Abide with Me

by Ian Ayris

  'I've done you up some sandwiches, just to keep you going. Cheese for you, John, and Bill, you've got ham and pickle.'

  She hands me a carrier bag. Weighs a tonne. Reckon you can feed half the Chicken Run with this lot.

  'And make sure you both have plenty to drink. The weatherman said it's going to be scorcher.'

  'Yes, Mum,' me and Dad say together.

  It's eleven o'clock already and we want to get goin.

  'And boys?'

  Fuck me, what now?

  Mum smiles big and lovely.

  'Have a great time,' she says. 'We'll be looking out for you on the telly, won't we Becky?'

  Becky smiles just like Mum and nods her head. Then she runs up and grabs Dad round the legs.

  'Wave to me on the telly, Daddy. Wave to me.'

  Even though I know he's breakin his neck to get out the door, Dad picks her up and gives her a big squeeze.

  'Course I will, darlin. Wouldn't not do that, now, would I?'

  He gives Becky a kiss on the head and puts her down. She runs back to Mum, takin the hand Mum's put out for her. Then Dad, slow as you like, does the few steps to Mum and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and whispers something in her ear. Dunno what he says, but Mum's blushin all over and her eyes are fillin right up.

  ***

  We're out in the street now, headin fast as we can for the station before Mum calls us back for something else. Reckon it's a million degrees out here. We both got our scarves on. Mine's round me waist but Dad's got his good and proper round his neck. He must be pissin sweat.

  The whole street's got flags out windows and scarves round lamposts and we're gettin waves from everyone we know. It's like we was actually playin the way everyone's wishin us good luck and pattin us on the back. Dad's lappin it up. Me, I'm too fuckin nervous to think.

  There's a geezer sellin Cup Final bits off a wallpaper table outside the station. Dad gets us a rosette each, and one for Becky, which he stuffs in the carrier bag with the sandwiches. He pins mine on like he's givin me the Victoria fuckin Cross or something. Then he pins his on and flattens the ribbons with his hand and blows his cheeks out. It's like he's just realised we're actually goin to the Cup Final, you know, like it's only just hit him.

  'Come on, son,' he says. 'Time for a swift one.'

  That means a stop off at The Queen's on Green Street, just outside Upton Park Station. It's only a couple up from Bethnal Green and it's where we go before every home game. Mum don't know. If she ever found out Dad took me anywhere near a boozer, she'd do her bollocks. Fuckin kill him, she would.

  Dad's been takin me in The Queen's last couple of seasons before every game. It's a proper Hammers pub. No away supporters in here. Wouldn't bleedin dare. He started me off on coke the year we got relegated, then this year he's upped it to half a shandy. What he don't know is, me and Keith and Thommo been bang on the cider since I was thirteen. Thommo nicks it out his old man's shed. Dad's got this thing about buyin me first pint, like it really means something to him, so I don't let on or nothing.

  Upton Park Station's crawlin with Old Bill. All over the gaff. No surprise, really. Arsenal ain't like Millwall, or Uncle Derek's Yids, but there still ain't no fuckin love lost, if you know what I mean.

  Green Street's jammed. And the boozer, you can't hardly get near it. Looks like everyone's had the same idea. As we're pushin through the crowds outside, I get a tap on me shoulder. But it ain't a tap it's more like a thump and whoever done it smells of beer and piss. Dribblin Albert, if I had to guess. He's one of Dad's mates from his days at the factory. Collars us every fuckin time.

  Now he ain't called Dribblin Albert cos he used to be a fleet footed wizard on the wing in his youth or nothing. He's called Dribblin Albert cos he dribbles. Jaw's fucked. All pushed over one side. Born like it, I should reckon. Dribbles when he's talkin, dribbles when he ain't. Forever moppin it off his chin. Makes this sort of suckin noise when he drinks. And when he's eatin, fuck me, there's a sight you don't wanna see. I know he can't help it but, you know, it ain't fuckin pleasant.

  I turn round, and there he is. Huge and hairy and smashed off his face.

  'All right, shun. Howsha doin?'

  Dad turns round.

  'Albert, mate. How's tricks?'

  'Heesh growin, your lad, Bill. Gesh bigger every time I shee im.'

  He only saw us last week, before the Charlton game. Daft old bastard.

  'He is an all, Albert. Gonna be a big lad, ain't ya, John?'

  Fuckin hell. This ain't gonna get us a drink. And I'm bleedin parched.

  'How long's it been like this, Albert?' Dad says, makin a sort of narky face, lookin at the crowd from here to the bar.

  Albert's got no idea what Dad's talkin about. He's sort of fazed out for a moment and he's wobblin a bit.

  'All this lot, Albert, how long's they been here?'

  'You wanna drink, Bill?' Albert says, comin back to Earth. 'And yer boy, washeewan?'

  'Cheers, Albert, mate. Pint of Best for me, and half a shandy for the boy.'

  With that, Albert shoves his way past us and everyone else like they ain't there. Me and Dad wait outside. Albert's back ten minutes later with the drinks. Dad reckons the beer's been watered down, but he's soon on his third. Albert's had more than double that, lookin at the state of him, and he's still goin.

  'So, washa reckon, Bill? Fink we'll do it?'

  Albert's talkin like someone who knows what he should be sayin but ain't got no fuckin idea what he's on about.

  'Well,' Dad says, sippin his pint of watered-down gnat's piss, ‘no fuckin way it's gonna be easy, mate. But it's the Cup Final, you know. David versus Goliath. Us against the fuckin world. And we got Bonzo, so there ain't no way we're givin up without a fuckin fight.'

  And Dad and me and Albert raise a glass to the great Billy Bonds. West Ham through and through. A fuckin hero.

  Dad carries on.

  'Do em on the break, I reckon,' he says, suddenly all sure of himself. 'One-nil, two-one tops. Yes, Albert, my son, course we can fuckin do it.'

  Looks like Albert's got tears in his eyes, but it's probably just years of bein on the piss. Or an eye infection or something.

  'COME ON, YOU FUCKIN HAMMERSH!' Albert shouts, like he's just sat on something. Scares the shit out of me and nearly has the whole table over.

  Cheers go up all round us and before you know it, there's two hundred pissed up Hammers singin.

  It's like they all forgot who we're playin today. Who we're actually up against here. Arsenal. Fuckin Arsenal. It's their third Cup Final in the last three years. And they got Liam Brady. Liam fuckin Brady, for fuck's sake. And who we got up against him? Who we got to keep him quiet, play him off the park? Little Paul Allen. Seventeen years old. A year older than me, and he's got to mark Liam Brady out the game or we're proper fucked.

  I've made me mind up. We ain't got no fuckin chance. No fuckin way. But then I look round at all of these blokes around me, all of em singin and I look at me dad and I look at Dribblin Albert, and part of me wonders, you know. Wonders if we really could nick it, just like my dad says.

  Dribblin Albert slips off his stool.

  Time to go.

  ***

  Me and Dad go through the line of Old Bill outside Upton Park Station, and they don't give us a second look. They're busy with some lads what've tried jumpin the barriers and are cuffin one of em against a wall. Of all the fuckin days to get nicked. No fuckin brains some people.

  Trains crammed full of Hammers. No Arsenal nowhere. But when we get out at Wembley Park, we see em. Thousands of em in their red and white shirts and flags and everything. Fuckin thousands of em.

  We follow the crowds down Wembley Way, past the hot-dog stands and the programme sellers and the ticket touts. Dad stops for a programme, but Mum'd kill us if we don't eat her sarnies, so the hot-dogs ain't got no hope. Dad's sort of marchin and it's hard to keep up. And as we come up the hill, there it is. Wembley Stadium. Fuck me, it's enormous. L
ike one of them gigantic wotsit things in Roman times with gladiators and lions and all that shit.

  And the crowd’s all backed up, tryin to get in. I get Dad to look at our tickets to see what turnstile we need. We're right round the other side, so we get marchin again. The further round we get, the more Hammers we see, until that's all there is. A sea of Hammers. And it's fuckin beautiful.

  I remember me first game at the Boleyn. That feelin when you walk up the steps and it all opens out before you. Near took me breath away as a littl'un. But Wembley? There ain't nothing like Wembley, not in the whole fuckin world. Place is fillin up already and there's still a couple of hours to kick-off. By then, there'll be hundred thousand in here. Hundred fuckin thousand.

  We're behind the goal. All Mum could get, I reckon. Not great, but what's not great about bein here? Fuckin nothing. I'm lookin at the programme, and Dad's lookin round the place like he just fell out the sky.

  Bonzo and the lads are out on the pitch all suited up. They walk behind the goal and we all stand and clap as one. And they look so small. They give us a clap back and walk round to where the rest of the Hammers are round the side.

  Brass band’s out, marchin up and down, playin brass band shit. Then they stop in the middle of the pitch, all still, and start playin Abide With Me. I quickly turn to the bottom of page two in the programme where they've writ the words, and me and Dad sing it out together. Every man around us is singin hard. All readin the words off the programme so you can tell not a fuckin one of us goes to church or nothing. But here they are. Here we are. Men. Singin for our lives.

  'Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;

  The darkness deepens, Lord with me abide;

  When other helpers fail; and comforts flee;

  Help of the helpless; O abide with me.'

  I'm so choked at the end of that first verse, can't barely get through the next one what with the tears runnin down me face. Dad's the same, and for the rest of the singin, we're just holdin on to each other. Man and boy. Father and son.

  I hope to God we win. Hope to fuckin God. Can't stand to think what it'd do to Dad if we don't. See, when you're watchin it on telly or listenin to it on the radio, you can just turn it off. Kill the feelin. But when you're here, you're part of it, and it gets so it's a part of you. And there ain't nowhere you can fuckin hide.

  ***

  A roar goes up right round the ground, like the sound of a buildin comin down. And here they come. Looks like we lost the toss for kits cos we've come out in our away kit. All white with light blue trim. Bit poofy, but we can't do nothing about that now. Dunno why, but Arsenal's wearin their away kit an all. Yellow shirts, blue shorts. About level as far as the poofy stakes go, but I reckon we might just've nicked it.

  Everyone's lined up, and Bonzo's takin some suited up geezer to shake hands with our lads. Paul Allen looks littler than Becky, and the Arsenal look so fuckin huge, sort of steady, like they know all they gotta do is turn up. And it ain't just me wonderin why Johnny Lyall's playin Psycho up front on his own. I mean, one up against the Arsenal. We ain't got no chance of fuckin scorin with that.

  Me heart's batterin me on the inside, hurtin. And I got Dad tremblin right next to me, closer than skin.

  Whistle blows.

  Here we go.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Arsenal kick off. Fourteen passes later, we still ain't had a fuckin touch. The bloke standin next to me's shakin his head.

  'Men against boys,' he says, loud enough for more than me to hear. 'Men against fucking boys.'

  Someone behind shouts at him to stop bein a prick, and he shuts up. Dad gives me a nudge.

  'Don't worry, son,' he says, 'you wait till we get goin. We'll show em.'

  Graham Rix lumps the ball up to Liam Brady, and he's offside. Free kick. Bonzo knocks it back to big Phil Parkes in our goal, and he's bouncin the ball about, rollin it round in his hands. A chant of 'Come on you Irons' goes up all round us, and me and Dad join in. The bloke next me, he's quiet as a fuckin mouse.

  And we grow. We start knockin it about. Brooking's lookin class in the middle, little Paul Allen's scrappin round him like a fuckin terrier and Pikey's pickin up all the loose balls. Devo's killin em every time he gets it. Dancin round em, he is. And when Arsenal do get forward, Bonzo and Alvin Martin are slammin the door shut right in their faces and gettin it back to Parkesy easy as you like.

  Psycho has a shot from twenty five yards, but it's shit and bounces through to Pat Jennings in the Arsenal goal. The miserable bastard next to me's shoutin to have Psycho took off, but a chorus of Bubbles drowns the fucker.

  'Unlucky, Psycho, mate. Keep it goin!'

  And Arsenal, fuck, they don't look up for it at all. I know it's bloody hot down there, but they're just strollin about. When they do get it, they're passin it sidewards or back, and we're chasin em down wherever they are. Fuck, you'd think it was us the First Division side at the moment. I take me eyes off the game for a few seconds and look round behind me at all the tens of thousands of Hammers singin and shoutin and wavin their flags, and I wanna fuckin cry.

  Then there's a rumble and a roar, and everyone round me's strainin to see. Stuart Pearson's picked the ball up in the middle of the park. He's darted between two of their defenders, and he's left em for dead.

  'Come on, Stu, come on, son!'

  Even the bloke next to me's willin him on.

  'Make it a good un, Pearson,' he yells, more like a schoolteacher than a football fan.

  Pearson cuts the ball back, and it's come to one of ours. Can't see who it is cos there's so many people up in front of me. Then, through a break in the heads, I see it's Geoff fuckin Pike. Pikey. Runs all fuckin day, he does, but he ain't gonna score in a million fuckin years. But he hits it first time, and it ain't fuckin bad, as it goes. Come on. Flies through a crowd of players, but Jennings dives on it. First proper shot of the game to us, though, and we got em fuckin rattled.

  'Unlucky, Pikey,' my old man shouts out. 'Keep it goin, son!'

  'Unlucky?' the bloke next to me says, like he's talkin to everyone and no one at all. 'Unlucky? Look at the space he was in. Should've took it wide and pinged it across. Shooting from there? Fucking idiot.'

  But Dad don't hear him. He's too busy shoutin and encouragin and kickin every fuckin ball. But he's needlin me, this other fella. Really fuckin needlin me.

  Brooking picks the ball up just inside the Arsenal half, and he bobbles it wide to Devo. Devo skins two Arsenal players, and goes wide. We're fillin the box; Psycho, Stuart Pearson, even Lamps and Brooking. Arsenal's all over the place. It's a decent ball in, Jennings pushes it away, comes to Psycho, he shoots, comes off an Arsenal defender, out to Pearson, he has a bang and it's gone across the goal and Brooking's fell on his arse, but his got his head to it and . . .

  'YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!'

  Fuckin mental. Everyone's jumpin up and down, jumpin on each other, punchin the air. Dad's standin straight, clappin his hands raw, and his eyes are bulgin and the veins in his neck are stickin out. And I know he's too choked to even speak. Miserable fucker next to me's been jumped by about eight blokes all rufflin his hair and kissin his head. I can't see fuck all in front, not with all this goin on, but it's fuckin brilliant. Thirteen minutes in and we're one-nil up against the mighty fuckin Arsenal. Who would've fuckin though it?

  I think of Mum and Becky, and everyone, watchin the game back home, and I bet they're fuckin jumpin all over the gaff. Especially Uncle Derek. I bet he's fuckin pissin himself.

  Steward comes over and tells us all to calm down. No one takes a blind bit of notice and the fucker slides away. Rest of the half, Arsenal don't do nothing. Parkesy ain't had a save to make and Bonzo and Alvin Martin's winnin it all at the back. The Arsenal can't get hold of Devo at all, and little Paul Allen's still flyin into em all over the park.

  Half-time whistle goes. One-nil.

  Durin half-time, me and Dad don't talk about the winnin. It's like if we t
alk about it, we'll fuckin jinx it. He's just lookin round, lookin at all the flags wavin and lookin at the massive scoreboard, and at the green lines on the pitch. He looks up to the Royal Box on the halfway line and stays there. That's where Bonzo's gonna lift the cup if we hold on. And I know Dad's seein it now, in his head, like we've already won it.

  I'm lookin for Mum's sarnies, and see em all scattered under everyone's feet in front, trampled to fuck. Must've happened when we scored. I get the programme out and have a read. The bloke next to me's tryin to tell me we're in for a right bashin second half. I wanna tell him to fuck off, but I can't be fuckin bothered. Besides, he could be fuckin right.

  Teams are back out and the second half gets goin. It's all Arsenal. They've obviously had a right fuckin rocket up their arses at half-time, and they're proper up for it.

  A smoke bomb comes out the Arsenal end and lands on the side of the pitch. Forty thousand Hammers start singin 'Just because you're losin', and it gets us away from the fact Arsenal's all over us.

  Alan Sunderland's got the ball, slides it to Rix. Rix does two of our players, cuts inside and curls the ball low at the goal. Fuck. It's on target. Big Phil Parkes looks too far away to get to it, but he flings himself full length and tips it round the post. First real shot they've had in the whole game. We gotta stay strong first twenty cos if we don't, they're gonna fuckin slaughter us.

  We know we're in a proper fuckin game now. But Bonzo and Alvin are still winnin everything in the air, and Paul Allen's runnin his little legs off. But we're gettin pinned back all over. No fuckin gettin away from it. Only a matter of time. Dad don't stop shoutin and encouragin, though, and he's singin his heart out the whole time. He's kickin every ball out there. And the heat's gettin worse and worse.

  Liam Brady skins Frankie Lampard. Different player this half, Brady. Different fuckin player. Puts in a dangerous cross, and Devo miscontrols it for a corner. Shit. But it's all right cos Parkesy's come out and caught it no fuckin problem.

  'COME ON YOU IRONS! COME ON YOU IRONS!'