by Ian Ayris
Mum tells me to come and get Becky, but she's back before I've even got up.
'No peas, John John. No peas.'
I tell her to sit down, and she does it with this sort of end of the world look on her face. Then I do me big eyes at her and a big wide mouth, scoop up a big spoon of peas, and stick em right in me gob. Becks nearly falls off her chair with her gigglin. That's enough for me, though. Fuckin hate peas. I get up, quickly spit em in the bin and start clearin the table. Becky's holdin onto me legs and I'm draggin her cross the kitchen, clearin up quiet so as I can hear what Mum and Dad are sayin.
Some of them's been there thirty years and more, Dad says. He's done fifteen himself. Been there since before I was born. Never use to say much about what he did whenever I asked him. Sort of embarrassed, like he was ashamed or something. Mum'd always say something like, 'Your father? What does he do? As little as possible, son. That's what he does.' Then she'd laugh. She knew his job was shit – probably just puttin things in boxes or something – and she knew it made him feel less of a man in the doin of it. But it's how he provided for us, and that's what mattered to him more than anything. That's why he did those long hours in that shit-hole of a factory. That's what made him a man.
But all that's gone now.
Mum says she'll see if there's anything goin in the supermarket where Auntie Ivy works. But Dad's proper old school. Won't have Mum workin, won't have none of it. Won't sign on, neither. Proud, my dad. And the thought of Mum out at work sort of pulls him together a bit. Tells her not to worry, he'll pick something up.
Couple weeks later, he's queuein up at the Social like all the other poor bastards, and Mum's stackin shelves with Auntie Ivy at Fairways.
***
Always gonna take its toll on Dad, all the shit he's been through. And the drinkin just tops it off. Most mornings he don't even get up in time to see Mum off to work. Sparko in bed, he is. Fucked. I end up givin Auntie Gwen a bell so she can come round and look after Becky while I go to school.
Becky ain't gonna be startin playgroup for another year, and Auntie Gwen's said she'll help out lookin after her so Dad can go out lookin for a job. But it don't work like that. Most days she's still here come tea-time knockin us up something to eat.
Dad has his good days, though, and he'll go down the Job Centre, see what's there. Tells me it won't be long before he's back on his feet. But he don't have no luck. His luck run out a long fuckin time back.
I know Mum's been down the doctor’s with him a couple of times, and he's on tablets cos I see him take em and Mum's always on at him to make sure he remembers. But they don't tell me nothing. Neither one of em. And he's started havin these moods, you know, like he's really fuckin nasty sometimes. Other times he won't say a word for days.
No matter how hard things get, Dad never misses a match up at the Boleyn. I'm in the school team now and I'll have a kick-about in the street or over The Barmy till the cows come home, but I ain't never been one too much for watchin. But I go with Dad every home game now. Keep him company. And I tell you what, standin on them terraces, with my dad, and thousands of others all singin, chantin, swearin and jokin, well, there ain't nothing fuckin like it. Sorta know now when Dad used to say it weren't never really about the score, you know. More about the bein there. Together. Good fuckin job it ain't about the score, cos we're doin really shit this season. I mean, really fuckin shit. We can all see where it's headin but neither fuckin one of us is sayin a word about it.
On a good day, when Dad's up for talkin an that, me and him go over the game on the way home, slag the ref off, read bits out the programme, try and work out why we lost. We always end up laughin goin in the front door. He puts his arm round me shoulder and says it ain't about the result, it's about the stickin together when it's all fallin down round your ears, knowin it's all gonna get a whole fuckin lot worse. And how we fuckin laugh.
Other times, when Dad's on a downer, we come back from football not sayin a fuckin word. He goes in and sits in his chair and I go up and lie on me bed lookin at the ceilin feelin like there's something missin.
Even though Dad's still outta work, and Mum brings home hardly nothing, she never stops him goin. It's like she knows it gives him more than she understands. Something he can make sense of, you know. Fuck knows there's nothing else.
It's got so bad we gotta beat Liverpool last game of the season to stay up, and not even Dad thinks we got a fuckin prayer with that one.
***
The Boleyn Ground 29th April Nineteen seventy-eight
Hammers 0-2 Liverpool
***
Mum and Becks is in bed, and me and Dad's in the front room sittin quiet in the dark, listenin to Elvis. We don't say nothing about the match. I mean, what's left to say? When it comes down to it, all the buzz and the stickin together and the singin, and all that bollocks, don't mean a fuck.
We been relegated to the Second Division for the first time in twenty years. Dad still ain't got a job, and Elvis?
Elvis ain't never comin back
CHAPTER TWELVE
After Kenny went, Keith, me, and Thommo got right tight. Ain't like we weren't mates before or nothing, just I always had one eye out for Kenny, you know. They did an all, but mostly they done it cos of me. As for Kenny, ain't heard nothing in ages. Sometimes wonder what he's doin, if he's all right. That sort of thing. But life goes on, don't it? Becky talks about him sometimes. Asks me when the nice fat boy's comin back. I tell her I dunno, and every time I say it, the whole world goes black.
As for school, nothing to tell. See, when you're thick, like me, it's a piece of piss. No one expects nothing of you, and comes a time when you don't expect nothing of yourself. And the time fuckin flies by. Before I know it, end of fifth year's comin round and I'm nearly out. Can't fuckin wait. Not that I go much anyway, mind.
Mum's changed her hours cos Becky's at school now. Second year Infants. Think it's so she can keep an eye on me an all. Make sure I got to school, like. But most days, soon as I'm out the door, I'm straight round Thommo's gaff. His old man's out early hours on his stall, so the house is empty. Keith meets us there, and we change out of our school clobber and head up west on the train.
First stop's Hari's Paki shop round the corner from Thommo's. That's where we nick some sweets for the trip, and Keith picks us up some fags. He's the oldest lookin of us, see, so he can get away with it. Mind you, old Hari would sell his own fuckin mother if he thought he could make a few fuckin pennies on it.
Me and Keith's on half a pack of fags a day and I have to shove a tonne of Wrigleys down me throat to hide the smell from Mum. Thommo's into glue. Always got a bag on him. Never done nothing for me, if I'm honest. Just give me a fuckin headache.
We head for Soho first, more often than not, you know, just for laugh. Then it's up Oxford Street, Tottenham Court Road, round there. I nab a couple of tapes where I can; Stiff Little Fingers, The Clash, Ramones, that sort of thing. Thommo picks up whatever he can stuff up his snout for later, mostly marker pens and Tipp-Ex. Keith never nicks nothing. It's the bein outta school that's his buzz. The freedom. The walkin tall. That, and bein our fag man.
Ten years at school and none of us got fuck all to show. Nothing. Not a fuckin sausage.
But Becky, she's just startin out. Like I said, second year Infants. And good luck to her, that's what I bleedin say. Mum's too busy with her to bother much with me. Fair enough, really. Mind you, she always makes sure I'm out the door for school on time, even when she knows I ain't goin. Watches me all the way down the street, she does, till she can't see me no more. Never takes her eyes off me. But she knows. Don't trust me far as she can fuckin throw me these days. When I tell her what I done at school, tests and stuff, all bollocks of course, she just raises her eyebrows and shakes her head. Can't get nothing past my mum. But she can't do nothing about it, see. What with Becky bein at school, and Dad still on the dole and miserable as fuck, and her workin all the time, as well as takin in other people's ironin
, she's got enough on her plate to bother with me. Not that I fuckin care. Ain't like I need her no more or nothing. Not like what I used to. Me, I don't need fuckin no one.
And the country's all goin tits up. Turns out Dad losin his job was just the tip of the fuckin iceberg. Now there's blokes losin their jobs left, right and fuckin centre, and every other bastard's on strike. There's black rubbish bags pilin up the streets, bodies pilin up the graveyards, and the Army's drivin round in green fire engines. Talk is, we'll even have a woman fuckin Prime Minister soon. Dad reckons Thatcher's more of a geezer than most of the blokes down the boozer. Fuckin hates her, he does. Only thing that gets him riled up nowadays. Mum reckons it'd be great if there's a bird in charge for a change, but she can't stand the old bitch, just like everyone else round here. Dad says she'll rip the country in half before she's done. Seems like no bastard's gonna be helpin me out in the fuckin short term then. Or Keith or Thommo. Even Dad, come to that.
Dad ain't got much of a clue of nothing no more. He's been on the dole nearly two years, and it's a nightmare seein him like this. Mum's aged ten years since Dad stopped work, and he's gone double that. Even got bits of grey in his quiff. It's like overnight he's turned into this old man. Sits in his chair starin at the telly all day. Watches anything. News, soaps, kid's programmes, cartoons, Open bloody University. Don't seem to matter what. Don't even get off his arse to have his tea at the table with the rest of us no more. Eats it off a tray sat in his chair.
Mum takes him down the doctor’s regular. Bathroom cupboard's full of tablets and pumps and shit. He ain't supposed to drink, but he does. Keeps him quiet. Drinks and watches telly. That's all he does. He goes down the boozer once a week, on a Friday, with Uncle Derek which gives us all a fuckin break. That's where he got his tray.
Not even the football cheers him up no more. We still ain't out the Second Division, and don't look likely this season neither. Half the players been sold off and the new ones ain't much cop. And Swansea, Shrewsbury and Orient ain't a patch on Man. U. or Arsenal. Gets Dad out the house every couple of weeks, but that's about it. Keith and Thommo come with us every now and then. Keith's right into it but ain't got the money to come all the time. Thommo, he just comes for the laughs. Not that there's much of them to be had neither.
But we're through to the fourth round of the Cup. Only thing perks Dad up, talkin about the Cup. Says he got a funny feelin about it this year, reckons we've got a right chance. We all think he's talkin out his arse, obviously, but there's this look in his eyes when he says about it that sort of sticks and I can't take me eyes off him. Might be cos he's stoned off his nut what with all them tablets he's on, but it's like somewhere in there, behind those half closed, bloodshot eyes of his, I can see him again. The same old dad I love so fuckin much.
But he's so up and down, I can't fuckin stand it, so I'm out most evenin's soon as tea's done. Ridin me bike, or nippin round Keith or Thommo's. Most times we end up over the Barmy just hangin about. Borin as fuck but it beats bein indoors. Dunno what Becky makes of it all. It's like she don't even notice there's anything wrong. Runs up to Dad whenever she sees him. Arms right round him. Sometimes he don't even touch her, but when he does, you know, when he holds her to him or ruffles her hair, I know he's back. For a bit, anyway.
And I look at Mum and she's all tearin up and I know she'd give anything to have him back the way he was. Sometimes, I think it's only Becky keeps us all goin.
And the Hammers.
We've beat Swansea in the fifth round. Scraped through in the last ten minutes with goals from Psycho and little Paul Allen. But when we draw Villa next, we know we're fucked. Million miles from the likes of us and Swansea, Villa are. A proper fuckin team. First Division. And there's us, mid-table Second. But we're at home, at The Boleyn, and as it's gettin closer, I'm beginnin to think we might have half a chance, you know, if they play really shit and we have a blinder. But that's the only chance we fuckin got.
***
Ground's packed. Thirty-six thousand. Me and Dad's in the Chicken Run, like usual, and we can't fuckin move, other than clap our hands and jump up and down a bit. Like I says, Villa are good, and none of us think we got a fuckin hope, other than Dad, of course. But I know we'll give it a go. And we do. We match em all over the park. Then in the last minute, just when it looks like we're gonna be listenin to the replay at home on the radio, we get a penalty. A fuckin penalty. None of us got no doubt Tonka's gonna smash it in. And he does.
When the final whistle goes it's panda-fuckin-monium.
And everyone's takin notice now. There's us thinkin Dad's been talkin bollocks all this time, off his fuckin rocker on his tablets, and now we're in the Semis. The fuckin Semis. We got Everton. Still, coulda been worse. The other Semi's Liverpool-Arsenal, so least we didn't get none of them.
Ain't lookin too rosy though, leadin up. We've only won one out the last eight. That was Orient, couple weeks back. And they're shit. Still, might be our name writ on the cup, like Dad says. You never know.
First game against Everton's nil-nil, so I'm thinkin we've least took em to a replay. Gotta be happy with that. And it weren't no fuckin fluke neither, accordin to reports. Replay's up at Leeds. Dirty cheatin cunts.
Mum's out with Becky when the game kicks off, gettin some shoes or something, but the rest of us is all here, sittin round the radio. Me, Dad, Auntie Gwen, Auntie Ivy. Uncle Derek knows the rules, and he's at home. It's close. Fuckin close. One-all with a couple minutes left. And it's soundin like another replay, when the fuckin unbelievable happens.
Cross comes over, and who's in the box? Only Frank fuckin Lampard.
'What the fuck's he doin up there?' Dad says.
And I'm thinkin the same, thinkin he should be back defendin case we get broke on or something. Seconds later, we're both munchin on our fuckin words cos Lamps has launched himself at this ball. Divin header. BANG. Fuckin BANG. Get in there. Geezer on the radio said it was like a fuckin rocket. Keeper had no chance. Whistle goes not long after and, fuck me, we're in the final. And when that whistle went, it was like Dad cracked out his shell or something, like he just come back from wherever he's been last few years.
We watched it all on Match of the Day later. Funny thing, when he scored, Lamps hadn't got a fuckin clue what to do. So he just stands there, then he runs to the fuckin corner flag and does this little fuckin dance round it. Me and Dad's killin ourselves watchin it. Then Dad gets up and does a little shimmy round the lampstand. Silly bastard. Mind you, he only does a few seconds before he falls down in his chair, fucked with the effort. Big grin on his face, red as a fuckin beetroot.
I got the feelin this is as good as it's gettin for us. Our greatest moment – winnin the Semis. And as I'm watchin Dad takin another turn round the lampstand, I'm hopin he's thinkin the same. Fuckin hate for him to have his hopes up on this one.
Like I said, the other Semi's Arsenal-Liverpool, so either way, we're fucked. Arsenal win after three replays. They beat United in last year’s final so they're goin for two in a row. We ain't got a hope in fuckin hell against them.
After the Semi, it's like Dad's a changed man. Got his old energy back. Up and lookin for work most days, jokin and laughin. But I fear the fuckin worst. Week before the Cup Final, and it's like it ain't even entered his head we're gonna get slaughtered.
We beat Charlton four-one last game of the season and finish seventh. Arsenal finish fourth from the top of the league, a point behind United. And they're in the final of the Cup Winners’ Cup a few days after they play us. No one's givin us a chance. Telly, papers, no one. No one other than my dad, that is. He reckons we're gonna stuff em. Three days to go, he's deckin out the house in claret and blue, laughin and jokin and fallin off ladders like old times. On top of the world, he is, headin for a big fuckin fall.
We're windin paper chains round the bannisters, me and Dad, night before the match, when Mum calls us in from the front room in her 'someone's in for a bollockin' voice.
I'm
thinkin what I might have done, apart from the usual, and reckon she might have tumbled me thievin or me smokin. Dad looks at me with the same look I'm givin him. Sheer fuckin terror. We both go in and sit on the settee, hangin our heads like naughty schoolboys.
Mum's standin by the settee, but neither one of us is lookin at her.
'Bill,' she says.
Dad looks up at her and so do I. She gives him an envelope, and she's got tears in her eyes and the biggest smile on her face.
'Go on, dear,' she says. 'Open it up.'
Tears comin down her face now.
'I was puttin some money aside. Just in case.'
She leans over and kisses him on the top of the head.
And he opens the envelope up and pulls out two tickets for the Cup Final. He looks up at her, sort of lost.
Then I realise while all the rest of em, all the rest of us, was takin the piss out of Dad all them times, laughin at him, thinkin what a stupid bastard he was for believin, Mum's savin up every penny she’s got. She musta seen that same look in his eyes I see. But where I see the silly old sod I miss so much, she was seein the only man she ever loved.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Auntie Ivy's comin over to watch the match on the telly. So's Uncle Derek and Auntie Gwen. Bein Spurs, Uncle Derek hates Arsenal more than the rest of us, so Dad says he can be an honourable Hammer for the day, so long as he leaves his Spurs shirt at home.
Me and Dad's gettin our last orders off Mum.
'Have you had your tablets, Bill?'
'Yes, dear.'
'And you've got your pump with you, just in case?'
'Yes, dear.'
'Good. Now just don't you go getting too excited, love, remember what the doctor said?'
It's like she's talkin to Becky or something, but Dad don't care. Not today. This is the greatest day of his life.