by Nick Hopton
‘Of course I am. Tsk, girl, how often do I have to tell you that you’re only as old as you feel?’
‘Yes, I know, Gran. But eighty-four is a grand old age.’
‘It’s lucky for you that I can’t get my hands on your scrawny neck. I’d give you a jolly good shaking.’
‘Oh Gran, you know I’m only joking.’
‘Of course I do, my angel. Now when are you going to visit your decrepit grandmother?’
‘Well, it’s really busy at the moment, what with work and everything. But soon, I promise. Oh, and Gran, I’ve got a new boyfriend…’
‘Oh yes?’ Elspeth had been Mary’s confidante since her birth. It had really started when as a little girl Mary used to crawl into her bed in the mornings to complain about Beatrice. And Elspeth had always taken Mary’s side, indulging and spoiling her.
‘I’ll tell you all about him when I’ve got more time. Got to go now.’
‘Just tell me what he’s called.’
‘Simon. Simon Simpson.’ It sounded so formal thought Mary, blushing slightly.
‘That’s a nice name. Well, I look forward to hearing all about him. And don’t go getting into trouble or having your heart broken in the meantime.’
‘Oh Gran, you know I’m a big girl now.’ Yes, but that hadn’t stopped her falling for a series of jerks and burning her fingers on several occasions. Poor Elspeth had borne the brunt of those heartbreaks, mopped the tears and offered support.
‘Mmm, well, you be careful now. Promise?’
‘Okay, I promise. Now, I really must go, Gran. Love you lots.’
‘Goodbye darling, and thank you for ringing.’
‘Big kiss,’ and Mary put the phone down.
Elspeth stood for a moment holding the receiver, lost in thought. Goodness, she wouldn’t want to be a young girl in today’s world. So tough, without conventions or rules to help you find your way. It was bad enough back in her day, but at least you were reasonably well protected. The world had been a more innocent place, and there had been lots of people around to advise and help you.
Elspeth shivered; even with the heating on high she felt the cold through her parchment skin. She gathered her crocheted shawl around her shoulders and turned back to the sitting room to drink her tea. It was probably chilled by now. But her spirits rose as she heard the symphony building satisfyingly towards a climax. Wonderful stuff. Nothing like it.
~
With education the hot topic at the moment, Arthur Richardson, the notorious writer, has come up with a challenging proposition. When I cornered him at a party last night he was wearing a pink-spotted bow tie and spun me a line about his latest craze. He suggests that the teachings of nineteenth century Parsee guru Zoroastra should be taught to all British schoolchildren. ‘The man was a great educationalist. We shouldn’t be afraid of unknown religions,’ declares Arthur. I fear Arthur may need to change his neckwear if he wants his theory to be taken seriously.
‘Call this a story?’ boomed Dougy. ‘It’s crap, that’s what it is. I thought I said no more religious stories?’
‘I know, but it’s just that we were a bit short of material and….’
‘No buts. When I say something I mean it.’
‘I just thought that since it wasn’t very political it would be all right…’ Si began to feel unhappy.
Dougy looked at him strangely and Si realised he’d touched a nerve. ‘Not political? Not political?’ The whisper was more frightening than any of Dougy’s ranting. ‘Just because you’re writing about some past-it celebrity hack and his stupid ideas about an eccentric eastern religion in which no-one’s interested anyway doesn’t stop it being political. This is more political than you can imagine. I think you’d better realise that before…before…’ Dougy tailed off. ‘Take this away and chuck it. And pull your socks up, Si, before you blow it.’ There was no doubting the sentence’s resolution this time.
‘Oh…’ Si was lost for words. He felt even unhappier. Perhaps this was the end of his meteoric rise in journalism. He would be packing his desk before the end of the day. ‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.’
Dougy looked as if he was going to fly off the handle again, but then he paused and lightened a bit. ‘Okay, off you go and get it right next time. Do you hear me? Zoroastra wouldn’t be so bad if the electorate included a critical minority of Iranians, but since it doesn’t, and since you know what I’ve said about religious stories, I suggest you go for something a little more…on-beat, shall we say? Get my drift?’
‘Yes, yes I do. Thanks.’ And feeling like Daniel leaving the lions’ den, he walked quickly from the editor’s office.
‘How did it go?’ asked Martha, gentle concern in her eyes as he passed her desk.
‘Well, you know how it is…’
Martha nodded. She certainly did.
Spring
Jimmy’s transfer was confirmed just before the deadline. It coincided with a run of form for Manchester United which took them back into contention for the league championship. Ten victories on the trot put them level on points with Newcastle United, who had seemed unstoppable only a few weeks before when they were nine points clear with a game in hand. At that point the Premiership table had looked like this:
Played
Points
Newcastle
23
54
Manchester United
24
45
As United caught up Newcastle the bookies cut the odds from 15/1 to 4/1 on them finding the Holy Grail of football—that is to say, winning for a second time the mystical Double of Premiership and FA Cup (commonly known as the Double Double).
Jimmy was fortunate to time his arrival with this end-of-season surge. More fortunate still that injuries to United regulars gave him the chance to contend for a place in the first team, although he had yet to make his debut. Jimmy expected to wake up any day, but while it lasted he was going to enjoy the dream.
~
Si took his overcoat from the door. A hint of spring hung in the air this week, a potent incense of rich humus and sprouting bulbs. But the mornings were still sharp. As he slipped his hand into the pocket, he realised there was something in the lining. He pulled out a mud-stained envelope bearing an address he didn’t recognise. A vague recollection stirred. Shit, he’d picked it up meaning to post it but that had been ages ago, just after he’d started his job.
Si bit his lip, a habit he’d retained from childhood. He was slightly horrified that the letter might have contained something important.
For a second he thought of opening it to put his mind at rest. But the feeling of guilt passed quickly. Better to get rid of it as soon as possible.
He remembered to post the letter on his way to work and thought that, despite the delay, he’d done a stranger a good turn.
~
‘Mary? Hi, it’s Si.’
‘Oh, hi. Listen, can I call you back? I’m just in the middle of something.’
‘Fine. I’m in the office.’
When Mary called back half an hour later, Si had almost forgotten the original reason for his call.
‘Oh yeah, I called. Sorry, I’m a bit up in the clouds at the moment.’
Mary laughed. ‘Don’t worry; I like that about you. You’re quite mad.’
‘I know what I wanted to ask you. Would you like to come to a match with me? I’ve got this friend who plays for Man United—I think I’ve mentioned him, Jimmy? Yeah? Well, he’s playing in London this weekend.’ Jimmy was actually playing in a Reserves match against Arsenal, but even so it would be a higher standard of football than most First Division matches.
‘Oh, Si, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to work this weekend. So I’m afraid I can’t. Why don’t I give you a ring when I finish?’
‘Yeah, fine. I’d better get back to work…’
‘Don’t be like that. Come on, we’ll go another time. Or we could always do something a bit more civilised.’
�
��Like what?’
‘The theatre, or the opera… I don’t know. But football’s not exactly the most cultivated of leisure activities, is it?’
Si was surprised by his answer. The truth was that his own interest in football had increased dramatically since Jimmy’s career had picked up. ‘Football isn’t a leisure activity. It’s a way of life.’
Mary laughed. ‘Stop being silly and go back to your work. If it means so much to you, of course we’ll go to a football match sometime. Love you.’ And she put the phone down.
Si returned to shuffling idly through the papers on his desk. Eventually he picked up the phone.
An ansaphone responded. Since moving north, Jimmy’s lifestyle and accoutrements had changed noticeably. For a start, he was now living in interior designed luxury. Manchester United had loaned him enough cash to rent a three-bedroom house in Alderley Edge. ‘Of course’, as Jimmy had told Si, ‘I intend to buy my own place soon.’ His weekly salary was already more than three times what he’d been earning at Millwall, and, if he established himself in the first team, the sky would be the limit. ‘What do you reckon to Ferraris?’ he’d asked Si provocatively. ‘Some of the lads have them, and I thought I might buy one … Just to kick off the collection, mind.’ Jimmy had laughed at the time, but Si had been left wondering how flippant the comment had really been. It wouldn’t be the first time that overnight riches had gone to a man’s head.
When the ansaphone message stopped, Si spoke quickly. ‘Jimmy? Hi, it’s Si. Listen, about the match this weekend. I’ll be there, right, but I only need one ticket after all. Not two, okay? Anyway, talk to you soon.’
Si hung up. He was pleased at his friend’s success, although he could see the potential pitfalls. But he couldn’t deny that thinking of Jimmy also made him melancholic. Everyone seemed so dynamic and on his way up. He couldn’t even write a story to please his editor, and his girlfriend seemed more interested in her work than him. Keeping himself on track in modern life was as difficult as holding on to a slimy fish; it always seemed to leap out in unexpected ways and elude him. There was no certainty any more.
~
A fortnight later, Jimmy huddled into his windcheater. After some good performances for the Reserves, including a couple of goals against Arsenal, he’d finally broken into the first team squad. He was surprised that even under the dugout’s Perspex protection it was arctic cold. Why didn’t the other lads look so cold?
‘You nervous, then?’ The substitute beside him on the bench nudged him in the ribs.
‘No.’
‘So why are your teeth chattering, eh?’
‘I’m just cold.’
‘Sure you are. Well, if you’re nervous it’s no bad thing. You’ve got every reason to be. When I first played here I was terrified. The biggest stadium in the country. The noise is deafening when you get out there. And when something goes right, it’s like nothing on earth. But if you muck up… Well…’ The sharp intake of breath said the rest. ‘But I wouldn’t worry. The boss won’t put you on if it stays like this.’
Jimmy didn’t feel reassured. Half of him wanted to get onto the pitch and do what he’d been brought here to do: score goals. The other half of him wanted to run away to the anonymity of The Feathers. A quiet pint with Si.
The northern climes were much colder than he’d imagined. Before starting with United, he’d only visited the north for Millwall’s away matches. But now he was living up here, the seductive powers of northern England were beginning to wrap their tentacles about him. He liked the people and he liked the city. Like London, only friendlier and more compact.
A roar from the crowd broke into his reverie. He and all the others in the dugout leapt to their feet punching the air. The noise was deafening. Red and black everywhere, fluttering scarves and flags, shirts and hats… Manchester United had equalised in the fifth round FA Cup Derby against Manchester City. After a bad start, the Red Devils had piled on the pressure and were now well in control.
His fellow sub nudged him once they had subsided back onto the bench. ‘Well, if we go ahead, then there’s a fair chance that one of us will get a game. Good, eh?’
‘Yeah, great.’ Jimmy wondered if his teeth were audible to those around him.
~
‘Oooh,’ the roar went up from the crowd in the pub. A pall of cigarette smoke hung over the drinkers. ‘Give me another bitter!’ yelled a voice to the patient girl behind the bar.
‘Wait your turn, Mack. I’ll be with you in a minute.’ The barmaid, a new girl taking Brenda’s place for the night, turned to Si, who sat on a stool. ‘God, I hate football matches. I don’t know what you see in it.’
Si was watching in The Feathers two hundred miles south of Manchester. ‘I’ve got a mate playing in this game,’ he confided.
‘Oh really?’ The girl perked up. ‘Which one’s he?’
‘Jimmy Sweeny. He drinks in here with me normally.’
‘Oh yeah? So where is he?’
‘Well, he’s on the bench, but he might come on soon.’
As if to save Si embarrassment, the commentator promptly announced that Jimmy was warming up on the touchline.
‘It’s an odd choice being one apiece but it looks like Alex Ferguson is about to bring on a virtual unknown, a new player at United, Jimmy Sweeny, who’s just signed from Millwall for half a million pounds. The question is, who’s going to come off?’ This was answered a few minutes later when Nicky Butt limped off. Jimmy, bouncing on the touchline, exchanged a brushing handshake with Butt and ran on to the pitch to polite applause.
Nobody knew what to expect, least of all Si. His heart was in his mouth. How would Jimmy cope with this situation? His debut in the Theatre of Dreams.
‘That’s my mate there,’ he boasted to the barmaid. ‘D’you recognise him?’
‘No, not really, but I’ve not been working here long. Anyway, he’s got nice legs…’
Jimmy’s first touch of the ball was inauspicious. He failed to control an easy pass from Ryan Giggs, letting it run into touch. The capacity crowd groaned. Tolerance of unknown quantities was low. With ten minutes remaining and the game one each, United couldn’t afford to throw the ball away like that. They wanted to score, and so avoid a replay away from home.
It looked as though a rematch was inevitable when, with two minutes remaining, Eric Cantona picked the ball up on the half-way line and ghosted past a couple of tired City players. From nothing a chance had appeared. It was Cantona with two United players in support and only two City defenders and the goalkeeper to beat. The Stretford End roared the Frenchman on.
Cantona inimitably drew one of the defenders towards him and Giggs made a run down the left hand side. The remaining defender followed him, judging that Cantona would probably try and slide the ball through for Giggs to run on to. But suddenly Cantona stopped, put his foot on the ball, and waited with Gallic arrogance. As the shadowing City man lunged at him with a two-footed tackle, Cantona struck the ball to his right and daintily stepped over the flying studs.
Jimmy saw the ball rolling towards him. Taking his time, he controlled it and pushed it ahead of him. There was only the goalkeeper between him and the headlines.
On the edge of the penalty box he looked up and, seemingly unaware of the deafening roar of the crowd, the millions of passionate fans willing him to score not only in the stadium but in front of television screens around the world, he looked up and steadied himself. The goalkeeper, faced with no alternative, sprinted towards him, trying to narrow the angle available and to smother Jimmy’s shot.
In The Feathers the bar was in turmoil. ‘Shoot, you fool, shoot!’ shouted a hoary old man, his pint raised towards the TV set.
‘Come on, sexy,’ purred the barmaid, enraptured by the action.
Si just sat there, gripping his stool with both hands. Come on, Jimmy, come on, mate, he thought. His concentration was such that his eyes ached. Be cool, nice and easy.
‘I bet the bugger misses it,’
whinged a pot-bellied man beside him.
Si didn’t have time to reply.
The goalkeeper was about five yards from Jimmy and moving quickly.
Behind him Jimmy sensed the defenders closing in for the tackle. He had to act quickly or the chance would evaporate in a tangle of legs and boots. He had two choices: either to chip the goalkeeper or to try and take it round him, and then shoot into an empty net. He opted for the latter.
Jimmy dipped his left shoulder, and shimmied towards the centre of the box. As the goalkeeper followed him and dived towards the ball at his feet, he struck the ball with his left foot, dragging it back away from the advancing hands. The ball trickled under the goalkeeper’s body and Jimmy was about to tap it on through and towards the net when it disappeared.
One of the City defenders had caught him. A desperately swung boot cleared the ball into touch. A corner to United. Jimmy hung his head in shame.
The crowd groaned and The Feathers erupted into abuse and laughter. ‘Ha, that’s the end of it for United.’ The regulars, no fans of Manchester United, gloated at this failure.
Si and the barmaid felt Jimmy’s pain. ‘Never mind, love. He did well to be there, anyway.’ Si was heavy-hearted. ‘Listen, have another pint. You never know, he might yet score.’ But he didn’t, and as Si sipped the head from his glass the match ended.
~
The restaurant was virtually empty. Not surprising given the late hour. But Mary had insisted she couldn’t get out of work before eleven.
Si had challenged her. ‘But you don’t plan on working that late every night, do you?’ He was worried by Mary’s zealous dedication to her job. Sometimes he wondered if she saw him as anything but an amusing distraction to fill up quiet times when she wasn’t at the office, to be cast aside as soon as work beckoned.
‘No, of course not. Only two or three times a week.’
‘Ah, that’s fine, then.’ The irony fell on deaf ears.
But now Si’s patience was running out. He had finished the paper while waiting and now turned back to the sports pages, which he’d read first. Manchester United’s draw in the FA Cup at Old Trafford meant a replay away from home at Maine Road. Jimmy’s ten minutes received a disproportionate amount of media attention. Uncharitably, and somewhat unfairly it seemed to Si, the journalist reporting the match concluded that United’s failure to win at home against City was due to the chance missed by Jimmy. Not really fair at all, given that Jimmy had played so little of the match. But, concluded Si, nodding wisely to himself, life wasn’t fair, and journalists were as unfair as everyone else. Perhaps not quite as unfair as Dougy McCormack, but then he was no ordinary journalist. Mortal journalists, like the football correspondent—and Si for that matter—needed to be opinionated, polemic and outspoken. That’s what sold newspapers.