by Ian Ayris
Every time we get rid of the ball, Arsenal's bringin it straight back. But they're not hurtin us. Not really. They got loads of the ball, but they ain't really doin nothing with it, and the longer it goes on the more fucked they're gonna get in this heat.
Halfway through the second half. Still one-nil.
Sammy Nelson comes on for them. Looks like Marty Feldman.
Brady's gone down on the edge of the box. Fuckin dodgy, this. Wall's lined up. Brady knocks it to Talbot who bangs it first time. It's headin for the top corner but Parkesy comes out of nowhere and plucks it out the air. Fuckin had me heart in me mouth on that one.
We break quick. Devo's goin down the wing. Plays it inside to Paul Allen. Beats one, shoots. Fuckin rubbish. Still, that's another few minutes gone. I look at me watch and tell Dad there's about twenty left. He nods, but he don't say a word. It's like if he comes down from wherever he is, it'll break some sort of spell or something, and the whole lot'll come crashin down.
Feelin's goin round like we can really fuckin do this. There's like a real buzz gettin up, and me and Dad are singin Bubbles with every other Hammer in the ground.
And we're startin to look all right. They're runnin out of ideas, and we're holdin our own, and Bonzo's havin a fuckin blinder. Alvin Martin's gone up for a header and goes down, holdin his head. That's all we fuckin need. He's down for a good few minutes. I ask Dad if he reckons we'll bring Brushy on, cos I see him warmin up. Dad don't hear me. It's like he's a thousand miles away, lost in it all.
Alvin's back on his feet, thank fuck. Scouser. Hard bastard. It'll take more than a bash in the face to keep him down.
The game carries on, and they're pinnin us back again. Fifteen to go. Rix does four of ours in one hit and gets brought down on the edge. Free kick comes to nothing. We gotta stop givin the fuckin ball away. We're just lumpin it forward now, and all it's doin is comin straight back. But Arsenal are lookin fucked, and their fans have gone all quiet. We're sufferin an all, mind. Psycho's dead on his feet and Alvin looks like he don't even know what day of the fuckin week it is. Mind you, like I says, he is a Scouser so he probably struggles with that sort of thing the best of fuckin times.
Last ten and Pikey's got the ball thirty yards out. He's standin still, waitin for one of the Arsenal defenders to make a move. When they do, he breaks forward, edge of the box. We're all watchin. Waitin. Shoots. Right foot. What a load of shit.
Both teams look fucked now. It's so hot, and there ain't no air at all up here so fuck knows what it's like down there. It's like the fifteenth round of a heavyweight fight. Most of the players on both sides look like they're in slow motion. Then from nowhere, Bonzo's harin down the left wing. Crosses. And Tonka, of all fuckin people's in the middle. Gets in front of Jennings, spins and shoots. Comes off the keeper. Has another pop. Fizzles out.
Then they're comin back at us. Psycho's give it away on the edge of the box, Stapleton's goin through, but Bonzo and Alvin make two fantastic tackles, each of em flyin in like they're playin for their fuckin lives.
The whole game's opened up now. End to end. Five minutes left. They've got a corner, but Pearson's got hold of it and Paul Allen belts it out fifty yards. But it comes straight back like it's been doin the whole half.
Now Frankie Lampard's got it on the left. He's runnin over the halfway line. Gives it to Devo who gives it to Brooking. Brooking knocks it to Paul Allen goin like a fuckin train. He's on the last defender. Slips the ball through his legs, and he's comin to the edge of the box. Pat Jennings is off his line. Everyone round me, everyone's cranin their necks, strainin to see. If he bangs this in, there ain't no comin back.
He's eighteen months older than me, Paul Allen. Seventeen and a bit. And he don't even know he's carryin the hopes of all of us in his hands, in his feet.
'Go on, my son,' I scream. 'Go on, my fuckin son.'
And he's about to win us the cup. It's like everything's gone quiet and sort of slowed down. The bloke next to me's got his fists clenched and grittin his teeth. I'm jumpin up and tryin to see over the heads in front, then . . .
CRUNCH.
Willy Young, that lanky streak of ginger Scotch piss, the Arsenal centre back, takes little Paul Allen's fuckin legs away. Cuts him right in half. Paul's in a heap on the edge of the box. My dad's goin mental. All of us are. And fuckin right. See, to be West Ham means something. Means something more than football. We're hard, I mean with Bonzo and Tonka and Alvin Martin, they're three fuckers you don't mess with. But we're fair. And fair means the fuckin world. The people round here, the people of the East End, we don't turn no one over, and if we do, and we get caught, we hold our fuckin hands up. We ain't afraid of a bit of fuckin graftin, if that's what it takes. We do what fuckin needs to be done. And if we fuck up, we hold our fuckin hands up to that an all. So when little Paul Allen gets chopped in half by that ginger streak of Scotch piss it goes against everything. All of it.
Little Paul's up on his feet again, no rollin about, no play-actin, no nothing. Just gets up. Greatest moment of his life, and he just gets up, dusts himself down, and carries on. Top fuckin geezer.
Even in the last couple of minutes we're not lookin to run the clock down or nothing or time-wastin, and shit. We keep comin at em. Geezer next to me's yellin to stick it in the corners, and for once, he makes a bit of fuckin sense. But it ain't us. It ain't the West Ham way.
I can fuckin taste it now. Fuck knows what Dad's goin through. He ain't said nothin to me since half-time. World of his own. Face is all flushed, and those veins are stickin out his neck like a fuckin roadmap.
Clock says fifteen seconds. Brady lumps it forward. Dad's grabbin hold of me arm till he's nearly pullin me over.
He knows it's nearly time.
AND THERE IT IS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Psycho's on his knees, Brooking's down, and big Phil Parkes is layin flat on his face in the goal. Geezer next to me's huggin the bloke behind him, there's flags flyin and people shoutin, and I wanna hug my Dad.
I turn round, and he ain't right, got this sort of pleadin look on him. His face is gone mauve and it's all tight, and he's got his hands clutchin his chest.
'Dad! Dad!'
I'm tryin to get to him, but in all the chaos of winnin he's movin further away, like he's bein washed out to sea.
'Dad! Dad!'
There's a line of stewards in the aisle about twenty yards off. I start shoutin to em, but they don't even turn round. Dad's sinkin and the shine in his eyes is floatin away.
I'm crawlin on me hands and knees towards him, and when I get there, I hold him to me and think of Mum watchin Bonzo liftin the cup on telly, and I know she's thinkin of us, me and Dad, and thinkin how happy we'll be. And someone's brought a steward over, and a St. John's Ambulance geezer's tryin to talk to me but I ain't listenin, and I'm pushin him off cos I ain't lettin him take my dad.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Day of the funeral comes round quick, and it's like I ain't even had time to make any of it real. Fuckin none of it. All that's stuck in me head's the Hammers players goin down at the end of the match like they been shot, and the look on that steward’s face as he's comin over to see Dad. Don't remember nothing else.
All the papers and the telly next day and all fuckin week is full of pictures of little Paul Allen pickin up his medal and sobbin his heart out goin down the Wembley steps. Me, I couldn't care a fuck no more.There's a bit in the locals about Dad. Nothing much. Fuckin bastards even got his name wrong.
Mum's in me bedroom helpin me with this tie I been fightin with for ages. She does it up quick as anything. Sort of mechanical, like. The doorbell rings. Shit. Mum said the car wouldn’t be here for another half hour. Suddenly I feel sick, like I wanna hide under me bed and never come out. Mum sees it in me eyes and gives me a big hug. Her face is all hot, and she tries whisperin something in me ear but nothing comes out. She lets go of me and blows her cheeks out, and looks at the floor.
‘It'll be all right, love,’ she says, and loo
ks at me and tries to smile, but it nearly breaks her.
The doorbell rings again. Mum goes without a word, and I see her cover her mouth with her hand as she goes to the top of the stairs.
I sit on me bed. Hold it in, son, hold it in. A few minutes later, Mum’s comin back up the stairs. I squeeze the end of me nose till it hurts and hold me breath, then stand back up as if I been standin there the whole time.
‘It’s only Mrs Jessup, love,’ Mum says, quiet, like, and gets me jacket out the wardrobe. ‘I’ve left her in the kitchen making a cuppa.’
Mad Mrs Jessup’s lookin after Becky while me an Mum’s at the funeral. Mum told me I don’t have to go, but she ain’t pullin that ‘you’re only a kid’ shit on me. He was my dad. My fuckin dad.
Fuck, this is hard.
Thommo’s give me this jacket he had for his nan’s funeral. It ain’t a bad one. Fits all right. There was all these stains down the bottom of the arms where he’d been wipin his eyes and cuffin his snot, but Mum got em out okay. She puts it on me, brushes the shoulders down and pulls the front together. Then she stands back to have a look. Her eyes get all filled up and she puts her hand over her mouth again.
‘Oh, John,’ she says, and the tears start floodin.
She’s like this all the bloody time. One minute, looks like she’s all right, next, she’s fuckin fallin apart. I wanna put me arms round her when she‘s like this. Tell her everything's gonna be all right. But I know nothing's gonna be the same again. Not ever. How the fuck can it be? So, I don’t even move towards her. Just sit down on me bed and look at me hands.
Becky’s downstairs gigglin at cartoons. She knows what's happened to Dad. Mum told her. Fuckin never thought I'd get through that, Mum tellin Becky her dad's dead, and then breakin down and Becky comin over and tellin Mum she loves her. She’s took it better than all of us. It’s like she knows Dad’s all right, or something, like somehow he’s really fuckin okay. It's like she ain't clicked he ain’t never comin back.
Mum’s sorted herself out now, and blows her cheeks out and dabs the tears off her face with a tissue.
‘Tea’s ready, dears,’ Mrs Jessup shouts from downstairs, the mad old bat.
‘Come on, John,’ Mum says, tryin to grab hold of me hand to go down with her.
As if a cuppa’s gonna make a blind bit of fuckin difference. I got both me fists clenched and I’m lookin straight at her. And me nails are diggin in me hands, and it fuckin hurts, and the pain’s the only thing keepin me from bawlin me fuckin eyes out. I tell her I’ll be down in a minute, and she goes. Then I go in the bathroom and throw up in the sink.
***
London Crematorium, Aldersbrook Road. It’s took us fuckin ages gettin here. Big old gaff. Massive gardens and everything. We’re in the car behind the one with Dad in. Big fuck-off Merc. Uncle Derek's sorted everything out, cars and shit, flowers, that sort of thing. Him and Auntie Gwen. Auntie Ivy’s been worse than Mum. She come round the other day, plonked herself in the front room, cried for fuckin hours, then upped and left. Never said a fuckin word.
As we’re gettin out the motor, I see a few people hangin about. There’s Tony, runs The Bell, Dad’s local. He’s laid on a spread after, like what he did with Grandad when he passed. Top bloke, Tony. Salt of the fuckin earth. And fuck me, there’s Dribblin Albert. Looks fuckin awful. Worse than normal, if that can be fuckin imagined. He’s leant up against a tree, like someone’s nailed him to it, lookin at the sky.
And there’s loads of other people just waitin. Waitin for us, I suppose. There’s geezers from the factory, the boozer, and blokes Dad knew when he went football. Half the street‘s turned up. A few of em come up to Mum, one or two at a time, say a few bits, and go in the chapel. Even Old Cartwright from next door’s here, all suited and booted and wearin his army medals.
Mum don’t say nothing back to no one. She’s holdin onto me arm so hard it’s like she can’t stand up by herself. People start disappearing inside till there’s just me and Mum, Auntie Gwen, Auntie Ivy, and Uncle Derek. And then these geezers come round the corner carryin Dad's coffin. Mum leans in and starts bawlin on me shoulder. Starts Auntie Ivy off, and I’m hangin onto the both of em, one on each fuckin arm. Uncle Derek comes over and grabs Auntie Ivy off me, thank fuck, then one of the coffin geezers asks if we’re ready. Uncle Derek says we are, and the coffin gets carried in. Then he nods at me to go in after it, and gives me this look as if I should fuckin know.
But I ain’t never been to no fuckin funeral, cunt. I ain't got no fuckin idea what happens. Not a fuckin clue. I’m fifteen fuckin years old and me dad’s dead, all right? So fuck off.
Mum whispers at me to start walkin in. She’s draggin on me arm something terrible, and I can only just about pull her along. Dunno where we’re supposed to sit. I know the place is packed cos it's pushin down on me from both sides, squeezin me in. I'm keepin me head down, lookin at the floor. And it's like I'm goin through this cold, dark tunnel, one that ain't never gonna end, and if I turn me head, turn me head just once, the whole fuckin thing's gonna come down on top of me.
I lift me head up when we get to the top and there's nowhere else to go. The front row’s empty. Must be us. The coffin gets set up in the corner, and I help Mum sit down. Uncle Derek and me two aunties come and sit down after us.
Everything goes quiet, and the vicar starts talkin like he’s knowed Dad his whole life. And I wanna hurt him, really fuckin hurt him. And all these bastards. What the fuck they doin here anyway? He weren’t their fuckin dad. Got fuck all to do with em.
There’s a couple of hymns, and then me Uncle Derek gets up front, says a few words, and I’m sittin here thinkin none of this is fuckin real. I mean, how can that box sittin over there have my dad in it? My dad. I mean, what sort of a fuckin game's that?
And before I know it, it’s all finished and they’re puttin Dad on a fuckin conveyor belt, like he’s a box of corn flakes at Mum’s shop. Some geezer somewhere presses a button and the fuckin thing starts movin. Fuckin mental. And Dad goes through the curtain and disappears, like some shit magic trick off the telly.
Mum’s stopped cryin for a while when Uncle Derek was talkin, but that curtain thing sets her off again. I put me arm round her. Feels sort of funny, like it ain't me, like I’m not really doin it. And I got Auntie Ivy the other side snottin all over me shoulder. Uncle Derek reaches over and ruffles me head. And I bite the bottom of me lip till it bursts, and the blood’s washin round me mouth and it’s only the taste of it what’s holdin me together.
***
Like I says, Tony’s laid on a spread at The Bell after. But I don’t want none of that shit, people sayin they’re sorry, and what a great bloke Dad was, and how if there’s anything they can fuckin do, and all that bollocks. Mum and me, we show our faces then fuck off home. Uncle Derek and me two aunties stay. Reckon Auntie Ivy’s gonna drink the fuckin place dry, state she's in. Uncle Derek said at Grandad’s she got so pissed she ended up goin in the Gents and passin out in one of the shit-houses.
***
Couple of weeks after the funeral Mum’s scrubbin the kitchen down. It‘s all she does. Scrubs and cleans and makes endless cups of fuckin tea. Becky’s back at school, so Mum makes sure she’s washed and dressed, and does her packed lunch and drops her off and picks her up. Does me a packed lunch an all, even though she knows I ain’t goin school no more. Keeps the house clean and makes sure her kids is all right. Nothing else she can do. She ain’t back at work yet. Says she's givin it another couple of weeks.
It's night-time. Becky’s asleep upstairs, and I’m sittin in the front room on me own, listenin to Dad‘s Elvis records. But they don’t do nothing for me, not like what they did for him. See, they was his records. Got nothing to do with me. The records I got's hid in the bottom of me wardrobe upstairs. They're all what I nicked when I been out with Thommo and Keith. Ain’t never even fuckin listened to em.
And I’m shit scared. And I’m tryin to hold it together, but I can’t do this
on me own. Keith and Thommo, they're doin their best. They come over most nights, but they dunno what to say. They’re just kids emselves. We go over The Barmy, smoke some fags and get pissed on the cheap cider from Thommo’s shed. But not one of us says a fuckin word about Dad.
And I wonder how kids like me ever get through shit like this.
‘Do you want a cuppa, love?’
‘No.’
Mum takes off her Marigolds and comes and sits next to me on the settee. Puts her arm round me. I feel myself flinch. Don’t mean to. Just, fuck, I dunno.
‘You know, love,’ she says, ‘whenever you need to talk, whenever you need to let it all out, I’m here. I’m here for you, love. You do know that don’t you?’
She gives me shoulder a squeeze and kisses me on the head, like she fuckin understands.
Only one person ever knows what this is like. Only one person I know been through this. And he’s the only one I wanna talk to right now. The only one. Thing is, I ain’t seen him since they dragged him out the school canteen all them years back after he beat the shit out of that cunt Wilkins with a dinner tray.
Since Mum started full-time down the supermarket, when Dad lost his job, I ain't heard a squeak out of Kenny's old girl. Ain't seen nothing of her neither. Mum goes over pretty regular, though, takes her some dinners, and that. Does a bit of cleanin once a week. But whenever you go past their house, the curtains are always shut, and there's no one comes in or out or nothing. See the lights at night though, and sometimes see the telly goin through the curtains, so she ain't done away with herself yet. Not like the old man, anyways. Mind you, she's probably nutty as a fuckin fruitcake by now.
But seein as I got no idea where Kenny's holed up, I gotta go and see her. I mean, I got no fuckin choice in the matter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I give Mum some spiel about meetin Thommo and Keith somewhere, and head over to Kenny‘s.
Kenny's gaff’s only cross the road, but it’s like a million fuckin miles away, like I'm goin back in time and Kenny's lookin out his bedroom window, and his arsehole of an old man's asleep in the chair, and his mum's in the kitchen makin up jam sarnies and lemonade.