‘Oh come on, I won’t tell.’
She opened the door and leaned against it so it remained open. She turned her head and looked at us sternly.
‘Rukhsana,’ she said, as she closed the door.
FIVE
Something were shaking inside us and it weren’t the balls between my legs when I blasted a volley past Kraney in training. It were something more simple: were that the Rukhsana working at that school or were her name as common as John Smith’s or Mohammed Khan’s. This were something I needed to put to bed soon because it were doing my head in like Arnie’s must have been when he were on Mars in that film when he can’t remember things.
But just as I were planning my strategy, the players were told to go over to Starcot Lane straight after training for a meeting. Partington were only at the session for about an hour and his assistant Dennis Moran took the rest. So I were wondering what the hell it were all about and, then, as we got into the car park at Starcot Lane, it were becoming clear.
‘I think we’re in trouble,’ said Molly, standing outside my car door.
‘What for?’ I said, locking the door and putting the keys into my coat pocket.
‘It’s about that stuff at Tiffs.’
I could see a crazed-looking Pearly running towards us. His wild eyes, furrowed brow and tinge of grey hair were making him look older than his 34 years.
‘Look, get your stories prepared,’ he said, panting and out of breath.
‘Surely they wouldn’t have called all the players in if it were about that,’ I said.
‘Partington’s done it before,’ said Molly. ‘Remember Lassie and Mags breaking that curfew? He wanted to make an example of them. We shouldn’t have run off in the first place. We should have stayed and sorted it out with Clayton.’
‘Look, it’s all right,’ said Pearly. ‘I’ve spoken to Clayton since and no-one else apart from him and that Terry bloke knows we were there that night.’
‘Yes, but that Terry’s our problem,’ said Molly.
Pearly looked round as some of the other players headed into the ground. He ushered Lassie to come over. He then got the three of us in a little huddle, which seemed a slight overreaction as the team meeting could be about anything ranging from Royds’ leaky roof to Mr Starmer’s new community venture.
‘So what do you remember Lasso,’ asked Pearly, with his head lowered even more than the rest of us.
‘All I remember is the bit of table football we had,’ shrugged Lassie. ‘That…and having an evil hangover the next day.’
‘Yeah, sicko, smell that,’ taunted Molly, as he raised his right hand towards Lassie’s nose.
Pearly smiled and playfully tried to get Molly’s hand back to its side. ‘Look, I hope everybody’s got the story straight,’ said the skipper. ‘We were only there a few minutes after the game and we left early. We never met anyone else.’
He finished with a grunt of ‘Albion Town will never go down’ and we were all meant to repeat this mantra by touching our palms in the middle. Instead, we mumbled and barely touched each other’s hands. The inspiration weren’t quite there on a day of shutdown and disconnection around Starcot Lane.
When we eventually got to the dressing-room, we had to wait for ten minutes before Mr Starmer entered with Dennis. You could tell it were something serious because Mr Starmer were wearing his charcoal wool overcoat with its three buttons done up to hide the bulk of his white shirt and his special dicky bow tie. He were sucking something which made his dark moustache and hair shift around a little more than usual. But most importantly he had a whistle round his neck on a piece of string, and blew it to get some quiet in the dressing-room.
‘Mark,’ he said, letting the whistle drop out of his mouth and onto his chest. ‘Do you know why the troops aren’t performing?’
‘Well, it hasn’t been easy,’ replied Pearly. ‘A lot of things have been out of our control.’
‘Like what, the odd tipple at night?’
I felt a surge of energy at the back of my neck and looked across at Molly who were sat on the opposite bench.
‘No, I think we’ve all given 100 per cent,’ said Pearly. ‘This is a tough league, I’m sure we’ll turn it round.’
Mr Starmer folded his arms and slowly looked around at all the players. He never kept his eyes on a player for more than a few seconds, preferring to scan the dressing-room for wear and tear.
‘This club has a great history,’ he said, rubbing his finger into a worn-down area of the bench. ‘It was built by great men who had the vision, courage and hard work to seize the moment. Now, we need the same determination. We can’t afford to go down.’
It almost made you want to stand up and shout ‘CHARGE…’ but then you remembered Mr Starmer’s record with ‘the troops’ and you weren’t too sure. Once, he sacked a kit man who had questioned the official club history in relation to the team’s colours. The kit man said that the team colours were actually based on a misinterpretation when somebody said ‘It’s chilly’ rather than ‘It’s Chile’ and that’s why we ended up with red shirts, blue shorts and white socks. But Mr Starmer felt insulted and said it were obvious the team colours of ‘red, white and blue’ were to do with the flag and the army connection. He won, of course. Another time, he told Lino that he couldn’t have a break while driving the coach because none of the journeys would take longer than five hours. Lino went on strike and we ended up taking our own cars all the way down to Exeter. We were hammered 6-0.
The door opened again and Dennis walked in. He went over and stood by Mr Starmer. We began murmuring again and Mr Starmer put the whistle to his lips once more.
‘Quiet,’ he said forcefully. He looked at Dennis and then continued. ‘This club is about tradition and modernity going hand in hand. It will have 30,000 seats in three years. For that to happen we need to stay in this division. So it’s with great regret, that I’ve had to terminate Ray Partington’s contract…’
‘Fuckin’ hell!’ interrupted Pearly. ‘We’ve got Arsenal tomorrow.’
‘From today, Dennis will take over as caretaker manager. Mark, I want to speak to you outside after I’ve finished.’
It were a relief he didn’t know about the Tiffs episode – as he might have brought a firing squad in – but this were a shock to rival Jet’s revelation that he hated Bruce Lee.
But something else were niggling away at us. Partington had been at the club for 28 years, 17 of those as manager, and I hardly knew the old bid at all. Okay, I’d only been at the club for about five years but in all that time – apart from once when he visited us at home after a lengthy bout of flu – the only things I knew about him were that he liked clear tactical instructions, flying after-shave bottles and Eric Sykes.
‘Didn’t he leave something for us?’ asked Larry, looking dejected. ‘Not even a goodbye message or anything?’
Mr Starmer looked across to the corner of the dressing-room. ‘In that box there’s a pile of black armbands.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if they’re supposed to be symbolic or something but he was adamant he wanted to leave these for the team, so I agreed. He said they weren’t for him, so I know as much as you, really.’
‘Weren’t for him?’ asked Larry.
‘Like I said, I know as much as you,’ said Mr Starmer. ‘Now I’ve got a lot of business to attend to today…so Mark, can I have a word, please?
Mr Starmer, Pearly and Dennis left the dressing-room but the groans and murmurs went on.
‘Partington’s brought this club a long way,’ said Molly, coming over to sit beside us. ‘He’s only had six games in the Premier League and that’s not enough. I don’t like the way he’s been treated.’
‘Well there’s nowt we can do,’ said Lassie, sat to my right. ‘Keep your Pampers on or you’ll get us all into trouble.’
‘It’s the principle, don’t you get it?’
‘All I do is get paid for booze, nothing else. I
don’t do politics.’
‘Have you been practising that one for weeks? I asked.
‘Have I heck as like,’ laughed Lassie, using the hook to get off the bench. ‘I just don’t want us to get involved in this shit. Just wait for the new gaffer and we’ll take it from there.’
Lassie rarely said anything that were worth mulling over for a few seconds. But this time, he seemed to have a point, even though I were sympathetic to Partington. The problem were, he never remembered what he said, because of his thirsty tours, and were just as likely to go along with whoever shouted the loudest a few days later.
Molly got up and walked away towards the dressing-room door. ‘I’m not playing whatever happens,’ he said.
Now Partington would have licked us good and proper if he’d caught us in and around Starcot Lane but Molly insisted we try to track down our former boss – in the pubs around the ground. He wanted to say goodbye to him, personally, and I went along with it even if I were a bit wary of gawper paupers staring at us and wanting autographs.
But Molly had this persuasive streak in his nature and usually got his way. At school, he were so persuasive that he got us to throw a water balloon at Mrs Gooding – our hated English teacher – but she ducked and it splatted across the blackboard and wiped off all this Shakespeare crap she’d prepared for our incoming class. Molly were outside giggling but she didn’t spot him. Anyhow, she forced us to get a mop, but not to soak up the water off the floor but to play the part of Lady Macbeth. So there I were in front of the whole class – as well as the grinning Molly – talking to a mop which were saying things like ‘my dearest partner of greatness’ through the voice of Mrs Gooding. At that stage it didn’t seem too bad but then the mop said it wore a ‘heart so white’ and that I were ‘a coward in thine own esteem’. So I were just about to stick the filthy mop down her cakehole when she grabbed it and tickled my ear with the wooden end. ‘To bed, to bed, to bed,’ she said, while the rest of the class screamed with laughter. This Macbeth tart sounded more like a slapper than a lady.
So Molly had his ways of twisting my melons but, as we walked into The Good Ship about an hour before closing time, I were adamant he weren’t going to do it this time. Status Quo’s Whatever You Want were playing and two middle-aged men, in immaculate suits, were singing along by the jukebox. They had their arms round each other and were trying to keep their pints from spilling over.
The stools by the bar area were full of drinkers with their backs to us; as though their knees were fastened. Behind the bar area, there were an official team calendar with the club crest as well as a signed replica shirt hanging next to it. The tatty, wooden tables to the left were well-stocked – with beer and people – and there were quite a few replica Town shirts dotted around. Beyond this part of the pub, there were a set of stairs leading to a section below.
‘Don’t worry, we won’t be here long,’ said Molly, as he looked intensely around the pub and then headed for the stairs.
The last time he said that he collared us into the shops for nearly four hours looking for a baby car seat. Nothing came of it, and he were so worried about how the baby were going to get from the hospital to their home, that he also missed training the next morning just to watch other prospective mums choosing their seats.
We walked down the stairs and spotted Partington sitting at a table with at least seven other people. We recognised most of them as shop owners and workers in and around Starcot Lane. He had a lit cigarette in his mouth and a glass of red wine in his hand. He had a few top buttons undone on his blue shirt and his glowing cheeks resembled his promotion photo last year when the lads sprayed champagne all over his face. Even his shaggy silver hair were well-groomed to give his face a vitality I hadn’t seen since Rough Rachel gave him the eyes at the club do last year.
Molly approached the table and tapped Partington on the shoulder.
‘Hey, it’s the home-grown fruit,’ said Partington, turning around ‘Come and join us, lads.’
Molly bent down a little and whispered in Partington’s ear. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Now come on, we’re all one family here aren’t we?’ said Partington. ‘Grab a drink…’ He turned back towards the punters. ‘…And anyway, as I was saying, we had a defender once who was a brilliant stopper but had this thing he couldn’t deal with. The problem was he’d go into the opposition penalty area for a corner or free-kick and instead of trying to head the ball into the net, he’d always nod it over the bar or round the post. He was so used to clearing the ball past his own bar and post that he did the same in the other penalty area. In the end we had to get a psychologist in to work with him.’
Partington’s audience smiled. ‘Did it work?’ asked one.
‘Yes,’ said Partington, moving forward in his seat. ‘But he ended up scoring in his own net.’
This sounded uncomfortably like Pearly, although I couldn’t ever imagine the skip sitting down with a shrinko and ‘letting it all out’.
Molly looked at the jovial figures round the table. ‘Look, fellas, can you excuse us for a while,’ he said. ‘We’ve got something important to talk about. We’ll make ourselves available for a little while afterwards, if you want, but we need a few minutes with the boss.’
Partington put his hand up as the men got up. ‘Do you know who these guys are?’
We shook our heads.
‘These men are responsible for keeping you on the straight and narrow,’ he said. ‘They’re my eyes and ears around Starcot Lane. I’ve got nothing to hide now. Whatever you’ve got to say to me, you can say to them.’
So these were the bastards eyeing me up when I went into a shop. I thought they were dazzled by my star status but they were obviously reporting back to the big boss.
‘I think you know most of them. Colin from Tyre Punc,’ said Partington, as he started introducing them one by one. ‘Ron from The Alby Senior…’
And on it went until he got to Pete from Pie & Match. It weren’t quite the Stepford Wives meets Goodfellas but it were clear these trusted members of the community were enjoying the limelight. They smiled and nodded one by one as Partington introduced them.
‘They weren’t there to just keep an eye on you lot,’ he said, stubbing out the cigarette in the packed and filthy ashtray. ‘There were some other benefits too. The Grimsby team coach got a flat tyre last season close to the ground.’ He smiled and looked at Colin. ‘Some of the players decided to walk the rest of way – it was only about half a mile – and they ended up at Greasy Garth’s. They had some grub down there and went down with food poisoning a couple of hours later. They had to play and we won 3-1.’
Molly looked at Partington as he laughed along with the others. Partington picked up his packet of Peter Stuyvesant and took out another cigarette.
‘I’m not sure I’d do that kind of thing,’ said Molly, with a serious look on his face.
Partington lit his cigarette with his silver Zippo lighter and took a drag. ‘Listen Matthew, I’ve got three kids as well, you’re not the only one with paternal and moral instincts.’
Molly stood up. ‘I think this might have been a mistake.’
‘Hold on,’ said Partington, with familiar firmness. He shook his head and then ran his fingers through his hair. ‘When you’re operating in an industry where agents can earn seven figures for spouting gibberish about a player it’s safe to say there isn’t much sanity around. There’s no whistleblowing because everyone knows what goes on. So…’ he said, taking another drag on his fag, ‘…you sit in the dug-out and belt up.’
‘Is that why you’re not at the club anymore?’ I asked.
He laughed and rested his fag on the ashtray. ‘Starmer knows everything that goes on at the club. He’s the one that gave me the idea of the flat tyre. He does more dodgy deals than Tricky Dicky Nixon.’
Molly grabbed my arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Partington turned around and grabbed Molly. ‘You
want to be captain, don’t you Matthew?’
Molly didn’t answer, so Partington grabbed my arm. ‘…And I know Sid’s a bit pissed off with Ibrahim.’
With Partington’s connections, I half-expected him to know about the Ibrahim problem, probably from Spares but the former boss were in deeper than that.
‘It’s not the first time Ibrahim’s tried to make it at Starcot Lane,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
Partington turned away and picked up his fag again. ‘I was asked to make sure we signed him for the club,’ he said, taking a small drag and letting the smoke through his nostrils. ‘I was assistant to Billy Moss at the time. He came down for a trial and I’d never seen anything like him. He had everything: touch, technique, passing, shooting. He was the best player I’d seen for 30 years and we had to get him…’
‘So what happened?’
‘Mr Moss had already spoken to the lad. He’d guaranteed he’d make it as a pro, but because he was busy at the time, he asked me to go and see his family. Ibrahim told me he’d definitely sign but he just had to iron out a few things. When I got to the house, I spoke to his father for a few minutes but Ibrahim was sat in the corner, quiet and motionless. His father said football wasn’t for his son and I could see Ibrahim was trying not to listen. I pleaded with his father that this was the greatest player I’d seen for years, and he’d be a superstar but he wouldn’t have it.’
Some weird thoughts were entering my head. If the dark lord had been Skywalkered, and Ibrahim had made it as a top player, would I have become the first Immie Khan-style icon in the Premier League? Maybe not, but at least he wouldn’t have had to do ads for Ravishing Rice on Albion FM. I got a few quid for it and it only took a few hours but Amejee wanted to test out the rice at home. One winter, she were so angry with the taste that she yanked a plate of white rice off Abujee’s lap and buried it in the snow outside Simpkiss Street. I didn’t do the ad again.
Partington stroked his face. ‘I got into a bit of a slanging match with the father,’ he said, ‘I wasn’t proud of it. I was still a relatively young man at the time and I got frustrated. I regret the way I acted but I just couldn’t bear to see all that magic gone to waste.’
Season of Sid Page 7