The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  The car starts to spin. It is horrible, sickening. In a panic, Rocky slams on the brakes, which only makes things worse. There are a series of sharp collisions as the car leaves the road and is punched upwards by the uneven ground. I hear the oil pan fracture violently. The lorry roars by, its horn a long descending blast. The flat French landscape whirls around us as the screech of asbestos against steel ebbs and flows from the brakes. Had we met a tree or a drop or a bank or even a ditch at the side of that road I believe we would all have been killed. Instead we come to rest relatively unharmed amid a cloud of dust. All of us have banged our heads on the roof; Eddie, Mark and Delphine have caught the worst of it in the rear and blood is already trickling down their faces. I feel a wave of sickness for Delphine. She’s my guest, I’m responsible. A protective instinct kicks in.

  “Delphine, are you alright? Christ Jesus tell me you’re okay!”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she says, wiping blood from her face. She is sheet white.

  We clamber out to survey the damage. All of the tyres have blown and both the driver’s side wheels are at a funny angle. The windscreen has spider-webbed, much of the lower bodywork is crumpled and the boot has sprung.

  The shocked silence is broken by a whumpf as the engine catches fire.

  “FUCKING RUN FOR IT!”

  But Rocky leaps over to the open boot and begins flinging our luggage as far as he can into the brush. Then he dashes round and scoops all the precious items from the glove compartment.

  “FUCKING LEAVE IT ROCKY!”

  “I CANNY – THE MATCH TICKETS!”

  He races away, spilling the odd wallet or passport as the petrol tank explodes in a long, rapidly loudening whoosh, like someone turning up the heat on a giant primus stove.

  We stand aghast, watching the funeral pyre of our Lisbon dream burn away.

  “Fellas, I’m really sorry. I just misjudged it.”

  Hush, now. There will be time for words, recriminations, later. Let the fire burn. Let the dream be reduced to ashes. Let the windows pop, let the tyres melt, let the acrid poison rise from what were once the seats into the forget-me-not-blue sky. Listen as the camping gear crackles on the roof-rack barbecue and wonder where you will sleep tonight. Breathe in the carbon and petroleum as the glorious sun shines down mockingly and muse upon what might have been.

  And most of all, try not to scream at the top of your voice: “ROCKY! YOU ARE A BLOODY EEJIT!”

  A bit of the Celticade jolts us back into reality. It is the Murphy brothers from Eglinton Street.

  “You boys alright?”

  “Just about, Dessie.”

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “I think a tyre must have gone or something. I – ”

  “Don’t fucking do it, Rocky.”

  For once Rocky shuts up. The Murphy brothers sense the tension abroad.

  “Could yous shuttle us into the next village lads?”

  “Aye, if you like. Or you could just wait for your pal.”

  “What pal?”

  “Daft Iggy. He’s about two minutes behind us.”

  “What are you talking about? Iggy’s in jai – ”

  At that moment – that precise instant – there is the blast of a car horn from the highway. We turn, en masse, to witness a 1966 Mark III Ford Zodiac cruise to a halt. Its metallic sonic-blue paintjob and gleaming chrome radiator grille sparkle in the sunshine as Nowhere to Run by Martha & the Vandellas stomps from a French radio station. It is a truly beautiful sight. The driver emerges. Four jaws drop. Iggy. The man himself. The unlikely messiah.

  As if the situation couldn’t become any more incongruous, the passenger door and one of the rear doors open and two stunning young French women emerge. Then a car pulls up behind – a 2CV, and two other French beauties get out. The four lovelies mob the bold Iggy with a barrage of questions and French exclamations.

  “Mon Dieu! Iggy – what is all this – are these your friends? – Are they alright?”

  Iggy removes his green-tinted sunglasses, the expression of concern on his face giving way to a smile once he counts us all as present and correct. I notice a peace symbol is pinned to his collar. The Murphy brothers leave.

  “I take it that’s . . . that was the Imp?” he asks, in his rather squeaky, raspy voice which is reminiscent of Private Doberman’s from The Phil Silvers Show.

  “Aye.”

  “What happened?”

  Rocky goes to open his mouth, then thinks the better of it.

  “Rocky decided to see how long it would stay airborne.”

  Iggy gazes sombrely at the burning wreck.

  “I’ll tell you one thing Rocky, it’s gonnae take something to get it through its MOT.”

  “Your car, on the other hand, will come through with flying colours,” I say accusingly. “Did you win the Pools?”

  “I borrowed it . . . from a bloke in Dover. Just as well for you lot.”

  “And your court case?”

  “The guy whose motor the cops pinched me in . . . he came forward and said he had lent me it.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Big Vinnie made it worth his while.”

  “I bet he did. Come on, let’s get the wagon loaded,” I order. My tone is scolding, but in fact I’ve never been so delighted to set eyes upon anyone in my life.

  Eddie and Rocky playfully assault Iggy. It’s their indirect way of expressing their pleasure at seeing him. Rocky looks doubly delighted, having been delivered in the most extraordinary fashion. As usual he has come up with the proverbial salmon in his mouth.

  “Looks like we’ve swapped one Imp for another imp!” muses Eddie.

  “But this is a Zephyr Eddie, no an Imp.”

  “I didn’t mean the car ya tube, I mean you. One Imp for another imp. And it’s a Zodiac, by the way.”

  “So it is.”

  Mark is crouched sulkily on his haunches away from the group, dabbing the blood from his face.

  “I don’t give a fiddler’s if it’s an E-Type J-J-Jag. I’m no going in it,” he shouts over.

  I walk over to speak with him.

  “What’s up?”

  “I-I-I’ll hitch a lift from here on in.”

  “How?”

  “I-I-I made myself a vow. I’m having nothing more to do with Iggy’s th-th-thieving.”

  “What are you on about? We’re in France – we’ll no get stopped.”

  “It doesn’t m-m-matter. It’s the principle. It wasn’t Iggy’s car to t-t-take.”

  “Come on to grips. This is our big chance, our only chance.”

  “No Tim. He thinks he can just help h-h-himself, and damn the consequences for other folk. I’m no h-h-having it.”

  I sigh and study the horizon for an answer.

  “Mark, usually I’d agree with you, but can you no make an exception? Look, you’re against this because you’re a religious man – right?”

  “R-r-right.”

  “Well don’t ye see what this is ya madman? It’s Providence! It must be – for Rocky to scud the Imp and for Iggy just to happen along right away, by sheer chance – it’s too much of a coincidence. All five of us were meant to see this gemme!”

  “B-b-but it’s wrong.”

  “It’s the lesser of two evils. The bloke will get over us borrowing his motor. We’ll no get over missing the final.”

  He folds his arms.

  “An evil means can n-n-never justify the end. I’m telling you now Tim, there’s no way I’m getting into that s-s-stolen motor.”

  I glare at him, my patience wearing thin. He chooses now, he chooses this instance to make a stand.

  “Alright. Suit yourself.” I turn to bark out orders to the others. “Rocky! Eddie! Iggy! Delphine! Let’s get a move on – Mark’s staying here.”

  “What for?” asks Eddie.

  “Fuck knows. So he can act like Ben Gunn and beg for a bit of cheese.”

  “It’s because that’s a hooky m-m-motor,” sh
outs Mark.

  “Aye, that’s right, it’s because that’s a hooky motor,” I confirm. “And it’s gonnae remain a hooky motor. So let’s follow our individual consciences and say no more about it.”

  “But Tim – ”

  “What Iggy? If Mark wants to make a stand then fuck him.”

  “Haud the bus Tim!”

  “And you can shut your face too Rocky, don’t fucking start me after your performance today. Look, I’m no missing this gemme because of any stubborn holier-than-thou bastard and I’m fucked if I’m gonnae feel guilty for it. Now get in the fucking car.”

  They obey, and the four French girls board the 2CV after a brief, hushed conference with Iggy. Delphine seems taken aback by my aggressiveness but I can’t do anything about that right now. Mark starts to look uncomfortable, rising slightly as we tumble into the Zodiac. Even Rocky goes quietly. No wisecracks or threats and he has the good grace to leave the front passenger seat for me. Just as well. I am in command for now.

  The interior is plush and cool compared with the Imp. Iggy starts the engine. Then he waits, reluctant to leave his pal.

  “What are you waiting for? Drive!”

  We move off slowly, in awkward silence, Rocky and Eddie gazing behind them at the retreating figure of Mark, set black and featureless against the sunlight, forlorn and probably already half-filled with regret. The 2CV follows us. A mile down the road I am confident we are out of sight.

  “Pull in.”

  “What?”

  “Pull in. Here. In this lay-by.”

  Iggy obeys and the French girls pull in behind us. I light myself a cigarette. I close my eyes and slump down in my seat with a sigh.

  “What are we doing Tim?”

  “We’re gonnae wait here for a wee bit.”

  “What?”

  “Mark painted himself into a corner. Let’s give him some time to swallow his pride.”

  I feel Delphine’s hand on my shoulder. She gives it a little squeeze.

  A quarter of an hour later. I can imagine Mark’s thoughts.

  He sees a car emerge at the brow of the incline, its outline distorted as the chrome flickers with light. Is it the Zodiac? Yes. I think so. Is it? Yes, yes it is!

  It nears, passes him, then slows down and swings round 180 degrees. It draws up alongside him. The rear door opens. No further invitation is offered but he rises, shouldering his haversack. He walks to the car and gets in.

  ~~~

  Tring Tring. The Jimmy Johnstone hotline. That’s what the wife calls it. Any hour of the night. I usually catch it by the second or third ring, in an attempt not to wake the family. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don’t. Many a peaceful slumber broken by the little red-haired terror. “He’s up to his tricks again,” they tell me . . . my spies. I have spies everywhere. Every pub he has ever supped in. And even ones he hasn’t got to yet. An army of informants. Sometimes I go straight round. Overcoat pulled over the pyjamas, driving to some backstreet boozer in my slippers. Sometimes I wait till morning. Wait till I see him traipsing in. Still fou’ o the drink. “Work the wee man’s arse off,” I tell Neilly. And Neilly does. Neilly cracks the whip like never before. I watch him closely. The deathly pallor. Then the pinkish hue returning to the cheeks. Then the ruddy glow. Jimmy never shirks. Never cuts corners. Jimmy works like a beast. The excesses of the previous night oozing from every pore. I watch as he ducks behind an advertising hoarding and empties the contents of his stomach onto the cinder. Then, he is back into it, barely missing a beat. By the end of the session he is the same old Jimmy. I watch as he impishly nutmegs Bertie Auld. “You’re dead, wee man,” Bertie shouts, as Jimmy skips away from him with the grace of a ballet dancer and the deftness of a pickpocket. But Bertie has more chance of catching the bubonic plague than he does of snaring Jimmy. No-one catches Jimmy. Not until after dark. Not until the drinks start to flow and my phone starts to ring. Tring Tring. “Hello, Jimmy Johnstone hotline.”

  ~~~

  Forty miles on we pull in at a rest spot, which has parking spaces and some picnic tables.

  Outside I am hit by a sensation of déjà vu as I survey the surroundings. We get the tanner ball out and start kicking it around. Rocky encourages a few French lads to join in, then dazzles them with his skill, reminds me why he had trials for Clyde and St Mirren. Me – I couldn’t kick my own arse.

  “Check it out,” he boasts as he skips past two tackles and chips the ball into the imaginary net. “Worthy of Boaby Murdoch himself!”

  I notice Delphine ambling away. I decide to join her.

  The grassland we stand on is threadbare and dusty. A farmer is burning a wood fire nearby. The land is flat, then rising slightly towards a bank of tall pines with ragged foliage which stand majestic against the electric-blue sky. In the middle distance are golden crops. A chalk wagon path lined with cypress trees leads to a thicket of conifers on the horizon. We stroll for a little while.

  “I’ve seen this place before.”

  “You have been to France?”

  “No.”

  “It could be a van Gogh . . .”

  “No.”

  “Somewhere like it? Back home?”

  “No. I think it was in my dreams. I had a vision of it. I knew I was going to come here.”

  I breathe in deep satisfaction.

  “That smell of wood smoke. It’s wonderful. It takes me back to a lost time. Childhood holidays down the west coast. Fairlie, Rothesay, Millport. Happy days. Da would always bring a kettle and a frying pan and we’d cook sausages on the beach.”

  I sigh unconsciously.

  She smiles sympathetically. “You are close to him?”

  “He’s the finest man I know. Although God knows I’ve put him through the wringer often enough, what with my running with the gangs and all.”

  I wipe a tear; the wood smoke has got in my eye.

  “You know, he fought at Passchendaele. In 1917. He was shot twice and then, when he went back to the front line he was almost killed by a shell. The shrapnel has troubled him ever since. I think he was haunted by all that, the hell of the place, the guys he saw killed. Yet he came back, made a life for himself, a family. Never complained. Now he’s laid low by . . . I don’t even know what.”

  “Are you in mourning for your father?”

  “How can I mourn him if he isn’t dead? He’s ill, but not terminal. He’ll be with us for years yet, God willing.”

  “Well that’s good to hear. But what I mean is that deep down the idea of his permanence is dead. So you mourn for him now, hoping to prepare yourself, hoping to soften the blow when the day comes. I know; I did it with my mother.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Actually it did a little bit. But my mother was a wonderful woman, so in a way it would ill befit her to ever stop mourning.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She had beautiful hair. She was very kind. She loved flowers. She was a terrible cook. She was extremely gentle. There was a lot to love, even though she had a lot of . . . problems. She was a fine person. And your father is a fine person too. I can tell because he has such a fine son.”

  I want to change the subject.

  “I find that so fascinating, how a perfume can do that, transport you back in time, so vividly. Like that wood smoke.”

  “Have you read any of Marcel Proust? France’s greatest writer – a mon avis.”

  “He was the guy that wrote the longest-ever novel?”

  “Yes - À la recherche du temps perdu. In it he describes what happened to him after drinking a little tea in which he had soaked a piece of cake. Immediately he experienced something akin to time travel, as he revisited a childhood scene. Not just the way it smelled, but the sounds and sights of the place too, and the way he felt. Proust was interested in the involuntary memory, and how it was like a window to the past. He said that things long since past live on like souls, until one day they are resurrected by a tiny droplet of their essence as smell or taste,
provoking your unconscious memory.”

  “That’s fascinating. It’s just good to know that someone else has had such thoughts. That’s what art and literature are about: connecting with other people, making abstract ideas tangible. That’s what I want to achieve.”

  “Who inspires you?”

  “Mostly just plates I’ve seen in books,” I murmur in reply.

  “Who?”

  “Rembrandt, Rubens, Caravaggio, El Greco, Ribera . . . all I need to do now is see a few of their paintings in the flesh!”

  Suddenly she reaches over and kisses me.

  “What was that for?”

  “You deserve to be inspired. I find you a most fascinating person.”

  Gently, I stroke her face. We kiss for a long time.

  ~~~

  The end, when it came, crept over me like a lengthening shadow. The darkness began to descend on August 31st 1955, when I injured my ankle in a tackle with Rangers forward Billy Simpson. The pain cut through me like a knife. The dampness of the sponge seeped through my socks and onto my skin. The pain only got worse. I hobbled around for a bit, before limping off. I knew it was bad. Months passed, winter arrived. I sat in the stand, huddled inside my coat. ‘Keep the joint moving’ they said. So I did, gently rotating my ankle. The pain gradually lessened, though never left me completely. Would it ever be the same again? It was not a question I was prepared to entertain. I had to get back, feel the jersey on my skin once again. I made my return against Partick Thistle on December 17th. It felt great. We won 5-1 and I was back where I belonged. The adrenalin coursed through me as I left the pitch but, in the dressing room, a brutal truth awaited. I peeled off my sock to reveal a swollen ankle. Fuck. As I stepped into the shower, I felt a sharp pain that chilled me. Would it ever be the same again? As the months passed, I settled into a familiar pattern: play one game, miss three or four. Even when I did play, I felt the difference. To spectators it was barely noticeable, but to me, it was spirit-crushing – tackles that I previously would have won I arrived moments too late, players I would have swatted aside suddenly stole a half-yard on me. I clung on.

  Then the end came. We travelled to Northern Ireland to play Coleraine in a friendly in 1956. A ball was launched towards the penalty box and I rose to meet it. As I landed, my leg gave way and I crumpled to the turf. The pain took my breath away, tears welled up in my eyes, random thoughts flashed through my mind. Jean. The kids. The mines. The blackness. The darkness. As I hobbled off, I looked back at the spot where I had landed. It had been a long journey. Now, on a humble patch of grass in Northern Ireland, it was all over.