The Football Factory

by John King

  Doreen’s back ached more in the summer and she felt lazy, but her job was important, she couldn’t complain because she was fit and healthy and working, and at least she didn’t perspire as bad as some people. It could be horrible at times, the state of some of the clothes she had to wash. It just showed how different people’s sweat glands operated, or the food they ate perhaps, herbs and garlic and spices, and then there would be bags of washing where the clothes seemed clean already, she just didn’t understand why they bothered, maybe they thought they were the Queen and wore something different ten times a day. Not the English Queen, of course, because the older generation knew all about recycling and making things last, they wore their skirts and trousers and shirts longer than the younger people, they weren’t so regimented, they made things last, made do with what they could get.

  Now and then Doreen would wonder whether she had developed her own smell after twelve years working in the launderette, because people did, and their odour came to match their occupations and lifestyles. She could tell the bankers and solicitors who came in because their blouses and shirts smelt sharp, as though all that frustration and paperwork created a build-up of acidic sweat, a really disgusting smell, and the people who did manual work, whether stacking shelves or digging the roads, they had a heavy kind of smell which wasn’t so unpleasant somehow. Then there was the girl who worked in the pub across the road, and she smelt of drink, quite a nice smell really, Doreen had to admit that much, and the Rastafarian who came in, his clothes were so sweet, lovely colours as well, and his hair was all knotted and clean and sometimes she just wanted to run her hands through it and let her cracked fingers get snagged on the knots. He had bought her a yellow china teapot at Christmas, a present he said, for being so nice to his nephew Ronald, and she made a cup of darjeeling on Christmas Day morning, such a lovely man, about the same age as her Stevie. She used to run her hands through her son’s hair when he was a child, such lovely hair, and sometimes she wished she could move up to Manchester and see him every day.

  Everything Stevie told her was honest and true, he was the best son a mother could have, so when he had that trouble with the drugs she knew it couldn’t be wrong if Stevie said it was okay, what did she think helped Jesus with his visions and miracle cures, and she loved Jesus and her son Stevie, he was almost holy in his sweet innocence, such a good boy, and it was a good job James was away visiting his sister when the police came to the house about that horrible girl who said Stevie tried to touch her in the park, a wicked vicious lie, because her husband never loved Stevie like she did, no mother could love a son like she loved that boy. James had always been hard on poor Stevie, said the lad wasn’t all there, and it was the only thing they had ever argued about.

  Certain drugs were better than beer and didn’t do so much damage to the body, it wasn’t like drink which led to violence and caused death, it all made sense that time when Stevie was younger and sat her down and explained things in his special way, and she ran her fingers through his hair which needed a wash, but he was so innocent he didn’t realise that appearances were important. But if she was honest with herself, Doreen could see the other side as well because if someone took drugs every day there was no way they’d get into work on time and it would be a quick walk to the social. It was the same for everyone. Punctuality was important. Even Mr Donaldson was a businessman first and foremost, and though his favourite worker got on with him she knew he would send her on her way without a second thought if he felt she wasn’t doing her job properly. Life was like that, making choices and putting things in perspective, and some of the people who came into the launderette were all nerves and misery, crushed by society, right across the scale, from the poor to the not so poor, they all had their problems, doesn’t everyone, though Doreen understood that she had less than most, but it was the rich ones who had moved into the area, the estate agents and insurance brokers, all those men and women under thirty who were power dressers or whatever they called it, they just gave her their underwear and talked like they owned the world, which they did really when it came to property and bank accounts.

  Doreen had never known that only twelve and a half per cent of money actually physically existed, that the rest was just numbers in computers, until Stevie told her, when she caught him going through her purse that time, a difficult period of his life, it wasn’t his fault, the power of the Devil trying to work its way into God’s finest creation, and it was handy to know, something they should put in Christmas crackers, because she looked at the arrogant little so-and-so’s with their expensive clothes and upturned noses and wondered if they realised what that meant. Did they? They moved into the neighbourhood for a couple of years and then sold die property for a profit, and the locals couldn’t afford to buy a home in the area in which they’d grown up, that was greed for you, Jesus just turned their table over and threw them out of the synagogue. If Stevie had been born two thousand years earlier he would have done the same, died on the cross for suffering humanity, and the Son of God might return one day, the vicar didn’t know everything, good man though he was, and she could see Stevie in the desert through the mist coming off a pile of shirts, and hear his voice above the roar of the dryers telling a crowd of people to love thy neighbour.

  Sometimes she felt guilty for her good fortune, but James always told her to enjoy life while she could because they would be dead one day, it all ended in the grave, and that’s why it was good to have a religion, it didn’t really matter which one she supposed, though she couldn’t imagine being anything but a Protestant, and she would have liked Walter to convert for the good of his soul, but it was just what you were raised with, and it was best to get on with it because if she looked at what the vicar said too closely maybe she would find some of the ideas a little bit suspicious, and then where would she be? Doreen hoped she wasn’t being blasphemous because she knew God was listening to her thoughts, but surely he would understand, because she was a good woman really and she knew that God loved her.

  James was away again visiting his sister, poor Kate was ill, the air in Wiltshire didn’t seem to be doing her much good. She was lucky to have such a dedicated brother, they’d always been close, both their families were close and the children were always around on Sunday for their dinner, though not Stevie who was doing well in Manchester, they didn’t see him very often, never anything but smiles, truth be told there were never many problems, a few when the children were teenagers and they were having trouble making ends meet.

  Doreen snapped back to the launderette and she was watching Mrs Atkins load a machine, the poor woman had lost her husband the year before and had apparently turned to drink though she never smelt of the stuff and was always well turned out, though they said she stuck to gin because it leaves no trace. Doreen hoped she would be okay and she was coming towards her suddenly, swaying a little, asking for a twenty pence piece, and Doreen went into her little room and took the two tens she handed over, gave Mrs Atkins the coin, exchanging pleasantries about their respective children, what good people they had turned out to be, free from the drugs which destroyed so many youngsters today, nothing wrong with a little cannabis now and again Doreen told herself, hearing Stevie’s voice, and the dryers were spinning behind her, the door opening and closing, the hatch a nice addition, thank you Mr Donaldson.

  Then Mrs Atkins turned back towards the washing machine and Doreen was wondering what she would eat that night, perhaps she’d treat herself and have a couple of samosas and a big bag of chips, maybe a pickled onion, that would be nice. She started thinking about the man who ran the kebab house, she could never pronounce his name properly, but how the place smelt of grease and meat, and when she met him in the supermarket and said hello he smelt just like the kebab house, all that fat and frying oil, a mix of kebab meat and battered fish, it was awful, made her stomach turn, it was as though he had no personality, like it was swamped in bubbling oil, doused in vinegar and chilli sauce. It was disgusting, the poor man,
with a wife and children and maybe that’s why his sons were always in trouble, fights and drugs, his eldest son was in prison for beating up a policeman, because kids could be cruel and violent when they got into their late teens, just look at her nephew Mark, though he’d straightened himself out now and was good as gold.

  Doreen wondered if the other children had made fun of their father, because he really was foul-smelling and she felt terrible because he was such a nice man when he was in the kebab house, so friendly, and he gave her big portions when she went in, a Greek or a Turk, she was never sure which and didn’t want to ask because she knew the two countries didn’t get on, but she never saw him in the launderette and she was quietly and guiltily pleased because she would hate to have to handle his clothes, poor man, what a terrible thing to carry around with you, and it started her thinking, making her a bit nervous, that parable about casting the first stone. He had been behind the counter for such a long time that he had picked up the smell of the place, and Doreen wondered if the same thing had happened to her.

  She thought of the clothes that she washed day-in day-out, and how each bag had its own unique smell which told everything worth knowing about the owner. But what did other people think of the woman from the launderette when she passed them in the street? Did they smell dirty clothes? Perhaps all the rotten fumes she dealt with through the years had worked their way into her pores and mutated her glands. Maybe she turned heads when she passed, her odour one of dirty socks and smelly underpants, curry-stained T-shirts and bloody jeans. She had been in the place so long now that she was used to the stench of dirty laundry when opening bags left for a service wash, pushing their contents quickly into the machines, washing away the sins of the world, turning her head away, turning the other cheek, giving her customers the chance of a clean start in life though she knew well enough they would never learn from the past but make the same mistakes all over again and then come back to her looking for one more chance. Like Stevie. She was just another cog in the machine, her purpose in life the cleaning of soiled shirts and dirty hankies.

  The poor man in the kebab house probably smelt her coming and thought poor Mrs Roberts, she reeks of other people’s dirty washing, she has no identity of her own, a faceless woman in other people’s clothes, washing and drying and folding shirts and towels in neat little piles, and if that was what he thought then Doreen told herself that it was only right, a just desert for thinking the same about him, poor man. She looked up and Ronald was trying to cross the road with his washing, the bag heavy over his shoulder, weighing him down, a police car stopping to let the boy across, and he pushed the door of the launderette open and looked at Doreen uncertainly. She knew what he wanted but was too polite to ask, such a lovely little boy, perfect manners, no trouble to anyone, and she smiled at Ronald and told him he should be off playing, that he was a child and children should play games, that they should sit on swings and climb slides. He grinned and handed Doreen the bag, said thank you Mrs Roberts, and Ronald was an honest boy, a good boy, all children were honest up to a certain age when it all got too much and they became confused, poor Stevie, God’s suffering children, but this boy was different, she knew he was a good boy, and he would tell nice Mrs Roberts, the woman who went to the same church, the truth, he would tell her the truth so she asked him what she smelt like, and he didn’t flinch at such a strange question, and it was best to be direct with children, no point hanging back keeping her mouth shut with this little boy, the salamanders in the heat digging their forks into the launderette lady, some kind of punishment, heaven and hell on Earth. Ronald said she smelt clean. Like nice new clothes. Then he turned and left the launderette and Doreen smiled as she watched him walk along the street towards the children’s playground.

  NORWICH AT HOME

  Norwich always bring a lump to the throat. It’s like some old fossil in power has decided to bring back hanging. That’s what happens when you look back. You stitch yourself up. Get all emotional. Pensioners live off memories because they get nothing from the Government. Enough for light bulbs, but forget about the electricity to make them work. But I’ve got my own memories. None of those wartime stories of the Blitz. Chirpy cockney bollocks about sticking together in times of trouble. It doesn’t work like that. Not these days. Not outside a few good mates. Not in Norwich.

  We were kids at the time. Seventeen or eighteen and a bit slow. It was me and Rod after a game and we took the wrong turn outside Carrow Road. We were talking about nothing and not looking where we were going, like you do when you’re a kid, and suddenly there’s twenty Norwich fans in front of us. Just our dress sense must’ve told them we were Chelsea. They asked more for effect and I told them straight out because I knew we were going to get a kicking, but didn’t realise how much it was going to hurt.

  They didn’t hang about. I dodged the kicks at first as they went for my balls, then looked to Rod, but he was on his knees in the street with his arms held out like he was being crucified and there were three or four farmers taking turns kicking him in the head. I went back and smacked one across the side of the face, then some cunt bundled me forward and my head hit a concrete post. I was on the ground and just remember being dazed. They were soon busy kicking seven shades of shit out of me and I must’ve been down for a good while.

  Don’t know how, but we managed to get up and stumble along an alley. It was a real panic job. My legs were fucked and Rod was swaying from side to side. Couldn’t see much as we went. There were no pretty sights, just wood and bricks, though I remember the smell of rain on concrete. A strong, stale smell. We were on a slope which helped us along and we jumped over a fence and sat on the ground surrounded by stinging nettles, breathing heavy like we were old men choking to death.

  The Norwich lads didn’t follow us and we looked over the fence after a while and they’d fucked off. Melted away like the never existed. We just sat there. Didn’t even get stung too bad which would have been the final insult. Rod was lying back against the fence saying fuck fuck fuck to himself like the needle was stuck. His eyes looked a bit mental. I thought his brain had gone, but was more bothered about myself. Must’ve sat there for half an hour and my body was beginning to ache and my head cracking in two. We were shitting ourselves because it was a fair walk to the station and we didn’t fancy a second helping.

  Eventually we got the bottle together and climbed over the fence. Walked up to the street and turned back along the side of the ground. There were people buying tickets for the next game. Young boys with Norwich souvenirs. Men, women and kids. The great farmer support playing happy families. I wondered if they’d seen us get a kicking. They weren’t giving anything away. Just living their lives. Maybe they watched the show, maybe not, I don’t know. But nobody came to help us when Norwich were trying to inflict a bit of yokel tradition.

  Can’t blame them, of course. Scared people living shit lives aren’t going to help a couple of teenage Chelsea boys. But they could’ve come down the alley and seen if we were still alive. They did fuck all. Left us to rot. Makes you think about all that decent citizen stuff. The public wants law and order and all the other stuff that goes with it, hanging and castration and short sharp shocks, but most of them are just small minded cunts who don’t want to get their hands dirty. They’ll have their say as long as it doesn’t go against what everyone else says, but they’ll do fuck all when it comes to the crunch. They flow with the tide. A great tidal wave flowing through the sewers. Shit and used rubbers. Maybe they were just embarrassed, or reckoned we deserved it being young and away from home, but after Norwich we realised the score and grew up. A bit of an initiation really.

  I had a headache for a week after and, being a kid and thinking too much about mights and maybes, started getting worried I could be brain damaged. Imagined this blood clot spinning around my head waiting to kill me. None of it seemed worth the agony but once my head cleared I was fine and sense returned. Sometimes you need a bit of reason kicked into you and the w
hole thing raised the stakes. We realised there’s more to life than being a cocky hooligan with a big mouth. If you’re going to run the risk of getting a kicking it’s better to get in first. Travel with a crew where you get maximum satisfaction and hopefully not too bad a hiding if things go wrong.

  It’s all about belonging and working together. Like in a war everything changes. Everyone pulls in the same direction and all the peacetime nonsense is knocked on the head. It’s doing what’s got to be done to survive the bad times, and when you’re up against the wall you find all kinds of hidden strength. When he was still alive, my granddad called it war socialism. Said all the rich bastards bit their lips and reverted to a system they normally slagged off. It was different times and my granddad grew up with different notions, but the idea’s the same, more or less. Makes sense that if you’re going away looking for trouble you need a good mob that’s going to get stuck in together. There’s no point ten of you going somewhere like Leeds looking for a row because you’d last five minutes.