Life, Interrupted

by Damian Kelleher

  I’ve been asked this question a lot lately and it’s the one I’m beginning to dread. Simply because Mum’s been in hospital for a few weeks now and it seems we’re no closer to finding out what’s actually the matter with her. I normally say, ‘Yeah, she’s on the mend,’ and change the subject or just fudge an answer, but this is Freya and I don’t want to fob off one of my best mates. I’ve only got two after all.

  ‘Well, they’ve done more tests this week, but the doctors still don’t know what it is.’ I tell her what I’ve been told. ‘In the meantime, we have Nanzilla driving us mental. I can’t take much more of her,’ I moan. ‘She leaves ash-trays all round the house, her cooking is disgusting, and she’s always trying to pack us off to bed early so she can get stuck into the whisky she carries round in a hip flask in her handbag.’

  ‘Hardly Mary Poppins material,’ Freya observes. ‘Why don’t you try poisoning her?’

  ‘What, like she’s trying to poison us with her liver casserole and her grisly gammon steaks? She won’t let us anywhere near the kitchen. I can’t remember the last time I had a decent pizza. Besides, you can’t buy arsenic over the counter at Boots, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Does Jesse get on with her?’ Freya’s mind is running off at a tangent now.

  ‘Oh, you know what he’s like. She hardly crosses his radar except when his footie kit isn’t ready when he needs it, or if she’s having a go at him for getting it caked in mud. Mum never seemed to care.’

  We’ve finished the Revels now, and Freya screws up the bag and lobs it towards the bin. She misses, tuts, and has to hoist herself off her elbows to go and pick up the bag and put it into the bin from point-blank range.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell your mum that Mrs M isn’t all she’s cracked up to be? That she’s a lazy good-for-nothing old boozer who’s past her sell-by date?’

  ‘Then Mum will start worrying about who’s going to look after us. And that’s not exactly going to help her get better, is it?’

  ‘Good point,’ says Freya, lying down on her stomach. ‘Hey, Luke, you know that phrase, “You can fool all of the people some of the time, some of the people all of the time . . .”’

  ‘Yes, “. . . but not all of the people all of time”. What’s that got to do with it?’ I ask.

  ‘What I mean is, she’s bound to get caught out sooner or later, isn’t she?’

  Freya turns on to her back and lies with her head towards the sun, shielding her face from the force of its glare with the back of her hand. I can tell she’s thinking hard – I can practically hear her brain working.

  ‘Well, you just have to make sure she’s not fooling everyone . . .’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Who told your mum about Mrs M?’

  ‘Erm, it was Mia.’

  Freya’s on her feet, looking triumphant. ‘Exactly! Mia! All you have to do is get Mia round and show her what a disaster Mrs M is. Then she can sort out getting rid of her. End of problem.’

  Well, I have to admit, it’s better than her poison plot.

  ‘Have you left Jesse home alone with Mrs M?’ asks Freya.

  ‘Only for an hour or two. He’s washing his footie kit. She reckons she’d done it, but it wasn’t up to Jesse’s exacting standards. He likes it to look pristine and sparkling red and white when he walks on the pitch.’

  ‘What, so it contrasts nicely with the mud-caked disaster area that walks off at the end, you mean?’

  ‘That’s if he’s lucky enough to walk off after ninety minutes,’ I say. ‘It’s normally worth betting he’ll be stretchered off before the end. The trouble with Jesse is, he’s fearless. He’ll go after every ball, get stuck into every tackle, take on any player, even if it means doing himself damage in the process. You know who coaches them? Mr Rubinstein.’

  Freya feigns horror.

  ‘Not Rottweiler Rubinstein.’

  ‘One and the same. Well, he says that what Jesse lacks in talent he makes up for in the way of bravery, but I reckon it’s just stupidity. After all, selfpreservation is one of the guiding principles of human nature. If cavemen had gone running after wild bears like total freaks, the human race would have been wiped out years ago.’

  Suddenly I glance at my watch and jump up.

  ‘Oh shit, it’s kick-off in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Kick-off?’ says Freya. ‘Since when did you bother yourself about kick-off? Don’t pretend you’re interested in football.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I admit, ‘but Jesse got a bit upset the other day because Mum can’t go and watch him play, so she made me promise I’d go instead.’

  ‘Well, I can think of worse ways to spend a couple of hours,’ says Freya.

  ‘Like what? Dusting Mrs M’s precious collection of chipped ornaments?’

  I stand up and start brushing bits of grass and dirt off my jeans. ‘Jesse’s even managed to persuade Jack to come along.’

  ‘Jack!’ says Freya with a wry smile. ‘He’s about as interested in football as he is in knitting. Or cooking . . .’

  True, Jack’s not the world’s greatest chef. In fact, I’ve only ever had one meal he tried to cook for me. Okay, I use the term ‘meal’ loosely. It was actually an omelette. Well, he said it was an omelette. I was convinced it was an oddment from the local latex factory. I swear it bounced a good twelve centimetres when he flopped it on to my plate.

  ‘Who knows?’ I laugh. ‘Maybe we’ll get a liking for it today. Fancy coming along?’

  ‘Sorry, I’m, er . . . washing the goldfish bowl . . . no, the car . . . oh, my hair . . .’ Freya flounders. This isn’t like her. She can normally come up with a diamond excuse without batting an eyelid.

  ‘They can all wait,’ I tell her. ‘You said you could think of worse ways to spend a couple of hours. You’re coming too.’

  As she stands up I move across and take a very unsubtle sniff at her hair.

  ‘Although on second thoughts . . . when was the last time you washed your hair?’

  chapter nine

  ‘Oh, I see you got roped into this torture too,’ says Jack to Freya. He’s standing on the touchline by one of the goalposts, clapping his hands against his sides. He’s wearing a thick, fleece-lined fur-trimmed parka zipped up to his chin with his 1980s Dr Who scarf wrapped round his neck three times (it’s still hanging down to his ankles). He’s stamping his feet and clapping his arms about himself in that crazy way people do when they’re waiting for a bus at the South Pole.

  ‘I thought we were watching a football match,’ says Freya.

  ‘I am,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t know about you.’

  ‘Looks like you’re going on a polar expedition,’ she says. ‘Do you think you’ve wrapped up warm enough?’

  Jack gives her the finger.

  ‘Take the hood off, Jack,’ I tell him. ‘It’s scorchio. You look a prat dressed like that.’

  It’s only April but the sun is beating down like it’s August. Jack’s body thermostat must have blown a fuse. Reluctantly, he pulls back the hood.

  ‘It’s always cold at football matches,’ he grumbles. ‘Last time I went to a football match, I nearly caught pneumonia.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and when exactly was that, Jack?’ asks Freya.

  ‘Erm, let me see . . .’ Jack starts calculating in earnest. ‘It must have been January, about five years ago.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘There’s been a whole lot of global warming going on since then, Jack. And this is April. Just take the coat off and stop drawing attention to yourself.’

  If there’s one thing that never fails to amaze me about Jesse, it’s his powers of persuasion. He can get a ‘yes’ out of people when you know darn well the answer should be ‘no’. ‘Mum, can I stay up late and watch the football?’ ‘Sir, can I leave a little early to visit my mum in hospital?’ I can’t believe he’s actually managed to get Jack to agree to come to this poxy match, but he has. Jack knows even less about football than I do.

  The team
s start trooping out on to the pitch. It’s Cawlsham College in the blue-and-white hooped shirts, and we’re in red-and-white stripes. Jesse’s waving to us as he runs on and manages to tread on Shav’s ankles in front of him. Shav’s the star striker and he’s not happy that a pathetic little upstart like Jesse is hogging the limelight, so he turns and punches him, fake-friendly, if you know what I mean. Jesse takes it as a bit of pre-match camaraderie and rubs his shoulder in good heart, but I can tell it must have hurt.

  ‘How long do these matches last?’ asks Jack. ‘I’m sure I’ve got some geography homework that requires my urgent attention.’

  ‘Shut up and watch,’ I say. ‘If I can do this, so can you. And it’s not due till Tuesday anyway.’

  ‘It’s ninety minutes,’ says Freya. ‘That’s forty-five each way. Do you want me to explain the off-side rule to you both now or later?’

  We stare at her, open-mouthed, as she launches into a very thorough explanation.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ she smiles. ‘This is the twentyfirst century. Girls can like football, you know.’

  ‘You never let on,’ I accuse.

  ‘You never asked.’ Freya cups her hands together and screams, ‘Come on, Joan of Arc! Come on, you reds!’ very professionally.

  ‘School football’s not exactly my scene,’ she adds. ‘I’m normally more of a Premiership girl. But in for a penny, I s’pose . . .’

  ‘I brought my rattle,’ says Jack. From under his parka, he produces this huge wooden football rattle with a flourish. It looks like it’s about a hundred years old and there’s a distinct possibility of dry rot round the joints.

  ‘Give it a whirl, then,’ says Freya, sniggering.

  Jack lifts the rattle slowly (it’s obviously no featherweight) and cranks it round his head a couple of times. The effect is instantaneous: it gives off the most earth-shattering almighty racket I’ve ever heard in my life. It’s as loud as a jumbo jet taking off just above our heads. A flock of seagulls that has been hanging out on the other side of the park take flight, never to return, and everyone, including all the players, turns and looks in our direction.

  ‘It’s quite loud, isn’t it?’ says Jack.

  ‘Stop it now,’ says Freya, who’s not keen on all the attention we’re attracting. Come to think of it, nor is Jack. His face has lit up like a thousand-watt bulb, and it’s glowing infra-red.

  ‘Where’d you get that from?’ asks Jesse as he runs over to Jack. He’s been sent by his team-mates to investigate the god-awful, ear-drum-shattering noise that came from our direction.

  ‘It’s my grandad’s,’ says Jack. ‘I borrowed it from him. He always used to take it when he went to watch a match. He reckoned it brought them good luck.’

  ‘Whatever,’ says Jesse. ‘Anyway, Callum – he’s the captain – he says it’s going to be a bit off-putting for the players if you start rattling that thing about. And anyway, they’re banned. So Callum says, can you shut it please?’

  ‘Look,’ I say, wading in, ‘We’ve come to support you. Make some noise. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Talk about ungrateful.’

  ‘Come on, you reds,’ shouts Freya again, at the top of her voice.

  ‘He says you can shout out, if you like,’ says Jesse, looking at Freya. ‘That’s all right. But nothing rude. No swearing. And definitely no rattling. Please?’

  ‘No swearing?’ Freya is outraged. ‘Has he ever been to a football match? This isn’t a dress rehearsal for The Sound of Music, you know!’

  ‘Jesse!’ yells Mr Rubinstein. ‘Over here. Now!’ It’s not hard to see why he came to be called Rottweiler. It’s no wonder Jesse is always so serious about the team – I’d be terrified of getting on the wrong side of him. The story goes that he used to play for a Premiership side a few years back – I think it was Aston Villa – until someone chopped him down one Saturday and he took a bite out of their ear in retaliation. According to the legend that circulated at school, Rottweiler never made it back into the first team again, and ended up enrolling at teachers’ training college at the end of the season. Jesse runs back to join his team-mates, who largely seem to ignore him. They’re about to kick off. The whistle blows.

  ‘Do you want me to explain the off-side rule again?’ says Freya.

  ‘No, you’re all right,’ says Jack. ‘It doesn’t seem right, running in the opposite direction to the play, does it? Are you sure you’ve got it right?’

  What I never understand about football is all that hanging around. There are twenty-two people on the pitch – okay, twenty-three if you count the ref – and just that one little ball. And only one player at a time has the ball, right? So how dull is that for the others? Whenever I point this out to Jesse, he always goes on about everyone being focussed on the game, but I don’t buy that. They must be bored witless.

  Freya reckons it’s a fairly even first half with Cawlsham having the upper hand – just. So, as the score is nil-nil, I suppose we’re doing okay. Jesse’s been running around a lot and he’s touched the ball about six times and fallen over three times, which is fairly good going for him. There’s still a fair bit of mud about, despite the sunshine, so he’s got his usual chocolate frosting.

  ‘When are you next going to see your mum, Big Nose?’ asks Freya.

  ‘Later this afternoon,’ I say. ‘Got to go to the library for that World War II project in history, then I’ll bike over this afternoon. Why?’

  ‘Oh, well send her my love,’ says Freya. ‘My mum and I might pop down and see her next week.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s cool,’ I say. ‘I’m sure she’d like to see you both. It gets really boring for her in hospital.’

  ‘Talking of boring . . .’ Jack’s pulling on his parka.

  ‘You’re not going till the fat lady sings,’ I say, pointing at Jack.

  ‘She’s got a sore throat. She’s not singing today,’ he says sulkily. He looks over at the team, who are sucking away on their orange segments as if they hold the key to eternal youth – or at least the Inter-County Schools Under-16s Challenge.

  ‘Do you think they’ve got any spare oranges? I’m quite thirsty.’

  Freya produces a bottle of water from her bag which she hands to Jack. He starts swigging away in big noisy gulps so I suppose that means he’s here for the second half. The whistle blows, and they’re off again.

  This half, it looks like Rottweiler Rubinstein has given our lot a bit of a pep talk. Jesse’s playing midfield and he actually manages to squeeze in a couple of decent tackles, so we shout some encouragement and cheer a bit, and next thing we know is he’s booting the ball up the wing to Shav who curves it round one dopey-looking defender, puts on a bit of a spurt to get past him, then hooks it over the goalie’s head and into the back of the net.

  One-nil. We all cheer a bit. Jack gets out his rattle, but Freya gives him such a dirty look that he puts it away again. A couple of other Joan of Arc dads are shouting encouragement like it’s a proper football match and it really matters. Jesse’s got a big cheesy grin on his face. Shav claps him on the back to acknowledge his part in the goal.

  The rest of the game is almost quite exciting. Cawlsham actually put a bit more effort in and start to hit back, and Freya and Jack and I start calling out and cheering Jesse on (well, okay, Freya does most of the shouting and the odd bit of swearing). They get a couple of shots at goal, but they don’t score, then Rottweiler starts waving his arms about and screaming, telling them ‘to get back and defend their lead’ (only there’s quite a bit more swearing in there too). This has the opposite effect, of course, and Joan of Arc start making some serious inroads into the Cawlsham defence. Mark Chetley kicks the ball across the box and Raul, one of our best defenders, so I have no idea what he’s doing at that end of the field, but anyway, he hurls his head into its path and bam! It’s up in the corner of the net and it’s two-nil. Jack can’t resist giving the rattle a good CLACK-CLACK-CLACK and he screams, ‘See I told you it was lucky’ over the din, and Freya and
I dance around a bit and generally get into the swing of things. Five minutes later, the game’s over and we’re heading for home.

  chapter ten

  On the way home, we stop for some chips. I’d managed to get some lunch money out of Mrs M in the morning, which is a cause for celebration as she’s very tight with the housekeeping. So we’re sharing a massive portion of chips and a greasy-looking saveloy (Jesse’s idea) as we walk up Baron’s Hill together. Jesse’s still wearing his kit and he’s caked in mud. The Turkish bloke in the chip shop won’t let him in, so I have to select his saveloy for him.

  ‘Looks a bit small,’ he whinges when I hand it over.

  ‘You’ve got potential,’ Freya is saying to Jesse, waving a chip to emphasise her point as she walks part of the way home with us. Jack scarpered as soon as the final whistle rang, afraid Rottweiler was going to try and confiscate his rattle.

  ‘Do you think so?’ says Jesse. ‘I’m the youngest in the team so I know I’m not as fast as the rest.’

  ‘Speed isn’t your problem,’ says Freya. ‘You have acceleration anyway. No, you just need to anticipate better. It’s all up here.’ She taps the side of her head with her finger. ‘You’ve got to know what the opposition is thinking, where he’s going to play the ball next. I can help you if you like.’

  ‘Really?’ says Jesse. ‘I know Duane Mulholland thinks he should be on the team, not me. He’s bigger and faster than me, so I need all the help I can get.’

  ‘Size and speed aren’t everything,’ says Freya, nicking another chip. ‘Meet me after school on Monday up at the rec. Bring your kit – I’ll supply the ball.’

  She waves goodbye to us both as she peels off up Weybridge Avenue.

  As we open the door, we hear the unmistakable sound of Mrs M warbling away as she vacuums the living room. It’s an old Irish song, ‘The Rose of Tralee’, and her thin wispy voice goes all quivery when she hit the high notes.

  ‘The pale moon was rising above the green mountains,

  The sun was declining beneath the blue sea . . .’