The Road to Lisbon

by Martin Greig

  “Listen Rocky, here it is, plain as you like. You go with Debbie if you want. But you and me are done. Comprende?”

  Silence. Then he does something extraordinary. He weeps. He puts his face in his hands and cries and cries. A sickness creeps into my stomach. Eventually I walk over. I look down at him. The hard man of the Cumbie. Indestructible, unruffable, beautiful, untouchable – greeting like a wean. His perfect slacks and sky-blue polo shirt now soiled by earth and blood. The sobbing subsides. He looks up at me.

  “I’m sorry Tim. I’ll tell Debbie to forget it.”

  He stands up and says: “Will you forgive me?” and offers me his hand. Instead of accepting it I embrace him.

  We get ourselves cleaned up as best we can and then walk back to the camp.

  “Christ, Celtic are playing in the European Cup final and here’s us scrapping like a couple of bams,” I complain.

  “We should be ashamed of ourselves,” agrees Rocky.

  But it will take time, not words, to wash away the violence that has passed between us.

  ~~~

  The boots are on. The pit boots, that is; boots that could tell a thousand stories, of friendship and camaraderie, humour and warmth. Other stories, too, of pain – physical and mental – of loneliness, and of death. I raise my foot onto the top of the car wheel and tug at the laces. I place my foot back on the ground and watch a puff of black dust rise up. Thin strips of blackness are left streaked across my hands. Reminders of another time and place.

  I stand at the bottom and gaze up at the black mound rising into the milky late-afternoon sky. I start to climb. I feel the crunch of the coal slag beneath my boots. It feels good. I climb higher and higher, fixing my gaze on that peak. The climb gets steeper. I have to use my hands now, scrabbling on all fours, palms stained with the blackness, beads of sweat trickling down my neck.

  Then, finally, I reach the top. I slowly clamber to my feet and look around. And there it is. The West of Scotland spread across the horizon. I look to the east and see the Lanarkshire coalfields, where it all began. I think of the men who spend their days in darkness, risking their lives to gouge out more of the black stuff from the bowels of the Earth . . . united by the ever-present threat of death.

  I remember the roll-call of deceased: three killed in explosion, seven killed in roof fall, 11 killed in fire. Some more specific: James Clancy, 37, struck by hutch; Tom Gardner, 17, death by methane gas poisoning; George McMillan, 24, crushed by stone. Names in the local newspaper but to us not just names: friends, comrades. Dead. Men snatched before their prime. We would watch their young, lifeless bodies being carried out and into mortuary trucks. My own father, a roadsman in the pits, survived a haemorrhage and several gassing accidents. I think of the lessons that should have been learned and the conditions miners are still forced to put up with, the negligent attitudes of the fuckin’ colliery owners, the ignorance of the politicians. I think of the unions – the great unifier – McGahey and the rest, fighting for the rights of men who are more deserving of respect than those who claim to represent them in the Houses of Parliament.

  I look closer and try to pick out the location of Earnock Pit, where I started; then, across the river to Bothwell Castle where I moved in 1943; finally, the Priory Pit. Thirteen years in the darkness.

  I look at my watch, nearly 5pm. Soon, the shift will finish and the pubs will fill up. Every night I watched as men fell out of these places, staggering home with brew in their bellies and fire in their eyes. “If you want to break my heart, go to the pub with your father.” My mother’s words. Enough to inspire a lifetime of abstinence.

  I think about the petty religious differences that bubble back to the surface whenever these fine, courageous men emerge blinking into the daylight; the scourge of sectarianism, dividing the working classes and distracting them from identifying the real enemy. How the fuck did we end up with this form of religion which is expressed in tribal loyalties to football teams?

  I gaze westward over the cityscape and pick out the black lines of the church spires stretching into the darkening sky. Religion. Karl Marx called it the opium of the people. He was wrong. In its purest form, it is uplifting and civilising. I can see and appreciate its influence on others, even if I can’t experience it fully in my own heart. I think of Matt Busby, a true man of faith, whose dignity shines out of him. A man who combines his love for God with his love of the game; a man who has built his club around a strong moral framework. I admire that, but religious belief does not burn in me. What do I believe in? A Higher Power – I suppose so. But most of all I believe in football. And in football’s ability to bring joy, to inspire people and make their hearts sing. That is no cliché. That is my reality every time I walk out of the tunnel on a Saturday or scan the faces in the crowd after we score a goal. Every time we win a trophy or I shake hands with a well-wisher in the street, I look into their eyes and I see it. I see it burning within. Faith and hope. What do I believe in? I believe in Celtic Football Club and I believe in football. Football is my religion.

  A stone’s throw from here lies Ormiston, the Lanarkshire mining village which produced Matt; to the west, Glenbuck, where Shanks was born and bred. This is the cradle of Scottish football. What is it about this little corner of the world that produces leaders of men? “When a manager gets his players to do what he wants them to do, when he merges them all together, it’s a form of socialism,” said Shankly, spoken like a former miner. ‘How do Busby and Shanks build such great teams? Where do they get their understanding of teamwork?’ people ask. The answer lies underground, in the deep bond on which each other’s survival depends.

  It is about courage, a quality that cannot be given to someone, but must exist already. In football, talent is nothing without courage. Courage is being able to control a ball in a tight situation and to not be afraid of the opposition; to be able to absorb the anxiety of 100,000 fans and still keep your focus and do what the situation requires. Miners can spot men who have courage. They are the ones whose spirits shine in the blackness. The darkness.

  Then there are a chosen few who find a way out, who are able to raise themselves from the bowels of the Earth and do something exceptional. They are the ones who spot light in the darkness and do not stop until they have reached it; the ability to see beyond the black walls, to peer over the smoking chimneys and the smog, to look upon distant horizons and resolve to change the natural order of things – those are the qualities that make good men great. For some of us, like myself, Shanks and Busby, football was that brilliant, dazzling light. It continues to illuminate our lives and others around us. But we will never forget the darkness.

  I pick out the floodlights of Celtic Park, jutting into the skyline, lighting up lives. I look down at my blackened hands. Hands that once emptied hutches and filled them up again for eight hours a day, but now direct professional footballers . . .

  Tomorrow I will board a plane to Lisbon and the grey smog of Glasgow will be replaced by heavenly blue skies. There, under an Atlantic sun, I will place my destiny in the hands of 11 young men whose ability to kick a bag of leather around a patch of grass holds more importance than they could possibly comprehend. I picture it now, in my mind’s eye . . . the aftermath of victory . . . the clouds parting, the smog lifting and heavenly rays pouring down on this little grey corner of the planet . . .

  ~~~

  Delphine tends to the swelling round my left eye.

  “You know a person has no right whatsoever to strike another person? I thought you had rejected violence?”

  “The gangs, aye.”

  “And what of this? You think this is a way to settle a dispute? It is . . . barbaric. It is beneath you. It diminishes you.”

  She continues dabbing. I try not to wince.

  “I have already tended to Rocky. You want to smash your friend’s face up like that? You ought to be ashamed.”

  I recall the image of my fist landing on his face as he just sat there. I remember him weepi
ng. I feel a wave of nausea, a sense of self-disgust that almost overwhelms me.

  “This is about your girl, isn’t it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Women’s intuition.”

  I watch her as she selflessly concentrates on my wounds. Her expression is resigned, defeated. I feel sorry for her.

  After a while she says: “You do realise you will not stay with them?”

  “Who?”

  She gestures with her head in the general direction of where the boys are situated.

  “What are you talking about? These are my friends. My brothers.”

  “You will leave them behind.”

  “Never. If I am not loyal to them then I am nothing.”

  “It isn’t a question of loyalty. Although in a sense it is – loyalty to oneself. You do not belong with them. You will move on.”

  “I didn’t realise you were such a snob.”

  “I’m not a snob, I’m a realist. I’m merely identifying what will happen.”

  She looks at her shoes, then says: “And you can fall in love again.”

  “I know. It’s just hard, at the moment, to get my head round that.”

  “Why? You think you can’t recover in a few days? A few hours?”

  “Delphine, that’s . . . heartless.”

  “I don’t mean to be heartless. I’m just trying to open your eyes to how society has been conditioning you . . . and everyone else. This thing called ‘love’, it is an illusion of higher feelings, a trick of nature to disguise a merely animal need to procreate. A misnomer for hormonal processes.”

  “I’m sorry, Delphine. I’m not sure I understand what you are on about. And I’m not sure I want to.”

  I get up and walk away.

  The rest of the morning is awkward to say the least. The weather becomes overcast and drizzly. As well as my eye my lower lip is swollen, my nose encrusted with dried blood, and the skin of my left forearm has been serrated by gravel. Rocky’s left cheekbone and eye socket are starting to bruise. Eddie, Iggy and Mark are all noticeably astonished by our appearances but know better than to say anything for now. We pack the Zodiac. Iggy’s hangover persists such that he is installed in the passenger seat while I take the wheel for the next stretch of the N10. Rocky, Eddie, Mark and Delphine squeeze into the rear.

  “What’s that smell?” asks Eddie.

  “Iggy’s got his shoes off, they are pure l-l-louting,” says Mark.

  “Christ Iggy,” says Eddie, “you are fucking Abraham Linkin’!”

  The French girls accompany us southwards for a few miles before they must leave us, and we wave off their 2CV as it splutters towards Paris. Rocky and I spend the rest of the morning being self-consciously courteous to one other, laughing loudly at each other’s jokes, ensuring to offer the other a fag.

  Somewhere in the pit of my stomach lurks a terrible feeling that I’ve done him a great injustice. Him and Debbie.

  We stop at a village – more a handful of buildings than a village – just outside Poitiers. Mark walks over to a little shop to buy lemonade and cigarettes.

  “Here, Mark,” Iggy shouts after him. “If you’re going to that wee dairy gonnae get us an Evening Citizen.”

  “They’ll no have a Citizen here ya tube,” says Eddie. “We’re in fucking France!”

  “Oh,” says Iggy. “Alright well. Here, Mark, gonnae get us an Evening Times instead.”

  “Give us peace!” exclaims Eddie.

  Delphine excuses herself to make a call from a payphone. I watch her for a while as she walks away from me.

  We enter a Relais-Routier to escape the light rain and sit down. We are the only patrons. It is a small, modest establishment, brown interior, gleaming chrome Gaggia coffee machine, clean plastic tablecloths.

  “I’ll be getting this fellas, my treat,” says Iggy.

  The boys murmur protests and gratitude.

  “How come you’re so flush?” I ask him quietly.

  He surreptitiously produces something from his inside pocket and shows it to me under the table. It is a wad of banknotes. He strokes it between his index finger and thumb and grins inanely.

  “Big Vinnie owed me for a wee job.”

  I frown at him disapprovingly.

  The waiter, a boy in his late teens, approaches, and Iggy begins babbling in broad Glaswegian.

  “Alright there my china, I’ll have square sausage, and black pudden, and a tottie scone, and fried breid, and egg. And have you got any chips on?”

  The waiter just stares at Iggy, bemused.

  “He’s French ya tube,” says Eddie. “Doesn’t know English. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Eddie proceeds to speak with a strange French lilt.

  “Have yeez got any squerre sauseege?”

  Blank stare.

  “Squerre sauseege?” he repeats, making a little square with his fingers on the table. “Have yeez any?”

  Blank stare. Eddie turns to us.

  “It’s no use lads,” he says in a lowered tone. “The boy’s half-daft.”

  “Haud the bus – you’re just speaking English with a French accent,” says Rocky. “Let me try.”

  He turns to the waiter.

  “Havez vous de sausage de square?”

  Blank stare.

  “Alright, how about la pudden de noir? Havez vous la pudden de noir?”

  Twenty minutes later and we have finally ordered thanks to Delphine’s arrival and intervention. The starters – radishes, bread, butter and salt – have largely remained untouched. My pals’ faces are bemused as they survey the main course, a rather exotic-smelling stew.

  “What in the name of Jesus is this?”

  “Can they no do normal food? Aw, no offence Delphine.”

  “It’s alright. Look, just try a little. I promise you will like it.”

  I poke at mine with a fork. Try a little. Then a little bit more.

  “You know what, fellas? This is no half-bad.”

  Mark tries a little.

  “You’re r-right!” he agrees.

  “Quite tasty!” says Rocky.

  “I like it!” says Iggy.

  “You see!” beams Delphine.

  We munch away happily. All except Eddie.

  “It’s pure rancid more like. Gives me the boke.” He clatters down his cutlery. “Me with my delicate stomach. I’m away to see if there’s any of that corned beef left in the car.”

  There is a pause, then we all burst out laughing, and I divide Eddie’s portion up between us.

  “Eddie doesn’t know what he’s missing,” declares Iggy as he wolfs down the last of his stew. “What was that anyway, Delphine?”

  “Horsemeat,” she replies, with a wry curl of her lip. “Iggy – what is wrong? You have gone a little pale!”

  Once on the road again Iggy – who was dying an hour and a half ago – has joined Eddie in swilling cheap wine. I catch his eye disapprovingly.

  By the time we stop again in the late afternoon the rain is off and the humidity is high again. We pull in by some nice wooded countryside and we all stretch out and stroll around. Delphine and the boys get the stove on for some tea. I take my fags and wander into a nearby glade. I sit beneath a tree to ponder the day’s momentous events.

  “H-H-Hi.”

  “Christ Mark, you gave me a fright.”

  “S-sorry.”

  He sighs, sits down. Silence.

  Then he asks: “H-how are you?”

  “I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s just that, you and R-R-Rocky.”

  “We had a scrap, so what?”

  “W-w-what was is all about?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Was it about D-D-Debbie?”

  “Why the fuck would it be about Debbie?”

  “No r-r-r-reason.”

  He gets up and wanders into the glade, closer to me. Makes a play of examining the surroundings.

  “Tim, do you eve
r think that you and m-m-m-me are . . . s-s-s-s-similar?”

  “No really, no.” My voice betrays my irritation.

  Eddie arrives.

  “Christ, can a man no get some peace? It’s like Sauchiehall Street round here!”

  “Here, Olive, away and bugger off and put your pinny on so I can have a word with Tim.”

  It’s barely 4pm and already he has his bad-drinker face on. Mark leaves.

  “Why do you always have to do that?”

  “What?”

  “Put him down.”

  “I just take the piss out of him a wee bit ’cause he’s a fairy.”

  “Naw he’s no. We can’t all be tough guys like you.”

  “Ach, he’s as bent as an Arab’s sword. And anyway, I’m only kidding around.”

  He offers me his bottle, I shake my head. He takes a long draught.

  “What happened with you and Rocky well?”

  “Nothing. It’s all sorted now.”

  “Was it about the Cumbie?”

  “Naw. Like I say, it’s all sorted now. And what about the Cumbie?”

  He looks away, takes another swig.

  “It’s just that back home . . . folk were saying you don’t give a fuck about the Cumbie no more. Saying you are a shitebag. Saying that you think you’re a cut above.”

  “Let them say what they like, see if I give a fuck. The Cumbie is a load of auld garbage anyway.”

  “Keep your voice down ya tube!”

  “THE GANGS ARE A PILE OF PISH – THE CUMBIE IS A PILE OF SHITE!”

  “That’s right, let Rocky hear you; see how interested he’s gonnae be in your views.”

  “He won’t give a fuck.”

  “Aye, right.”

  “He won’t. You don’t get it, do you Eddie? One day Rocky’s gonnae team up with a right nice wee lassie, and you’ll see a different side to him. He will toe the line – guaranteed. And top of the list will be no running with the team anymore. And he’ll be right no to.”

  “Shite. Just ’cause you’ve let the side down don’t go dragging in Rock. He knows what it’s all about.”