by Dan Kavanagh
Duffy grinned to himself with quiet pleasure; until he noticed that all the others were grinning with very noisy pleasure.
‘Sorry, Duffy, nothing at all.’
‘Oh, well.’
‘They’re pretty confident they’ve got the beating of us, but they’re going to play it fairly quiet for the first ten minutes or so, apart from stomping on our psycho, that is, and then push a couple more men forward for quarter of an hour to see if they can nick another goal, and then whatever happens they’ll pull them both back again. One will be wide on the right, the other one I think is the big centre-back who’s going to be allowed to come forward whenever he feels like it. That’s about all. Oh, and they said that someone they call the young lad—I guess that must be you, Karl—looks quite sharp, but they think he’s a bit out of his depth at this level of the game.’
‘Fucking hell,’ said Karl French. ‘They’re only a pubload of wankers.’
‘Just passing on what the man said.’
‘Which one said that,’ asked Karl, ‘which one? I’ll bloody do him, second half.’
‘Just voices, voices,’ said Bell.
‘Quite,’ said Micky Baker, captain and left-back of the Reliables. ‘For a start, you won’t do anyone, Karl. That’s not the point of the whole thing. That just undoes everything. Now, quickly, lads, we’ve only got a couple of minutes, so concentrate.’
Barney checked that the door was quite shut, and Micky gave his instructions.
‘First, we’ll swap our full-backs over. I was thinking I’d have to take that winger of theirs anyway. OK Tommo? I’ll follow him, and if he switches wings, we switch. You take my chap, he’s a bit less tricky. Always tries to go on the outside, too; I think he’s only got one foot. Next, we don’t give Karl the ball for ten minutes.’
‘Come off it,’ said Karl.
‘No, I’m serious. You didn’t get much of a sniff in the first half, so they don’t know what you can do. We know what you can do. So for the first ten minutes while they’re keeping it tight, we keep it tight, and any ball that comes to you, you get rid of fairly quickly. Then, when they push the extra men forward and are only watching out for Barney, who they think is a bit slow anyway, we try to get the two of you forward quickly on the break. Anyone gets the ball midfield, look up and try and spot Karl, whip it up to him quickly and let him run at them. Give them the shock of their lives if he does the business on them.’
Karl grinned. ‘I like it.’
‘Now, what else?’
‘What else?’ said Maggot. ‘What else? They’re going to beat me up, that’s what else.’
‘No they’re not,’ said Micky soothingly. ‘We can’t stop them trying—I mean, not without letting on that we’ve been eavesdropping—but we can give them a bit of their own back. Every time they have a dig at you, we clobber the ginge.’
‘That won’t make me feel better,’ complained Maggot.
‘No, but it’ll stop the ginge, which has to be priority number one.’
‘You’re a hard man, skipper.’
‘Come off it, Maggot, we won’t let them do anything too bad to you.’
‘They want to destroy my vision,’ said Maggot mournfully.
‘Shut up, Maggot,’ most of the team counselled. Micky Baker unscrewed the cap of the home team’s half-bottle of whisky and, as was the custom, offered the first gulp to Bell. ‘Nice work, Geoff.’
Duffy grinned across at Bell. It had been Duffy who’d first suggested him for a place in the Reliables. Geoff was a sort of friend, though more of a business associate—someone to run to for advice on the technical side of things. Geoff Bell was good with machines, and cameras, and recorders, and electricity, and all the things that Duffy was bad with. His expertise, however, wasn’t quite so great when it came to estimating the distance that a spheroid object of known weight would travel when struck by his own boot; and for the first couple of games Duffy had watched with some embarrassment as terrible things kept happening in the vicinity of Geoff Bell.
‘Still struggling with his form, is he?’ asked Micky Baker after Bell’s fourth game.
‘Well, you know how hard it is coming into a strange team playing a different system,’ Duffy replied defensively.
‘Yeah, I suppose it must seem like a strange system to him—kicking the ball along the ground to someone on your own side and then trying to get it into the opposite net.’
Even Duffy had thought Bell lucky to get a fifth outing with the Reliables. On that occasion they were four-nil down at half-time and Bell sat with his head in his hands, apparently absorbing the various reproaches that were flying around. In fact, he was listening on an earphone to the small bug he’d placed in the visiting team’s dressing-room. Suddenly he upped and told them the whole of the opposition’s plans—and their predicted result of eight-nil.
At first the Reliables hadn’t known how to react; but given that they were four-nil down and carrying this joker in midfield, they decided that the only thing they could do was treat it all as a giggle. So they had a good laugh, and then they thought, Well, if this mad passenger of ours really has found out this stuff for us we may as well try using it. They went out for the second half in rather a humorous frame of mind, and they came back in rather a serious frame of mind, having reduced the deficit to four-two and come very close to squeezing a third goal. Then they sat down and had a think, and decided that since other sides were always doing things which weren’t quite in the spirit of the game—like including the odd cowboy to inject a bit of class—why shouldn’t the Reliables have their own little way of doing things? It wasn’t as if they were breaking rules on the pitch, or bribing the ref. A few of them felt uneasy about it at first, but they soon got used to it; and the fact that they didn’t play Bell away from home (where you normally just stood shivering on the pitch at half-time) made it all seem more acceptable. It became a jolly part of the home-game ritual, along with the oranges, the milk and the whisky.
As they walked out again, one-nil down against the pub side and expecting a certain amount of agg, Geoff Bell caught up with Duffy.
‘I’m afraid they did say something about you.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Only as it wasn’t of direct tactical relevance I didn’t pass it on in front of the others.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘They said you were rather small for a goalkeeper.’
‘Thanks, Geoff. Thanks a mil.’
Second Half
‘GOOD THREE POINTS.’
Brendan looked up.
‘Oh. Yeah. Thanks.’
Brendan was sitting by himself in a corner seat of the Albion saloon bar. It was a Saturday night, and the pub was at its fullest; a noisy game of darts was whooping away in one corner, and the evening’s serious drunks were beginning to feel a bit combative. The more the noise rose, the more people had to shout, and the more the noise rose. Saturday night’s husbands were squeezing another pint into their elasticated stomachs before toddling home for the weekly legover. Saturday night’s smokers had bought themselves a cigar for a change, just to make the air thicker. Saturday night’s solitary drinkers felt the more solitary as those around them rowdily demonstrated that, whatever else they might lack in their lives, they certainly didn’t lack friends.
All except Brendan. To Brendan the Albion seemed almost quiet, and he didn’t mind in the least being alone. Perhaps this was because he’d come on from Benny’s after leaving the other lads to it. Benny’s was where some of the team went when The Knight Spot began to feel a bit of a chore, a bit like another public appearance. Benny’s was small, deafening and cheap; while the girls, as Athletic’s keeper had once enthusiastically explained to Brendan, were very, very slaggy. Brendan used to go along, simply because being with the lads helped him come down after a match; and then, an hour or two later, he’d plead early bedtime, and the lads would say, Hey, we know you Brendan, you just don’t like our girls, you’re popping down The Palm Tree for a
bit of your own, aren’t you, let’s all go down there, lads, big Bren’ll get us in; and he’d smile and say, No, really, it’s early bedtime, and then paying them back a bit he’d say, Anyway I wouldn’t take you down The Palm Tree, you guys ain’t classy enough to mix with the chicks down there, and they’d all roar and slap him about a bit and shout Good old Bren, and then he’d slip away for a couple of quiet halves down at the Albion.
‘Mind you, it wasn’t exactly a great spectacle, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Brendan laughed.
‘And I wouldn’t mind betting you didn’t know where you were putting it when you scored.’
Brendan laughed again.
‘Well, I knew it wasn’t going to be an own goal.’
‘Can I buy the conquering hero a drink?’
‘Pleasure.’
‘Bacardi and coke?’ she suggested. Was she teasing?
‘Half of best, thanks.’
‘Half of best it is.’
She was called Maggie, she said, and she dressed in black. Shoes, tights, shortish skirt that was almost a ra-ra but not quite, turtleneck sweater. Probably she did it because she had lots of blonde hair; Brendan had to admit that the contrast was striking. Footballers are meant to prefer blondes, he knew that. It wasn’t so much true nowadays, but there was a time in the Sixties and early Seventies when every footballer wanted a blonde wife to go with the Jag and the ranch-style house out Chingford way. They used to say that you could tell if a footballer was First Division or not by looking at the roots of his wife’s hair. If you saw little black quarters of an inch you knew the fellow was Second Division. If you could see from across the room that the wife had been doing it herself with peroxide, then he was probably Third or Fourth. There was an awful lot of dyeing in those days: some of the supporters’ clubs could have opened a ladies’ hairdressing business on the side.
Maggie knew a bit about football. Not a lot, she admitted; she’d only really got keen on the game this season, but she came to all the home matches. She was a good listener, and she didn’t ask stupid questions. That was the trouble with fans, Brendan had to admit to himself. At first he’d thought all fans were a good thing—anyone who liked the game was a good thing, and anyone who thought Brendan was a great player was an even better thing; but after a while you could get enough of the fans. Or at least, you could get enough of two kinds of fans. The first lot were the know-nothings, who giggled and nudged one another and wondered if that wasn’t big Brendan Domingo over there and mustn’t it be smashing to be a professional footballer and wasn’t that a screamer of a goal you scored against Port Vale, when it had only gone in because it had bounced off your knee and the keeper had been out of position and fretting about his mortgage repayments. The second lot were the know-alls, who’d seen Stanley Matthews years before you were born, lad, who could tell you exactly what was wrong with the club, the management, and most of all with you and your play—too deep or too far forward, too wide or too central, holding the ball too long or getting rid of it too quickly. Sometimes Brendan thought that these two kinds of fans were the only ones who ever came to the matches. Football was, in a way, simpler than either of them imagined. You practised a lot, and you went out there and did your best, your very best, every week; it was a job, but a job that you liked; and though you were pretty good at it, there were lots of other people who were better. That was how Brendan saw the game.
‘Does it get to you when they boo you?’
‘No. Yes. Well, not at the time, because you’re concentrating, and you don’t want to give them any satisfaction. But afterwards, I suppose, yeah, it does get you down a bit.’
‘Why do they do it?’
‘I think they don’t like my blond hair and big blue eyes,’ said Brendan.
That seemed to relax them a bit. It was as if he’d said, You see, one of the things about me is, I’m black; you may not have noticed, but I thought I ought to point it out to you. And when she’d joined in his laugh, it had meant, Funny you should say that thing about being black; I thought there was something about you, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
Brendan stood up.
‘Can I get you a small gin with a half-bottle of tonic, twist of lemon and plenty of ice?’ It was his tease back.
‘Drambuie and lemonade,’ she said, and they both laughed. He much preferred the Albion to Benny’s. And truth to tell, he wasn’t all that keen on The Palm Tree.
They stayed until nearly closing time, and Brendan thought, I could go for you. Problems, of course; but I could go for you.
‘Do you feel all drained after a match?’
‘Depends. If you lose, you do. Just want to put your head in a bucket. Wish you didn’t have to get through Sunday before you can go back to the ground and start working on things. If you win you just feel, give me half an hour, and I’ll go out and play another game. You feel kind of set up. I dunno.’
‘Well, I’m glad you won today.’
‘So am I. Those three points are gold-dust.’
She lived just off Twyford Avenue; would he drop her? Sure, of course, he said, noting that she said drop rather than run home or see home, or any of those other phrases that you listen out for very carefully. But as he put the handbrake on and left the engine running, she said, ‘I haven’t any coffee, but I’ve got some Drambuie and lemonade in the fridge.’
‘When in Rome,’ said Brendan with a laugh.
They sat in the kitchen and had a few more drinks than they ought to have done; there wasn’t any doubt about that. Maggie was mixing them, and it seemed to Brendan that each one was a little stronger than the last. When on about the fourth, he said, ‘Hey, is there any lemonade in this one?’
She came over to his chair, sat herself down on his knee, stroked her hand against his cheek and said, ‘Is this the big centre-forward calling for more lemonade?’
Brendan thought, I’m not exactly a centre-forward, you don’t use words like that. He felt it highly important to pass on this piece of information.
‘I’m not exactly a centre-forward,’ he said very seriously, ‘It’s more that I play up front. I’m a target man.’
‘Oh, you’re a target man, are you? Well, all I can say is, Bull’s-eye!’
Brendan laughed, and felt uneasy at the same time. This was the awkward bit; this was the bit he’d have to leave up to her. True, she was sitting on his lap, but something always held him back a bit with white girls. Sure, he was meant to be all relaxed and sexy and macho, and limbo-dance under her bed or whatever; but it wasn’t like that when it came down to it. He hadn’t even put his hand on her leg yet, even though her leg was very close to his hand, and her skirt was almost a ra-ra. That Drambuie definitely did need some more lemonade in it. The thing was, of course, he really did rather like her.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, leaning into him until her head was on his shoulder and her mouth not far from his ear. ‘It’s all right. It’s only called going to bed.’
He chuckled.
‘Oh, is that what it’s called? I thought only the grown-ups did that.’
She got off his lap, pulled him out of the kitchen, pushed him into the bedroom and disappeared, shutting the door behind her. For a moment he wasn’t entirely sure what was happening—perhaps she’d gone off to sleep on the couch?—but at any rate, here was a bedroom, here was a bed, and here he was expected to sleep. So he undressed, climbed into bed, smelt the sheets, and thought, It’s been a good day, Brendan, say what you will, three points plus a nice girl has got to be better than relegation and a wank, hasn’t it? He wasn’t quite sure what to do about the overhead light. He’d left it on when he got into bed. Should he get out, turn it off and put the bedside lamp on instead? He didn’t yet know whether or not he was going to get company. He supposed the lads were still boozing down at Benny’s. He hoped Danny Matson wasn’t waiting up for him at their digs. He liked Danny, but they’d somehow seen less of one another since Danny’s leg went. H
e’d better make more of an effort for Danny. Must be awful. Maybe Maggie’s got a friend who likes footballers with their legs in plaster?
There was a distant noise of water running through pipes, then a door was shut, then another door was opened. This door, thought Brendan, who had an arm across his eyes to shield them from the overhead light. Then the light went off and the door was closed. He felt a pull on the sheets and a press of flesh and a knee hit him in the thigh and he apologized, even though it wasn’t his fault.
‘Do you remember, in the pub,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘We were talking about the match and I said I thought you didn’t know where you were putting it when you scored.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, I hope you do now,’ she said, and pressed even closer.
‘You dirty girl,’ he said, pushing her on to her back and kissing her for the first time, and not very accurately, given that the light was off. ‘You dirty girl. Have to wash your mouth out with soap.’
‘Or something,’ she said. As she reached down and grabbed his cock, he heard a faint chant in the back of his head. ‘Brendan is a fairy, Brendan is a fairy.’ If the Layton Road enders were interested, then Maggie was holding Exhibit A.
Yes, that was a good feeling, Brendan thought, as she eased him inside her. That was a good feeling. The good feelings went on, for a bit, at least. Then Brendan thought Ow. The good feelings returned, until Brendan thought Ow again but laughed a bit, because it was only her nails in his ribs, and that was all part of the game. The next time it happened it was much harder, and he said, ‘Ow, that hurts, you know.’
She didn’t reply. It was dark; the curtains were thick; she had given up saying things to him that were a bit dirty; they were just there, in the dark, silent, fucking. Lots closer, and yet a bit more distant, Brendan thought; but he didn’t think much, and they carried on fucking.
They started getting a bit noisier. She scratched at his ribs a bit more and he whispered, ‘Maggie,’ but she didn’t seem to be hearing him. She reached up and got hold of his ears and seemed to be telling him what to do by pulling on them; and that seemed to be nice too, until suddenly she reached round the back of his neck and pulled his head down very hard and there was a cracking sound as his forehead hit her nose and he felt as if he’d gone for a fifty-fifty ball and a defender had booted him in the face, but still she didn’t say anything or make a sound. Brendan felt uneasy, but there didn’t seem to be any point in not carrying on. Christ his head hurt. Why ever had she done that? He wouldn’t let her get hold of his ears again.