‘You make it sound so easy.’
‘It is easy,’ said Pop.
‘And you’ll be there, to help out?’
The eyes twinkled under their grey hedgerows. ‘If nobody likes the thought of me in wrestler’s trunks, then I can be a very large fly, perched high in a corner of the ceiling.’
‘Just don’t fall down, in the middle of my lesson,’ warned Becky.
The mobile phone rang as Becky was washing up dishes: she sighed in exasperation, drying her hands. Then glanced at the caller’s number, and smiled. ‘Hi, Mike,’ she said.
‘Hi, there.’
A silence followed.
‘How are you? What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Hanging upside down in a boat, and covered in oil and dirt.’
‘You sound like a bad-tempered bat,’ she smiled.
‘I feel like a bad-tempered bat. Go on, talk to me.’
‘What about?’
‘Anything – I just need to hear your voice.’
‘Idiot! Have you eaten yet?’
‘Not easy, when you’re upside down.’
‘Unless you’re cadging food off us, you starve,’ Becky groaned. ‘I can throw together a quick meal, if you feel like driving up?’
A pause. ‘Tempted – but too busy. It’s that time of the year. The only spare time I have is on Saturdays, once all the boats have been collected from me. Sunday midday onwards, either repairs are limping in, or new boats are turning up for their annual service.’
Becky curled up on the bench seat. ‘Will you manage to eat before Saturday?’ she teased.
‘Oh, I’ll cobble something together, when I get home.’ Mike paused, then said: ‘How do you fancy going out somewhere at the weekend?’
‘All of us?’
‘Just you, me and Jon.’
‘That would be nice,’ she said. ‘Anywhere special?’
‘I’ve something in mind. . . .’ She could sense his smile.
‘Where?’
‘A surprise. My treat. Leave your exercise books at home. . . .’
‘You’re a fine one to talk!’ Becky exclaimed.
The final few rehearsals are always edgy, Kathy told herself. Reflecting stage fright from the players, as the actual performance becomes imminent, when words that had come effortlessly before were forgotten, marks missed on the school stage, and spats erupted between increasingly stressed performers. Her job, as director, was to keep the rehearsal flowing, smooth over mistakes, stroke ruffled feathers, and exude a confidence which she didn’t always feel herself.
Not easy, when her heart was down in her boots.
At last the rehearsal was over. She sighed and sagged back wearily into her director’s chair. The children watched uneasily.
‘That rehearsal was seriously bad?’ asked Jim.
‘Maybe we should get a new family dog,’ muttered Nigel.
At least two of the girls were on the edge of tears.
They were needing her, and she had nothing left to give. The tension among the hard-working group was electric. Kathy fought to raise herself, to find some words that would help.
‘Hey, guys,’ she said. ‘It’s normal. We’re all thinking far too much about the performance. When it comes, and we’re up on stage, then we’ll be running on adrenalin and focused so hard that everything will come surging through, word perfect. The first laugh we get from the audience will set the place on fire, and you’ll give the performances of your lives – trust me on that.’
A memory flashed, then grew in her mind.
‘This happens to every performer,’ she said, her voice gradually coming to life, claiming the players’ attention. ‘It’s your body storing up its energies for the night ahead. Leaving you so crammed full you can’t think straight and stumble over everything, making mistake after mistake. There was a world-famous opera singer, Jussi Björling in the 1950s, who had such a miserable time during his first rehearsals, that he wanted to walk out on his career before it even started. He was gibbering with nerves, on the night. They put two big stagehands on either side of him, to stop him running away. When his cue came, he couldn’t move. The stagehands took him by the scruff of the neck and the slack in his pants, and threw him onto the stage. He landed, running, then started singing like an angel.’
Silence with smiles, as the kids envisaged this entrance.
‘Who’s going to throw me on?’ asked Nigel.
‘We’ll chuck a Bonio onto the stage and you can chase it,’ offered Jim.
That was better: in an instant, they were laughing and teasing each other and the awful, brittle feel of tension in the air was gone.
She’d done it, but Kathy was feeling worse than ever. It was the director’s job to lift the players – but whose job was it to help the director climb back onto her feet and face life again? She watched numbly, as the kids were collected in ones and twos by their parental taxi service.
Only Sally was left, sitting silently hunched in the furthest corner of the rehearsal room and turning her shoulder against her. Kathy wondered how they were going to get through the next few minutes. When the door finally opened, Sally was up in a shot and out to her father’s car.
‘Great,’ Kathy said, resignedly.
David stepped inside the doorway, and quietly closed it. ‘Why did you walk out on us like you did the other night?’
‘I thought that was pretty obvious.’
‘Not to me, it wasn’t.’
‘You stepped away, as if you were ashamed to be caught with me in your arms. I simply cannot tell you how bad that made me feel, as if I was something you had to hide. That finished it. I was right, first time – you’re not ready to move on with your life yet.’
‘That’s not true,’ he argued angrily. ‘You’re not making enough allowance for Sally, you’re expecting her to be adult in her reactions, when she’s not an adult, just a lost and lonely little girl.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ said Kathy.
‘She’s not sleeping at nights, she’s so worried. You’re driving her too hard in the school play and this whole new relationship thing between the two of us has been the final straw. She can’t cope with all these different pressures. I want to take her out of your production, to protect her.’
‘Take her out?’ asked Kathy. ‘Four days before the performance?’
‘She simply hasn’t four days more of worry, left inside her.’
‘All the kids are scared right now!’ Kathy exclaimed. ‘The last few days before a performance are always horrible. But that’s part of what the kids have to learn – to face down their fears, stay true to the team, trust their training and its endless rehearsals. Sure, they’ll get their reward from the applause on the night. But nothing’s costless, they have to sweat and earn that applause. No gain without pain – you’re a runner, you should know that better than anyone.’
‘I’m her father, and want her out,’ David said grimly. ‘The play’s your problem. My responsibility is to Sally. She’s had as much as she can suffer. . . .’
‘You can’t take her out of the production,’ blazed Kathy. ‘We can’t possibly replace her at short notice, not when she’s playing such a key role.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘The show must go on – both on stage, and in life. You can’t keep wrapping her up in cotton wool, protecting her. She has to learn to stand on her own two feet, and step out from her mother’s shadow. You too!’
David’s face went chalk white. ‘You’re asking us to forget that Beth ever lived,’ he said tightly. ‘That’s neither fair, nor possible.’
The battle had spilled, beyond recovery, from the school play into the problems they must face and solve if they were ever going to have a life together. Kathy’s heart stopped racing. Suddenly, she felt icy calm.
‘I’m not asking that,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m just asking that you stop burying yourselves together with her, and live your own two lives. Until you do, there’s no room for me – or anybody
else – in your hearts. I can’t step aside and hide, every time Beth’s memory comes up. You would never have asked that of her, so you should never ask it from me. I would rather walk away and finish with us, than ever be left feeling like this again. . . .’
The door creaked behind them. They both turned round.
Sally was standing there, watching them quietly.
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Jonathon. ‘Seriously cool!’
They emerged from the under-stand corridors to stand high at the top of a passageway down through the seats. On every side, huge stands towered over them, soaring up to seats perched high beneath the roof. Down below, the football pitch was immaculate and very green.
There were still forty minutes until the game, and the stands were almost empty, despite the steady stream of fans trooping in. Jonathon clutched the match programme that Mike had sneaked down to him, and Becky reached forward to adjust the warm black and white scarf she had bought for him on impulse in the Newcastle club shop at ground level outside.
Mike steered them down to row G of seats, and they eased in past the scatter of people already sitting. ‘Keep going, Jon,’ he encouraged. ‘Those are our seats, on the other side of that man in the duffle coat.’
They sat down, the air already electric with the anticipation that any big match brings. Jonathon stared eagerly around the stands and down to the pitch, where players from both teams were going through muscle warm-up routines in their tracksuits.
‘Wow!’ he said again. ‘Is that Cheick Tiote?’
‘That’s him,’ said Mike. ‘Mohawk and all.’
‘I thought he’d look bigger.’ Jonathon sounded puzzled.
‘He’s only shorter than me by about this. . . .’ and Mike held thumb and forefinger apart to show the difference in height. ‘He doesn’t seem tall, because you’re looking down on him, and from miles away. But see how he’s towering over Vurnon Anita there.’
He settled back, his shoulder warm against Becky, who was wrapped up as for exploring the Arctic Circle – under Mike’s instructions. He looked down at her, smiling. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked. ‘This was my patch, for years.’
‘Do you miss it?’ she asked.
Mike pulled a face. ‘I miss being fit. I miss the rough and tumble of the game – guys kicking lumps out of you, then pulling you to your feet. Or reaching up to be hauled to their feet, after you flatten them. You’d never think it, but there’s usually good-humoured banter, among the knocks. I miss the excitement of big games, like today’s. But not the brou-haha that goes with it – fans hounding you everywhere, newsmen and cameras shadowing your every move, the stupid stories they invent about you, to fill their papers. I hated that, and was always glad to go home to the canal.’
‘Because you’re only a boatman, at heart,’ she smiled.
‘That’s it – never able to deny the Romany blood in my veins.’
Becky smiled, watching Jonathon open, then begin to devour the match programme. Then her question came blurting out, before she could stop it. ‘Why did you never marry, Mike?’ she asked.
He shrugged. ‘It just worked out like that – by accident, not design.’
Becky waited, watching him gathering his thoughts, to give her as honest an answer as he could manage.
‘It’s part of the football scene, I guess,’ he finally said. ‘It’s a whole way of life – a golden bubble that you climb into as a big club player. At first, as a kid, you’re training night and morning, working on improving your game. Sure, you go out with your mates and strut the stage, and sure, there are always girls around – you’re spoiled for choice. The more famous you are, the more people cluster round you and you’re carried along, living for the moment and the day.’
He stared down at the pitch. ‘Then your final injury happens and you can’t believe that you’ll never play again. Nor can your mates. These days, I would be whisked over to an American sports clinic and come back as good as new. Not then. It was over, and I had to find a way to leave with dignity.’ He glanced across. ‘Why did I never marry? Because of what happened when I left. Some of the WAGs – that’s players’ wives and girlfriends – only want to link their arm through fame by being seen with players, becoming celebrities. Not all, by any means. But I picked a bad ’un: the girl I had decided to settle down with simply disappeared. Next time I saw her, she was on the arm of my best mate.’
He looked ruefully at her. ‘Fingers burned, I guess. After that, I was happy just to go back to the life I loved, working on boats. I decided that I was better off on my own – until now.’
Becky nodded. ‘I know that feeling,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s so hard, just to relax with someone, to give them trust. Even when you want to. . . .’
Mike patted her hand. ‘No hurry,’ he said. ‘Better just to let the whole thing flow – slow and steady, like the canal. It takes its time, but always gets you where you want to go. . . .’
The man in the duffle coat pushed across Becky. ‘Are you Mike Preston?’ he asked. ‘Can you autograph this programme for me, then I can give it to my grandson?’
‘Sure,’ said Mike. ‘What’s his name? Have you a biro?’
He scribbled a message and handed the programme back.
Another hand came from behind, with another programme. And another. Suddenly, half the stand were crowding round the three of them, pushing roughly in. Becky was jostled, then Jonathon.
‘Hey, guys . . . give us some room,’ pleaded Mike. ‘I need space to move my elbow when I write.’ But the buzz of recognition showed signs of turning into a noisy brawl. Mike stood up, drawing Jonathon and Becky protectively behind him, pushing the fans away. ‘Ease up, guys, Sure, I’ll sign your programmes – just stop shoving my guests around.’
The crush got heavier, until stewards stepped in and began to physically haul people back. One forced his way in to Becky’s side to shield her, and glanced over to see who was causing the disturbance.
‘Jeez!’ he said. ‘It’s Mike Preston. Hang on.’ He hauled out a radio-phone and talked rapidly into it. Then nodded and grinned at Mike. ‘Come with us,’ he said. ‘Your ticket’s just been upgraded – to the Directors’ Box.’
‘Oh, no,’ groaned Mike.
‘Safety first. . . .’ The steward took Becky’s arm and waved the crowd of fans aside. ‘Haway, lads,’ he ordered. ‘Make space. Ladies and children here.’
They fought their way up against the flow of fans and down into the under-stand corridor, then were led through a concrete maze into one of the plushest reception bars Becky had ever seen. Two besuited, smiling figures rose and came over to shake Mike’s hand and offer him a drink. He refused. One of them took over and guided Mike, Becky and Jon – but not before he had his own match programme signed – up a long flight of carpeted stairs into the open stand and padded leather seats. Becky sat down, and became conscious of a number of turning heads from young women sitting down below and across from her. The WAGs. They glanced at her and Mike: blank looks, their memories clearly didn’t go back as far as the fans. Then they turned round to watch their own men.
From that point on, the day grew steadily worse. The pressure for autographs was endless, but better managed in this exalted seating. Then at half-time, Mike was taken down and out onto the pitch, to be cheered and applauded by the fans – some of whom could only have heard of him, rather than seen him play.
When he came back to the box, now emptied because the directors had trooped down to the bar below, she saw the sheen of sweat on his brow. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I hate this,’ he replied quietly. ‘It’s been so long . . . I’ve grown out of it.’
‘Let’s quit while we’re ahead,’ Becky suggested.
He looked across. ‘Go home?’ he asked.
‘Back to your famous canal,’ she nodded.
‘What about Jon?’ Mike asked.
The boy looked longingly at the pitch, then up to Mike, torn betwee
n missing the rest of the game and wanting to please his seriously famous coach. A Newcastle legend: the Demba Ba and Alan Shearer of his day.
‘OK, OK,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Not again,’ groaned Noel. ‘When I haven’t even started to think about cooking dinner.’
‘Whazzat?’ Becky looked up blindly from her books.
‘Henrietta. . . .’ Noel walked to the cabin window. ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The way she’s walking . . . like she’s carrying a bag of invisible coal.’
His trained journalistic eye had picked up Henrietta’s heavy tread along the towpath, the bowed head and shoulders. ‘I’ll get the kettle on,’ he said. ‘You go and meet her – and be prepared for something bad.’
Becky flew from the table and up the steps, surprised at the strength of concern she felt for her friend and employer. She jumped ashore and ran along the towpath.
Henrietta looked utterly defeated, lost and drained of strength.
‘What’s up?’ Becky asked, grasping an arm that felt as if it needed support and, somehow, steering.
Henrietta shook her head, unable to find any words. Becky guided her on board and down the steps, where Noel was pouring a fresh mug of tea. Quietly, eyes sharp, he watched her.
‘Out with it,’ he said. ‘It’s better shared, between friends.’
Henrietta sighed, from the soles of her feet.
Another Chance, Another Life Page 13