Life, Interrupted

by Damian Kelleher

  ‘Inter-County Schools Under-16s Challenge Final.’ Jesse rattles it off as though it’s some kind of tonguetwister he’s been practising for the past five years (which, in a way, it is).

  ‘Exactly,’ says Stu. ‘Anyway, you’ll need all your strength to lift that cup this afternoon.’ He raises his own mug, raises it to toast Jesse and his team’s success, and takes a big swig of tea.

  ‘It’s not a cup,’ says Jesse, who seems to be managing to force down fried egg and sausage quite happily despite his initial protests. ‘It’s actually a big silver plate.’

  ‘Oh, is it?’ says Stu, feigning disappointment. ‘What a shame. Maybe I won’t go after all . . .’

  Jesse looks up at him for a moment and I swear he falls for this.

  ‘Jesse,’ I say, ‘did you hear they’ve taken the word “gullible” out of the English dictionary?’

  ‘Have they?’ he answers, right on cue.

  ‘Don’t tease your brother on his big day,’ says Stu wagging his knife at me playfully. ‘He needs to think positive thoughts and concentrate on the game ahead. That’s what Sir Alf Ramsey would say.’

  Jesse and I look at each other.

  ‘Who?’

  Stu rolls his eyes. ‘Just get on with your breakfast.’

  Ten minutes later, there’s a panic.

  ‘Is my kit clean?’ Jesse stands up so suddenly he manages to knock his chair over.

  Stu puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘You’ll be a nervous wreck by midday. It’s washed and neatly folded and it’s in your sports bag along with all the rest of your stuff and your lucky troll. Now sit down and finish your breakfast or you’re not going anywhere.’

  Amazingly, Jesse picks up the chair and does exactly what he’s told. He must be more nervous than I thought.

  ‘Right, it’s kick off at twelve-thirty, so I’m going to take you down to the sports ground for twelve. That gives us time to nab the best seats,’ says Stu, looking at me.

  ‘What about Luiz?’ I ask. ‘Isn’t he coming?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Stu, carrying the dirty plates over to the sink. ‘He’s meeting us there, though. He lives over on the Nuffield Estate so he’ll make his own way. What about your mates, Luke? They coming here first?’

  ‘No,’ I tell him. ‘They’ll meet us there.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Luke, you’re washing up, I’m tidying up, and Jesse, you can get into your tracky bottoms and get outside for a bit of a warm up, yeah? Thunderbirds are go!’

  By eleven-thirty, Jesse is going through his kit bag for the umpteenth time, checking that everything’s in order: boots, shirt, shorts, socks, hair gel, lucky troll – all the essentials for the modern footballer. Stu comes down the stairs and he’s wearing a pair of jeans, a blue T-shirt and some hippy sandals that are a minor improvement on yesterday’s trainers. Jesse looks up and his mouth falls open.

  ‘Blue,’ he stammers, as if in shock. ‘That’s Thurston Academy team colours . . .’

  ‘Oh,’ says Stu, looking at me. ‘I didn’t realise you took it all that seriously.’ I point triumphantly to the red Joan of Arc polo shirt I’ve put on – it’s actually part of my PE kit, but I figured I ought to show willing – and Stu nods and goes back upstairs. He’s gone for ages and Jesse starts to pick his nose nervously as though his life depends on seeking out every trace of bogey, so I nip upstairs to find out what’s holding him up. I open the door to his room, and Stu is foraging through a pile of clothes on the bed like a maniac.

  ‘It’s a footie match, not a fashion show,’ I tell him. ‘A red T-shirt will do.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything red,’ he says, looking desperate. ‘It’s not my colour.’

  ‘It is today,’ I tell him. ‘Look, there’s a red top. Put that on.’

  ‘That’s a pyjama jacket,’ he says. ‘I can’t wear that.’

  ‘We don’t have time for all this,’ I say, thinking I’m the one who sounds like a parent. ‘Just put it on and get in the car.’

  He puts on the red pyjama jacket with cream piping and goes downstairs.

  ‘Ta-da,’ he says to Jesse. ‘Look – red.’

  ‘Can we go now?’ says Jesse, looking up. ‘I’m feeling a bit sick.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ says Stu as he opens the front door to usher us out. ‘It’s only nerves – it’s all the adrenalin. I always felt sick before a big school match.’

  ‘I didn’t know you played football for your school?’ says Jesse.

  ‘I didn’t,’ says Stu as he shoves Jesse’s kit in the boot. ‘It was chess. I played chess for the school.’

  I try and choke down a giggle, but it turns into a sort of grunt.

  ‘Did you ever win?’ I ask, trying to cover it up and not laugh. Even Jesse is starting to smirk.

  ‘No,’ he says, starting up the car. ‘We were rubbish.’

  Halfway to the sports ground, Jesse shouts, ‘Stop the car!’ Stu screeches to a halt, Jesse flings open his door, narrowly missing a lamppost, and proceeds to empty the contents of his stomach – Uncle Stu’s half-digested cholesterol-fest – into the gutter. I’m sitting up front next to Stu so I pass Jesse back some tissues from the glove compartment.

  ‘Better now?’ I ask, as Stu pulls off again, leaving Jesse’s pavement pizza behind.

  ‘Yes, a bit,’ he says. ‘Sorry. It just all came up. I think it was that aubergine . . .’

  ‘Hold on,’ says Stu, ‘we’ll be there in just a few minutes.’

  As Stuart’s Golf pulls into the car park, Luiz is just reversing into a space opposite in a beat-up old rust-bucket of a Volvo.

  ‘How’s my star player today?’ he shouts across as Jesse gets out of the car.

  ‘All right,’ says Jesse. ‘Bit nervous. I’d better go . . .’ and he points towards the changing room before dashing off to join his team-mates.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a big football fan, Luke,’ says Luiz, looking at me.

  ‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit of moral support, you know.’

  Stu is just getting out of the car and comes round to greet Luiz. They hug – nothing sloppy, no kissing or anything – and then Luiz turns to me.

  ‘I brought some things to make the noise,’ he says, holding up a backpack with an evil glint in his eye. ‘In Brazil, we like the matches to have lots of noise.’

  ‘I’m not sure how well that’ll go down round here,’ I tell him as we take our place on the terraces. I send Jack a reminder text just in case he’s got any ideas about wheedling his way out of this match.

  ‘Where are you?’ I text him and he texts back, ‘On my way, José’. I send the same message to Freya and she messages me back saying, ‘Right behind you!’ and when I turn round, yup, there she is.

  Freya has painted her face in red-and-white stripes and is wearing the biggest, most ridiculous hat I’ve ever seen. It’s about a metre tall, red-and-white striped, and is emblazoned with our school crest and motto ‘Through valour, sweet victory’. She’s also got a red bolero jacket, red-and-white striped feather boa, the baggiest white pants I’ve ever seen, and some red platform shoes that raise her up about fifteen centimetres. Whoever stands behind her is going to get a seriously restricted view of the match.

  ‘Do you like it?’ she says as she comes tottering down the terraces, concentrating hard on not falling off her wedge heels.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise the ticket stated fancy dress,’ I say.

  ‘Honestly, Luke, stop being so suburban. It’s football! It’s the final! Loosen up, enjoy!’ cries Freya as she starts shimmying back and forth. ‘I made it all myself,’ she says proudly, twirling around to give us a better view. ‘You can’t believe how difficult it was to shape the chicken wire properly. That stuff’s got a mind of its own.’

  ‘You look fabulous,’ says Luiz. ‘It’s like the Mardi Gras has come to Portshead.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ cries Freya, delighted, holding the hat on with one hand. ‘Hell
o, Stu, and you must be Luiz. Pleased to meet you.’ She holds out her hand and Luiz kisses it. This causes Freya to whoop with delight and start dancing again. Luiz eggs her on by clapping his hands together, and singing what can only be some kind of wild Brazilian chant. Other supporters are starting to fill up the stand now and, although there are a few scarves, no one seems to have gone to Freya’s lengths and our little party is attracting a bit of attention.

  ‘Afternoon, everybody,’ says Jack.

  I’m pleased to see he’s not wearing a silly hat but he has got the notorious parka on, and he’s got the hood up.

  ‘Bit overdressed for a day like today, aren’t you, Jack?’ says Stu.

  ‘Oh, I only wore this to get here,’ says Jack and he removes the coat to reveal a red-and-white striped football shirt and matching red-and-white hair.

  ‘It’s my grandad’s Sunderland shirt, but it is red and white. And my mum did the hair for me this morning,’ he says, sheepishly. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You’ve all gone stark raving mad,’ I say.

  ‘It was Freya’s idea. I’ve brought the can with me too if you want to do yours,’ he adds hopefully, holding up the red hair paint. ‘I left the white at home though. There wasn’t much left.’

  ‘Come on, Luke,’ says Stu, ‘It’s only ten minutes to kick off. Let’s put a bit of colour on these terraces.’

  He grabs the can off Jack, and tosses it to Luiz who starts spraying Stu’s hair. I suddenly get a flashback to that last weekend with Mum, rolling around laughing as we tried on all those ridiculous wigs in stupid colours that Mia and Polly had brought home for her.

  Luiz passes the canister to Freya when he’s finished and she starts towards me with a manic glint in her eye.

  ‘Your turn, Luke,’ she announces, shaking the can as she speaks.

  Jack jabs me in the ribs with his elbow and whispers, ‘What is your uncle wearing? It looks like his pyjamas . . .’

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I say as I shut my eyes and Freya starts squirting red paint in my direction.

  chapter thirty-one

  As the two teams troop out on to the pitch, it seems to be the general signal for the supporters to start behaving like a bunch of soccer-crazed hooligans. Luiz has produced a small set of bongos from his backpack and starts to bash away like a pro, making a not inconsiderable amount of noise that echoes around the sports ground. Not only does it get the Joan of Arc fans going, but the rivals also seem to be enjoying the crazy thud thud thud of the Brazilian rhythms. The place is filling up now and there must be a few hundred spectators – though it could just as well be the World Cup final as far as we’re all concerned. Luiz has also brought along one of those extremely loud aerosol hooters that he’s handed over to Freya (very unwisely, I’d say). She gives it a good blast straight off and practically blows half the supporters off the terraces.

  ‘Well, that seems to be working quite well,’ she says.

  Jack has the secret weapon of course, his grandad’s rattle, that hasn’t yet made an appearance, although he says he’s saving it for our first goal, ban or no ban, which seems a bit over-confident for a born pessimist like Jack.

  Mia has turned up with her husband Andy and their two kids and they’ve joined our party now, and Polly arrives five minutes into the match, showering us all with kisses and – almost literally – fizzy wine. She’s also brought along homemade lemonade for us non-drinkers, so sharp it makes your teeth itch. Once the drinks have been distributed, she proudly unfurls a huge banner with Mia that reads ‘BURN ’EM UP, JOAN OF ARC!’

  ‘You don’t think it’s in bad taste, do you?’ she asks as Mia takes a slug of her wine.

  ‘Just because you’re a Christian martyr doesn’t mean you can’t have a sense of humour,’ Mia responds, tucking into the industrial-sized quantities of sandwiches she’s made for everyone. She and Polly have become good mates now, and they often meet up at work. Sometimes they come round together to see the three of us too.

  ‘You know, it’s funny how we hated each other at first,’ says Polly, hanging on to Mia’s arm. ‘You thought I was trying to muscle in on your friendship with Pat, and I thought you were a possessive old cow. Silly to think that that’s what brought us together.’

  ‘Well, that and the wigs,’ says Mia, pouring wine.

  The teams are led out on to the pitch by the managers. In our case, it’s Mr ‘Rottweiler’ Rubinstein, who makes Alex Ferguson look like a kindergarten teacher. He’s got a dogged look on his face today, as though he wants to settle an old score, chewing gum compulsively and checking his watch. The ref is a young black guy with a goatee that’s he’s dyed blond and, after a bit of coin-tossing, some shaking of the hands that seems to involve everyone except the spectators, and much discussion between the ref and his two linesmen, he blows his whistle and Thurston kick off.

  For the first ten minutes, there’s nothing much happening. Callum, our captain, is shouting orders at his players (so’s Rottweiler, naturally), trying to get them all to settle. Jesse looks as though he’s recovered from his dodgy stomach and I notice Duane Mulholland is on the subs’ bench, which means that Jesse’s fairy godmother has come up trumps again.

  ‘They’re just getting the measure of each other,’ Freya says. She’s gone into her commentary-box mode, which is mainly for the benefit of Jack and me. ‘There’s a lot of nerves on that pitch right now, but they’ll soon get down to it.’

  ‘The other team is weak in midfield,’ Luiz adds knowledgeably, and then points to the far side of the pitch. ‘But watch that kid on the right wing – he’s dangerous. I think he’s good enough to play for Brazil one day.’

  Luiz is right, of course. Their number 10 is a cool latin-looking kid with a tan face and his floppy black hair tied back by a bandana. His long legs are on the skinny side, but he must have turbo-powered boots because there’s some serious acceleration when he runs and the Thurston kids start yelling for Fabrizzio.

  ‘How’s my favourite boy?’ Polly sneaks up behind me and wraps her arms round me in a big hug. ‘Everything fine in Lukesville? How are you getting on with Stu?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I tell her, trying hard not to blush from the very public display of affection that I’m still not quite used to. ‘We’re settling in. Had our ups and downs, you know. I think we’ve all realised that being open and honest with each other is important.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Polly knows immediately what I’m talking about. ‘I must admit, I did see that little cloud on the horizon. I tried to warn Stu, but you know, strictly speaking, that kind of thing is none of my business – I can’t really get involved with the family side.’

  She takes a bite of her sandwich and chews thoughtfully for a bit. ‘I don’t think he was being dishonest though, Luke. He thought he was protecting you and Jesse. Sometimes, you know, people can do the wrong thing with the best of intentions.’

  ‘Did you know that Stu was gay?’ I ask, turning to face her. We’ve moved a few metres away from the others and are well out of earshot, and I figure this is a good time for the billion dollar question. ‘I always thought you had a bit of a thing for him?’

  ‘Well, to be honest,’ Polly explains, ‘I did have quite a crush initially. Fortunately, I revealed all to your mum one afternoon before I had the chance of making a complete fool of myself. She told me in no uncertain terms that I was barking up the wrong tree, or sniffing round the wrong lamppost as she put it.’

  She looks across at Stu and Luiz. They’re having a laugh over some shared joke and look like they’ve been together for years.

  ‘They’ll be good together, Stu and Luiz,’ she says. ‘Luiz is a lovely bloke. He has that knack of making people feel relaxed whenever he’s around – that’s why he’s such a good nurse. He was brilliant with your Mum, you know. I like to think Patty played her part in bringing the two of them together.’ Polly’s eyes twinkle conspiratorially, and she whispers, ‘She was always talking to Luiz about her “lovely bro
ther”. I think she knew they’d make a good match.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like Mum,’ I say.

  She agrees, looking me in the eyes. ‘I think she probably knew that, if Stuart was to make a success of looking after you and Jesse, he’d need some support,’ says Polly. ‘And I don’t think you can get better than Luiz.’

  Over on the field, Saul Cox, one of the mainstays of Joan of Arc’s defence, is chopped down by some evil-looking kid in a number 3 shirt from Thurston and the ref blows his whistle.

  ‘Oi, ref!’ shouts Freya. ‘Dirty foul!’

  ‘Yellow card!’ yells Jack, who seems to be getting the hang of shouting at the ref.

  Stu swears loudly, calling into question their number 3’s parentage and his personal hygiene. We’ve got a free kick from just outside the box. Shav’s taking it – a sure sign he’ll have a pot at the goal. This is one of Joan of Arc’s set pieces that they’ve been practising – Jesse’s been harping on about it most nights – and Shav can bend a ball like a boomerang, according to legend. Well, according to Jesse.

  Everything goes quiet. Even Luiz quits the bongo-bashing for a moment. We all take a deep breath and build up with a huge ‘WHOOOOAAAH!’ as Shav starts his run-up. He strikes the ball so sweetly with the inside of his left foot and it curves up into the air in a graceful arc. It’s almost as though it’s been whisked away by an angel and I can see the Thurston goalie leap off his line and stretch a hand into the air, but you can see he’ll never reach it. This shot is heading away from him, towards the far corner and he doesn’t stand a chance. It curves beautifully and starts to drop and, just for a moment, I can’t bear to look and I close my eyes. Then I hear the THUD THUD THUD of Luiz bashing away on his drums, and Freya shrieks like a banshee at the top of her voice, and when I open them again the ball is sitting in the back of the net and we all go ballistic.

  CLACK-CLACK-CLACK. Jack has winched up his grandad’s rattle and twirled it wildy round his head. He must have been practising with that monstrous thing because it’s not light, though I’ve no idea where you can make a noise like that in public without having some kind of Asbo slapped on you. Everyone turns to stare and even Rottweiler Rubinstein seems to have half a smile on his face.