The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  “Very interesting.”

  “You think you could see yourself living in London, studying art . . . visiting your little French friend Delphine?” She winks at this last part.

  “Jeez. Give me a chance to catch my breath!”

  “Come on, seize the day!” she says, grabbing my arms. “These are hallowed times!”

  I smile at her. For a moment it all seems so easy. To reach out and grab this exciting, multicoloured world of London. This strange music and mind-expansion. Hot birds like Delphine and cool cats like Peter. Art. No more shitey jobs. Just painting all the time, and getting proper tuition, and getting better and better at it.

  Then I think about Da and Ma and Debbie and home and going to see the Celtic, and I come back to Earth.

  “I hope you don’t mind my showing Peter your sketch of me. It’s just that I think it’s amazing. You have real talent.”

  “Not at all, I’m grateful. Just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you mind if I keep it? To remind me of . . . London and all.”

  “Of course,” she says, smiling as she restores the drawing to my possession. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “It’s quite an experience.”

  “Tell me honestly.”

  “Part of me is fascinated by it, but part of me . . .”

  “Doesn’t want to give in to it?”

  “Perhaps. But I’m not sure that part of me is wrong.”

  She puffs from our joint, then places it between my lips. We are illuminated by purple and red lights. The dope hits me now. Christ she looks beautiful.

  “What do you think of it, Swinging London and everything?” I ask.

  She raises her eyes to the ceiling, a little smile formed on her lips.

  “It’s a gas. Maybe it’s even important. And if it’s not, then so what? At least we’ll have had some fun!”

  An inconceivably thin hippie fellow who has posh hair and is wearing a luridly patterned silk shirt is gyrating rhythmically to the music. His eyes are gone, he looks utterly fucked. She notices me looking at him.

  “You realise he is tripping? On LSD.”

  “No, I didn’t know that. You ever tried it?”

  “Once.”

  “What was it like?”

  “It was a very profound experience. And quite a joyful one at times. But disturbing also. Like visiting the realm of insanity for a day. It was a bit too . . . real. I wouldn’t want to go there again.”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s Rocky.

  “Eddie needs a word with you.”

  I go to find Eddie, leaving Rocky blethering into Delphine’s earhole. I can’t find him. I bump into Nicky and Albie. I stop to share my joint with them.

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “To be honest with you big cousin, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Aye, it’s good craic.”

  “Is this like your regular Saturday night?”

  “It has been recently. Ever since we discovered . . .”

  “LSD?”

  “Aye. Keep it to yourself, but.”

  “Aye. No bother.”

  “I wish I was coming with yous. To see the Bhoys.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “I can’t. I’ve no breid. And besides, I need to babysit these freakoids. You think they’d survive without me?”

  He says it like he means it. He takes a draw from the joint then passes it back to me. We both watch as Rocky begins to swing Delphine round and round the dance floor, totally inappropriate for the vibe.

  “You seem to be getting on grand with Delphine.”

  “I was,” I say ruefully, as I watch them scatter two pixies and a bearded giant wearing a kaftan and a top hat. Not that Delphine seems to be caring. Rocky certainly isn’t.

  “She’s a great lassie.”

  “She’s a madwoman!” interjects Albie.

  “What Albie means is that she’s a cracking laugh.”

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

  “I know, Albie,” says Nicky, soothingly. He turns back to me. “He just means that she can be a wee bit erratic. She needs a little settling down. Maybe the right man in her life.”

  “I’ve gottae find Eddie.”

  I try upstairs. Various stoners lounge around chatting. I chew the fat with Austin, Margaret-Mary and some of their pals for a minute. At the end of the passageway is Mark, sprawled on a couch, a glass of wine in his hand, with Barbara hanging on his every word. Thinks he’s a bloody sophisticate. He looks up and gazes at me, kind of as though he’s checking me out. Maybe it’s just the hashish making me imagine it.

  “Here, Tim.”

  It’s Eddie. I hadn’t noticed him sitting with his back propped against the wall, all by himself.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Rocky said you wanted a word with me.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “The sly fucker.”

  “Here, you want some Lanny?”

  “Aye, alright.”

  I take a long draught of the foul fluid.

  “Fuck me, that stuff’s like pishwater.”

  I notice another opened bottle lying on a nearby surface. Only a glassful out of it. I read the label.

  “Chateau Margaux, 1953.”

  I take a slug.

  “Sweet Jesus and his Holy Mother, it’s the berries!”

  “Best of the century, dear boy,” interjects a passing hipster.

  I hand it to Eddie.

  “Doesn’t taste any better tae me. I’ll stick with the auld commotion lotion if it’s all the same to you.”

  I peer over the balcony at the party in full swing. I gaze at her from afar. She has donned a pair of Jackie O sunglasses and seems to be getting closer to Rocky on the dance floor. I feel a pang of jealously. I compare her with Debbie. Pretty Debbie: sweet and cute and doe-like. Delphine: gorgeous, clued-up, spontaneous; a woman. Yet there is also something gentle, even vulnerable about her. And I want her. But she’s found herself another little boy now. I feel like a tool for thinking I could pull her.

  I turn back to Eddie.

  “Here. Have the end of this joint.”

  I leave him collapsed on the floor, chasing oblivion. Maybe I’ll go back to the flat.

  Outside the rain is falling quite steadily, hissing noisily on the lush canopy. Standing close to the trunk of a mature tree I keep the worst of it at bay. The songbirds are already in full chorus, whistling and chirruping into the late spring London dawn. I can smell privet pollen, damp grass cuttings and the deep spicy fragrance of leylandii. The gloomy, overgrown gardens, heavy, ornate palings and neo-gothic townhouses remind me of the mansion areas in Glasgow’s West End. I light a cigarette, torn between my fascination with this place and a wistfulness for home, for Debbie. Christ, all this gloom. I have to remind myself why I am here, en route to seeing Celtic playing Inter Milan in the biggest match of all time. Things start to make sense again. I take a long drag on my cigarette and begin to enjoy the prospect of a new day – May 21st, 1967.

  “Mr Stein. How are the preparations going?”

  “Fine, son. Fine. Got the boys down by the seaside now. Where they can be together, no distractions. Where I can keep an eye on them.”

  “I suppose it gives them a chance to bond?”

  “The bonding was done a long time ago, now it’s just about letting them relax while keeping their fitness sharp.”

  “Think we’ll do it, Mr Stein?”

  “I know that we can do it. But there are other factors.”

  “Such as?”

  “The referee for instance. A ref cost Liverpool a place in the final two years ago. They were playing Inter. Bill Shankly reckons they got at him. But he doesn’t need to be bent. Just incompetent.”

  “What else?”

  “The heat. The Italians are used to playing in it. My peely wally players aren’t. Then there’s other factors, the l
ess tangible things. A break of the baw here, a mistake there. What mood your main men happen to wake up in on that particular morning.”

  “But Mr Stein . . . putting all that aside, do you believe that we will do it? I mean, deep down, in your heart. Do you think we’re . . . meant to win it?”

  “Aye son. I do.”

  “My auld man, he’s a bit of a romantic. He thinks that Celtic are – how does he put it . . . anointed. That’s it.”

  “I do believe that there are other forces at work in this world. Forces that we can’t see or understand. You’ve just got to give them a helping hand.”

  “So you’re saying the big man upstairs loves a trier, eh Mr Stein?”

  “That’s about the size of it, son.”

  “Wish He’d give my auld fella a break of the baw. He doesn’t keep well, Mr Stein.”

  “You think very highly of him, don’t you?”

  “Aye. I do. If you could make this good thing happen – the European Cup . . . well, what’s the point in saying it. You know it anyway.”

  “It would mean the world to your auld da?”

  “It would mean everything to him, Mr Stein. Everything to a whole load of folk. You realise that everyone loves you Mr Stein? All the Celtic support. They think you’re a god.”

  “Ach, I’m no wanting to hear that.”

  “But how do you take it all, the pressure? How can you cope?”

  “I soak it up. But I’m like everyone else, son. I have my moments. We all of us have things about us that bring us down to ourselves.”

  There is a sound beside me. It is Delphine. My heart leaps into my mouth.

  “Leaving us already?”

  I reply with a smile and instantly start angling my next move. I offer her a fag and she accepts. I light it for her in one go.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “Just the voices inside my head. You and Rocky seemed to be getting along nicely.”

  “He is perfectly charming. But a little too much of a . . . man’s man for me.”

  An image of myself in the midst of a gang battle, brandishing a pickaxe handle and breaking heads flashes into my mind. I wonder what Delphine would make of it.

  “I love the rain.”

  “Me too,” she replies as she demurely exhales a slither of blue smoke. “Although sometimes it gives me the blues.”

  “Glasgow is a city of rains and the folk who live there complain about it all the time, but I kind of like it. I mean, when it’s raining at least something is happening.”

  She smiles, amused by my theory. Facing me, she steps backwards out of the relative shelter of the tree. Her dress instantly spots with raindrops. She reaches her hands forward for mine.

  “Delphine. I . . . have a girl. Back home.”

  “I know. Rocky told me.”

  “I bet he did.”

  “But all is not well between you, no? Mark told me that part. You are loyal to the idea of her but in your heart you know you are moving on. Who knows . . . perhaps even you are going to come to St Martin’s!”

  She hauls me into the street. Her warm breath smells of red wine. We dance and splash around for a little while, then I draw her towards me. I stroke her red hair back from her forehead and gaze into her eyes.

  Then I kiss her, as the first rain of summer sings in the gutters and soaks us to the skin.

  Day Three

  Sunday, May 21st, 1967

  I awake with a start, a knock at the door. I heave my legs out from under the covers and test my ankle on the floor. I pull myself up, grab my dressing gown and shuffle to the door. I open it and am dazzled by a bright light. In front of me is an Italian camera crew.

  “Ah, Mr Stein, we have come from Milan to interview you?” At least they knocked.

  “Right, first of all, turn off the fuckin’ camera. I’m not addressing your fine nation in my pyjamas. Give me an hour and I’ll meet you in the lobby. Now get that thing out of my face.” So much for the tranquil seaside retreat . . .

  An hour later, I stride into the lobby. The reception is going like a fair. Boom microphones are being brandished everywhere. Camera crews are pushing and shoving, trying to get the best shot. In the middle of it all, I spot a tuft of ginger hair sticking up. I might have guessed. Half the Italian media corps has descended on the west coast of Scotland and there is only one player they want to speak to. Jimmy has found a captive audience.

  “Right, boys, the party is over. I’ll be doing all interviews from now on.” Jimmy grins impishly and disappears back to his room, but not before I land a size nine on his arse.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  The interrogation starts. “Mr Stein, Mr Herrera has been on TV in Italy to demand that the Portuguese, as fellow Latins, support his team. Are you worried about this at all?”

  My mind drifts to the Celtic fans, snaking across mainland Europe in a noisy cavalcade. I think of the ferries crammed full of them, singing loudly. I think of small French villages taken over by the green-and-white hordes. I think of the choruses of The Celtic Song that will fill the streets of Lisbon and charm the locals. Then, I think of Herrera. Po-faced Herrera, with those features that look as though they have been carved from granite. I think of him on Italian TV sternly stating that it is the duty of the locals to get behind his team. He’s fuckin’ deluded. Off the pitch, there’s only one winner. He is in for the shock of his life. I turn to the camera.

  “Being part of Celtic Football Club means so much to so many people. If you took your camera crews out into the streets of Glasgow on Thursday evening, it will be like a ghost town. Why? Because everyone will be glued to television sets watching the game. And those people will be the unlucky ones. Because for every person watching TV in Glasgow there will be another who has made the trip to Lisbon to watch the game. All I’m saying is that Lisbon had better be prepared for the biggest and friendliest invasion the city has ever seen. The Celtic supporters will take it over and every local who even ventures out to do their shopping will be enlisted as a Celtic fan for the week. So, to answer your question . . . no, I’m not worried. Any more questions?”

  “Mr Stein, Mr Herrera has said that he has arranged for Inter to have the ‘lucky’ dressing room. What do you think of that comment?”

  I smile, can’t help myself.

  “I think that football is played on a pitch not in a pavilion. And I think that luck is something that you earn through hard work. We have won every competition we have entered so far this season. You might call us the luckiest team in Europe!”

  The journalists laugh. I smile contentedly.

  “Watch out for the mind games, the gamesmanship,” Shanks had told me. In truth, I knew what to expect. The business of winning can be ugly. Where do you stop in your pursuit of success? It is a question that cuts to the core of being a football manager. For some, there are lines that they will not cross. For others, those lines are mere blips on the horizon. Each to their own. The important thing is to be prepared, have your wits about you, make sure that you are never compromised in your own pursuit of excellence.

  Bravely, the Italian press bowl one more googly.

  “Mr Herrera also claims he has acquired two of the footballs to be used in the match . . .”

  “Only two?” I reply. “We have been training with three for the last week. Jimmy Johnstone sleeps with one under his bed every night. Big Billy McNeill takes his into the shower with him every morning. I always bring mine to breakfast with me and sit it on the seat beside me.”

  The place is in an uproar by now.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr Stein.”

  “No problem, I’m always available to chat to good gentlemen like yourselves. Just stay away from the wee man with the red hair or you will have me to answer to.”

  Show over, I drift back to my room. Match balls? Lucky dressing room? Come on tae fuck Herrera, surely you can do better than that. I chuckle as I slip back under the covers.

  ~~~

/>   The road to Lisbon. Albany Street. Sometimes the sun shines on the bitumen. Regents Park looks beautiful.

  Rocky got four hours in his scratcher and assured us he’s okay to drive. I, meanwhile, had sat bolt upright in my bed, sleep an improbable scenario as thoughts flickered through my brain like midgies dancing in a lozenge of sunlight. Last night’s booze and the sleep deprivation mean I have a dry nausea sitting in my stomach, and it feels like someone has screwed a wood-vice to the lower rear of my skull.

  Eddie didn’t bother with bed. He seems disoriented as he blinks in the daylight.

  “How you keeping Eddie boy?” I ask him.

  He responds with an abstract sound that rises from a guttural noise deep in his larynx up into a cheerful exclamation:

  “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaay-yap!”

  I feel a bit sorry for Barbara. She seemed gutted to see Mark go. I also felt kind of sad saying goodbye to Nicky and the others. Life’s like that, I suppose. Mistrustful introductions followed by melancholy goodbyes.

  “Keep it slow – there’s coppers about,” I complain irritably.

  I had anticipated Rocky being jealous when he saw Delphine and me holding hands earlier on but instead he was disarmingly pleasant.

  “How’s it going, big fella?” he had simply asked with a wink as he chewed some gum.

  That made me suspicious. Does he have Debbie waiting for him back home? Did he only flirt with Delphine in order to stoke up my desire for her, hence motivating me to pull her, hence driving a further distance between myself and Debbie?

  Shite, I’ve done it again. Underestimated people. Paranoia. Guilt. This hangover has new complexities to work through.

  “Haud the bus – I’m only doing 30 for Christ’s sake!”

  There is a pause. He smiles. It never takes Rocky long to regain his good humour.

  “Ya bloody woman driver you!” he adds.

  “Aye, loosen up ya tube,” slurs Eddie, passing forward the bottle. He’s moved onto Emva Cream Sherry. He’s evidently on a bender, and I don’t doubt he could keep it up until Lisbon. I take a draught and the spiders scuttle back into their nests, for now.

  But there are cops around, and one of them, on a motorcycle, has taken a particular interest in our heavily-laden, green-and-white decorated Imp. He motors alongside and signals to Rocky to pull over. We stop. The cop dismounts and approaches the driver’s window.