers three sizes too small and his stomach billowing over the waistband like a pillow. “Yeah,” I relented. “Probably.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, Foxy leaned down and hauled Mark up by his arm. While the man still tottered, he dipped his body and flipped the huge male over his shoulder, carrying him in a flawless fireman’s lift. I watched, impressed as he strode over to the white car, Mark’s limp hand slapping his butt with the rhythm of his stride. My lips quirked and I dashed back into the clubhouse to snag my handbag, following after the strange duo.
>
Chapter 2
“If he pukes in my car, you’re cleaning it!” Foxy jibed as we pulled up at traffic lights. Mark Lambie lurched in the back seat and I struggled to prop him up with my body weight.
“He’s heavy,” I grumbled. “I’m happy to swap places.”
Foxy glared at me through the rear-view mirror and I felt the intensity of his brown eyes weighing me up. I saw the questions in his eyes and felt relieved when he left them unasked. Being Peter Saint’s widow hung like a millstone around my neck, bowing my head with the pressure and responsibility. My husband carried his secrets to the grave in Devonport overlooking the sea, but I lived with them daily.
“Why were you at the wedding?” I asked, making conversation. I watched Foxy’s capable hands on the steering wheel as he made the turn into Lambie’s road and then stopped for more lights. Lambie’s face smacked against the side window.
“My sister’s a bridesmaid,” he answered, his tone dull. “She couldn’t find a date at such short notice.”
My brow furrowed as I pictured the bridesmaids; four lumps of women in too-tight dresses and stilettos. The fifth looked lean and out of place, a twig between voluptuous blooms in the hideous wedding photos. “The skinny one?” I asked, remembering the olive skin and attractive Samoan features and Foxy said nothing, his eyes still on my face. “You’re a good brother,” I sighed. “Maybe that’s what I need; a decent brother.”
“You don’t have one?” His question surprised me and I shook my head.
“No. My life might’ve been different if I had.”
The lights changed and I expected the conversation to finish but Foxy pressed on the accelerator and fished for more information. “What makes you say that?”
I shook my head and watched the suburb swim by in a blur, happy families in happy houses and me outside, as always. “My father wanted a son. He could’ve passed on the Saint legacy to him and I’d be elsewhere by now, doing amazing things with my freedom.” I sighed, picturing blue oceans and endless beaches. Probably Spain. Maybe Italy.