UP THE
CITY!
by
Brian Kirby
By the same author
THE PERSONAL COLUMN
CLASSIFIEDS
(short stories)
*
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in retrieval system or transmitted
in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise without
the prior permission of Brian Kirby
the author of this book.
*
Copyright © Brian Kirby, 2011
*
All characters in this book are fictitious
and any resemblance to actual persons
living or dead is
purely coincidental.
*
In memory of
Bonner and Fitchy
How many people get to re-live
the most important year of their lives?
In 1975, Ted Lewis has two big problems on his hands,
his marriage and his football team and both seem to be going to the dogs. They have been heading that way for some time but up until now he has found himself unable or unwilling to do anything about either of them
All at once he is served an ultimatum on both fronts yet still
no obvious solutions present themselves.
Wongerup, home of the mis-named City Football Club,
is a small semi-rural town, created almost by accident and nothing has changed there for a long time but when two new faces appear on the scene, Ted’s life takes a turn that he never expected.
1
April 2010
It was hard to tell in the mist what exactly was happening out there on the wing but he was pretty sure that somehow they had gained possession; the tall player emerging with the ball sported some sort of blue shirt so flanked by two defenders, Ted moved quickly towards the penalty spot, anticipating the cross. After what seemed an age, the ball began to float over but something was wrong – it was moving too slowly, hovering like a bloody bird. He tried to adjust his stance to allow for the late arrival but for some unaccountable reason his feet now seemed planted in the mud and he was forced to watch helplessly as it sailed over his head. Now the opportunity was missed his feet freed themselves and he was able to turn and run back but somehow they were still heavy, boots clogged with mud and he started to panic.
He woke up sweating, pushing the bedclothes down from his body but with his eyes still tight shut, realised his mistake in the chill dawn, dragged them up again and tucked them under his chin. The closed eyes were an attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t yet fully awake, that he could fall back into a doze, even get back into whatever dream had woken him but there was enough of that last dream left to convince him that he didn’t want to go there. The curiosity to at least find out the time eventually convinced him to open one eye but the bedside clock was on the right and he was facing left so just the acquisition of this information meant that he would have to turn over, then he really would be awake. The one open eye was enough to get an assessment of the day through the window but the dim grey light could mean very early hours or heavy cloud.
What day was it? Everybody assumed that when you were retired every day was the same because your time was your own but it wasn’t true. Most oldies had a programme of sorts and what they did depended very much on what the people around them were doing so Friday meant more smiles on faces, anticipating the weekend, a spring in the step as the two free days were planned and of course, it meant football. This last joy was fading over the years but it was still there, another precious element to brighten his day. Ted had his life pretty well planned. He hadn’t quite reached the stage of a written list but it was all filed away in his mind together with the day when it would be done. There were the necessities – cleaning, washing, ironing, cooking, library, shops and the entertainment – cinemas, concerts, bridge, the pub, his tutoring nights and his support of the school football team. William gave him a hard time for his need of such organisation but once he was alone he quickly realised that his only chance of survival was to keep himself constantly busy. The few times he had been caught on the hop and found himself with time on his hands had been frightening enough to send him running back to his loose but extensive itinerary. It had worked for the past ten years and he had no plans to change it now. His life was ostensibly full of things yet loneliness loomed as his greatest fear.
He liked to think that he was sociable enough but was forced to admit that he had acquaintances rather than friends. There was William of course and he liked to think that William was a friend as much as a son and knew without needing to ask that this feeling was reciprocated but even that tenuous attachment had been shaken this year when Barbara decided that William’s long, dedicated hours at work meant that he cared less for her and had taken off with the two girls to, as she said, ‘do something more worthwhile with my life’. Ted had heard nothing of them since then and William had been evasive when he asked after them. It seemed that there was no animosity, just a long-hidden need on her part to change. He and Barbara had been friendly rather than close but he missed the girls and the amount of time he had spent with them, especially before they reached school age.
So it was Friday. He liked to keep Fridays fairly loose as he enjoyed them so much and all he could think of was that he had mentally pencilled in some sort of exercise for today but that grey sky might well put paid to that. His hand reached out and switched on the radio beside his bed but he should have known that this time of the morning meant news and more news. News lately it seemed was all bad. If you really concentrated on what was being said then you couldn’t help but be caught up in the state the world was in and he didn’t see the point in that sort of self-flagellation. The markets were down, North Korea was nuclear testing, there was an earthquake in New Zealand, a flood in India – none of which affected him and none of which he could do anything about so why must he share the stress? He switched it off and having raised himself from the bed in order to do it, continued the motion and put his feet on the floor. This action reminded him, as if he needed reminding, of the bloody knee. He had been living with it for so long that it was almost like an old friend. Well perhaps not a friend but an unwelcome relative that had moved in and refused to move out. He’d been bitter about it when it happened but in the early days had always assumed that it would improve. When it didn’t he learned to live with it as it offered no pain as long as he was careful and he made sure that he was careful. It started to make it’s presence felt just after his sixty-fifth birthday as if telling him that becoming a certified pensioner automatically brought its own punishment. The pain varied a little and he had devised an assessment system of one to five – one being a day when he hardly limped and could walk any sort of distance he chose. Five meant the stick. He hated the bloody stick, seeing it as a badge of infirmity and sometimes even went out on a five day without it as if to prove something to himself. He always regretted those days. Depending on his mood he had even been known to climb back into bed on a five day. Just that touch of his feet on the floor told him today had all the makings of a four, four and a half.
It took a minute or so for the shower to warm up and he used that time to step onto the scales. This was habit rather than curiosity because he knew that his weight had hardly changed in the past twenty-five years. He’d added a little bit when he stopped training but since then his seventy-five kilos had done nothing more worrying than succumb just a little to the law of gravity. He had made no effort to maintain this enviable state of affairs other than good diet and regular exercise but was grateful for it nonetheless. Shaving had always seemed like a waste of time. If hair was there then it was meant to be there. Last year he had finally given in to temptation and allowed a beard to appear but on discovering that it was now almost white, had gone back to the razor. Anyway, if hair was meant to be where it was, why did it change course later in life and begin to sprout from ears and nose? What on earth was the practical use of hair in those two places? It was reassuring to know that nothing was perfect and he mentally chalked it up as yet another generic design fault.
Dried and dressed he headed for the kitchen, pausing in the hall to pull the newspaper from the front door. Armed with toast and coffee he flipped this over, avoiding the repetition of this morning’s mournful radio news and checked out the sport. Manchester United had bought a little-known African player for a sum that must be close to that country’s national debt and Chelsea had responded by investing more roubles on a Brazilian who had just come out of contract in Italy. Although he maintained an interest in the Premier League he found that he could no longer follow any particular club with the fanaticism its fan base seemed to demand. So what if they won? All it meant was that they had more overseas money to spend on players and could put together a team that only gave their loyalty to the place that offered them the biggest pay cheque. Not that he begrudged the top players their quarter of a million a week but the whole new money arrangement prevented him from caring for a team in the way he knew he should care if he wanted to get any satisfaction from their progress in the league. The rest of the world seemed to embrace the concept of the spoils going to the richest but he struggled with it.
A thump from the passageway announced the arrival of the mail but his eyes never left the page. He was hardly a living example of the new electronic communication age but it was now the way of the world. The limited personal messages he received came on email or mobile which left the thump at the door as something that represented bills, bank-statements, political circulars or retail flyers – none of which were exciting enough to get him away from his coffee. It seemed that the depressing material from the front pages had reached the back as the other big sports stories turned out to be of match-fixing, drug-taking and off-field misbehaviour and this seemed to be gradually spreading to all sport. What used to be the exclusive conserve of horse-racing and international cycling was rapidly spilling over into cricket, athletics, tennis and God knows what. The CEO of the Olympic Association no less had come out with a statement naming international bookmakers as the people who now controlled a large percentage of the world’s sport and insisting that any untoward result should be closely examined for criminal connections. Woe betide the next Premier club that suffered an upset by a non-league side in the cup – if today’s opinions were to be accepted then they would automatically go under the match-fixing microscope.
A glance out of the window told him that the grey threat was still there so he cleared away and washed up. One of the few advantages of living alone was the limited amount of washing up that was needed. Bad news time was now more or less over so he switched on the radio, automatically fixed on the BBC Classics station, lowered the volume a little, picked up the phone and pressed the first pre-set number.
“International Pharmaceuticals.”
“That must take a bit of saying after a few drinks.”
“I beg your pardon sir.”
He didn’t recognise the voice so she must be new and as such, put out by his familiarity.
“Excuse me, I’d like to speak to Doctor Brandon.”
The voice recovers its poise.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“It’s Ted Lewis – his father.”
There was a pause as she compared the two different surnames. Ted would often kid him that he was so protected by his office staff that it was like getting an interview with the Prime Minister. He wasn’t even sure what William’s actual role was in the company and the only word that he had retained from the many attempts at explanation was research. But he shouldn’t play games with the poor girl.
“It’s a long story – just tell him it’s Ted.”
The following pause was long enough for her to be thinking about it but eventually there was a ring and William was there.
“You’ve got our new receptionist puzzled but it’s my fault, I should have warned her about strange men demanding my attention.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
“Oh it’s alright. I could do with a bit of light-hearted banter before I get down to the hard stuff. How the hell are you Pop?”
“I’m fine Will, apart from the current Long John Silver impressions.”
“A five day?”
“Not quite but bloody close. Look, I know this isn’t a good time of day to drag you away from the retorts or whatever it is you play with, but I just wanted to check if Monday was still fine for lunch. You know that as a man of leisure I can fit around your busy schedule so if Monday’s looking tricky …”
“No, Monday will be fine. I’ve got a seminar at around two so it might have to be a bit earlier and it might have to be wine-free.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll drink your share. Right, I’ll let you go – have a good weekend. Oh, any word from the family?”
“Nothing that would brighten your day but I’ll fill you in on Monday.”
“Fine Will – see you at the usual place. 12.30, ok?”
“Yup – see you there Pop.”
The grey sky remained just that, no darker, no lighter but the clouds stayed high and the rain held off so he was glad that he had taken the chance. April was a strange month here, the trees struggling to show signs of life after the cold season, the birds starting to appear but still hesitant about when they should show themselves but nature in general girding its loins for another bash at life. Spring could mean anything from frost to sunburn and a warm day promised nothing for the days that were to follow. Much against his will he had taken the stick but swung it nonchalantly as if it was there for effect rather than support. Although it was strictly speaking a working day the towpath was busy and he had his work cut out dodging joggers and serious walkers. Those of them that bothered to look received a smile or a nod from him but the majority were miles away, plastic plugs in their ears, eyes blank. If they were listening to a bit of Vivaldi or Handel as a background to the magnificent scenery and the abundance of interest along the Thames towpath then he would understand but the odd bits he picked up from over-loud sets were invariably that mindless, tuneless rap. It had a lot in common with modern classical music inasmuch as it sacrificed all of the good things like melody for effect – boring, repetitive, easy to create effect. There was a stab of guilt that he was turning into yet another boring old bastard and he made a great effort to smile at the next passer-by despite the dreadlocks and the bright orange beanie. Once again, no response.
He had stepped over the morning’s mail when he went out but picked it up when he came back through the door. As he suspected, it was mostly window envelopes which never boded well but at the bottom was one that made him pause. He carried it into the lounge, dropped the rest of them on the couch and examined the grubby brown thing in his hand. It had an airmail sticker, several Australian stamps and three addresses, all with his name. He had left the first address when she died and as far as he knew, hadn’t bothered to send a change of address to anyone in Australia since. Doc and Mary had written once but since their move to New Zealand he had heard nothing. Dan and Wendy had always been strictly card people, Christmas and birthdays but even that had finished ten years ago. So who the hell …? He turned it over in his hand, intrigued but somehow unwilling to open it. The fact that it had reached him at all amazed him because it meant that the residents of both previous addresses had known of his next move and he couldn’t for the life of him remember making the effort to tell them his new address. He hadn’t just been moving, he’d been running and now it seemed that he’d been finally, and against his wishes, caught. He stuck it into the inside pocket of his jacket and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
He wasn’t a very good bridge player, not a very enthusiastic one either, but it passed the time and Friday night was the time he regularly put aside to play. There was a local club that he had considered when he moved to Putney but the problems of finding a regular partner, someone who saw the game as he did as something not too serious, not to be played as his Aussie mates used to say, for sheep stations but just as a way of keeping the old grey matter ticking over, proved just too difficult. It was William who had come up with the International computer programme and although it had its drawbacks, he was never face to face with a partner who would give you a dirty look if you made the wrong bid or the wrong lead and that suited him fine. The dinner things cleared away, he poured himself a glass of red and pulled the office chair up to the desk. However much he became involved in the computer, its capabilities never ceased to amaze him as it did now. He clicked on the desktop icon, filled in his password when the screen invited him and selected the standard at which he wanted to play. Almost immediately he was sitting considering a hand with the other invisible three at the table waiting for him to allow them to continue the game. His bid was made too quickly as he knew he had just filled in for someone and was anxious to get the game going again. Too late he realised that he should have investigated his partner’s system before he committed himself. The game proceeded and sure enough, his partner (from India, expert, playing Acol, four card majors) misread his bid and landed them in an un-makeable contract. Not a good start. He started to hit the ‘chat’ button to apologise when he realised that he was going to make no sense at the bridge table tonight. His mind wasn’t there, it was still searching through that envelope in his jacket pocket. After a quick note of apology he clicked off and closed down the computer. At whatever level you played, bridge wasn’t something you could do with your mind elsewhere.
Friday was a popular night at the pub which was why he tried to avoid it but tonight it was just a question of getting out and he couldn’t think of anywhere better at the last moment. It wasn’t so bad. Most of the noise and activity was around the wall-mounted TV on which two teams he hadn’t been able to identify at a distance, were doing battle. He took his pint into the far back corner of the bar, took the battered envelope from his pocket and stared at it. Why did it worry him so much? It could be harmless, a notice from the old school, something about the house they had sold long ago, an ex-pupil digging back into the past … anything. Memories from there were the same as all the others, some bad, some good. No that wasn’t quite true, more like some dreadful, some magnificent. In that case why not cope with them all in order to enjoy the latter? Taking care not to destroy the envelope, he slid a finger under the flap and opened it. It contained a single sheet.
My dear old coach,
I have a feeling that this will be a waste of time and that it’s never going to reach you. The last we heard you were pulling up stumps yet again and being the lousy letter-writers that we are, we never bothered to chase you for a forwarding address. Anyway, the blokes have been giving me a hard time so I thought I’d make the effort. You see the Wongerup mob are planning a reunion. It’s not as if this is a special year – 25th anniversary or some such but it seems that the few of them that are still living up there got together over a few pints (no surprise there) and decided that the old team had drifted so much that if they didn’t fix up something pretty damn quick then everyone would have left the country or even fallen off the perch. It’s nothing swish mind you, just a few jars and a meal for old times’ sake and probably to tell a few tall stories about 1975. So that’s it - if this gets to you and if you can drag yourself away from the fleshpots of London for a few days you know you can be sure of a bloody great reception at this end. Mary and I are going over to Oz for a holiday of sorts so if this does happen to reach you and you need to know more, you can ring me at the apartment we’ve booked in Perth on 9960 3751. We’d love to see William of course but his memories wouldn’t be the same as ours would they?
The date of the bash is Saturday April 19 so get your ass in gear and get over here smartish.
Hoo roo
Doc
Wongerup! Christ, if ever there was a place to test his resilience to memories that was it. His eyes went back to the top and he saw that it had been written nearly a month ago so any vague stirring he had felt and any idea about actually going went straight out of the window. Today was the eleventh so it was all happening next Saturday and there wasn’t a hope in hell that he could get there in that time. He emptied his glass and stared at the sheet in his hand. How many of that bunch were still there or would make the effort to get back there? Images flashed through his mind of different players and he had to wipe away the remains of the beer with the back of his hand so that he could cover the grin that refused to go away. He was folding up the letter when a shadow fell across the table and looking up, he saw a short, balding man standing there.
“Don’t often see you on a Friday Ted. Mind if I join you?”
Ted waved at the empty chair opposite. The newcomer started to sit down then realised that Ted’s glass was empty.
“What are you drinking?”
“Bitter thanks.”
He raised the fresh glass in a grateful toast and Arthur responded in kind. He was the father of one of his tutored lads, a nice kid who, with a little more urging from Ted, would certainly make university next year.
“The boy going well?”
Ted nodded.
“Yes, he’ll make it ok. What sort of course is he looking for?”
“To be honest Ted I don’t really care as long as he gets there. I stuffed up my opportunity and regretted it ever since. I don’t want him to miss out.”
At that moment a roar came from the football gang at the other end of the bar and Ted peered over his shoulder.
“I think we’ve scored.”
Arthur toyed with his glass, considering what he was going to say next.
“I’d have thought you’d be down that end with the lads. Don’t know much about the game meself but I hear say that you used to play a bit. Lost interest?”
Ted forced a laugh.
“No mate, you never completely lose interest but the modern game isn’t the one that I remember – all that bloody shirt-pulling, diving in the box, elbows in the back, that sort of thing. Between you and me I get more of a buzz watching the kids play on Saturday morning.”
“When did you give up playing?”
Ted
leaned over to the wall, picked up the stick that was resting there
and laid it across the table between them.
“I didn’t give it up, it gave me up. Complete knee reconstruction at eighteen just when I thought I was in the big time. The surgeons did a great job but it was a bad knock and they warned me that if I played on it would only get worse. They gave me a couple of years at the outside and I just didn’t think it was worth it. I missed it real bad for a while but it was the right decision and I stayed in touch.”
He pulled the envelope from his pocket with the intention of giving Arthur an edited version of the Wongerup saga but at the last moment decided it was too long a story and slipped it back without explanation.
When the home team hung on to win, the crowd of supporters moved down the bar, evidently preparing to make a night of it. Ted had bought Arthur his reciprocal pint but when he put it down, excused himself with a tale of an expected phone call and headed home. The football on the TV was so far removed from Wongerup City that he was able to put it out of his mind. At least he thought he was until he climbed into bed and reached for the book he had currently on the go. It was a Tim Winton and virtually the only venue for his stories was his home in Western Australia. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t been such a bloody good writer, his descriptions of the place conjuring up magnificent images that made him at times, catch his breath, almost smell the place. He personified the West, living and breathing.
It was no good – he put down the book and switched off the light but it was a symbolic gesture, knowing that sleep was a good way away. 1975 would certainly produce some tall stories as Doc had suggested. He could add a tall story himself if he was there but it wasn’t a story he needed to share with anyone so it didn’t matter. Was it a sign of age to start labelling any year as the most memorable, the turning point, the greatest - as if accepting that any year worth considering had gone? The one thing he had promised her in those last painful days was that he wouldn’t draw a line under his life when she was gone, that he would take the years he had left and make something out of them, anything. With a silent prayer to nobody in particular that sleep would come quickly and dreamlessly, he turned away from the clock and shut his eyes.
William threw an arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug. He started to rise but was pushed gently back down into his seat.
“Sorry I’m a little late Pop; been here long?”
“Yes but it doesn’t matter. A pensioner’s time comes cheap when compared to the hourly rate of a research scientist. I did take the liberty of ordering the wine. I know you are sworn to abstinence on a working day but I figured that a small glass of rosé wouldn’t go amiss. How’s work?”
“Oh … it’s … it’s work – never seems to get any easier or quicker, never seems to end. If I didn’t enjoy it so much I swear I’d give it up and go and dig holes in the road for a living.”
“You’d probably fail at that. The easiest jobs aren’t always what they seem. I was once asked by a pupil how many brain surgeons would it take to change a light bulb and I had to admit that they’d probably have to ask a professional to do it for them.”
The wine arrived and, after going through the usual ritual of sniffing and sipping he raised his glass.
“Here’s to the girl who lives on the hill.”
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter – something from my murky past.’
Orders were placed and the meals delivered quickly, management knowing from experience that business lunches in the city sometimes had to be rapid. The conversation this far had been desultory but when the plates were taken away and before the coffee arrived, William leaned forward and tapped him on the arm.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“I’m amazed you have the time.”
“No, I’m serious Pop. How about moving in with me? Here’s the pair of us rattling around in separate apartments when we could be pooling our resources. You could sell or rent your place and do something exciting with the proceeds. I know you don’t want for much but I can never get over the feeling that your life could be a lot more interesting with a bit more cash. What do you say?”
“I say no.”
Surprised by the instant refusal, William sat back in his chair.
“You could at least think about it.”
“I don’t have to Will. I don’t know how things are with you, Barbara and the girls but if you see any chance of getting them back then their home has got to be ready and waiting for them. It sounds like a practical solution but I’m still sure she’ll change her mind.”
William shook his head.
“She had a point you know. I was so wrapped up in this bloody company that I spent less and less time at home. I convinced myself that it was all for the family’s good but the job just became too important.”
“Didn’t you see it coming? Didn’t you talk about it?”
“There never seemed to be time for talk – I was too busy doing the hard-working father act to see the way things were going.”
“You have to talk Will. Half of the marriage problems in the country are caused by lack of communication. Hang in there, call her as often as you can and it will work out, I promise you.”
“You and Mum certainly never lacked communication. Most of my early memories involve trying to get a word in edgewise at the dinner table.”
Ted’s eyes dropped to the table and stayed there for long enough for him to find his voice.
“I should never have brought her over here. If we’d stayed in that climate she would never have …”
“Whoa – we’ve had this conversation before and your medical knowledge hasn’t improved much since then. Her death had nothing to do with the bloody climate, she was just plain unlucky. You and I both know that once you got together, she was only happy being where you were and your father’s dementia meant that this was where you had to be. You did the right thing Pop and you know it. If you need another reason then admit to yourself that I would never have got the education I did or got into the position I have if we hadn’t been here. There weren’t too many research fellowships on offer in Wongerup.”
They both smiled sadly and the conversation faltered as the coffee arrived. Ted waited until the waiter had gone before reaching into his pocket and producing Doc’s letter. He took it from the envelope and laid it on the table between them. William’s face brightened as he picked it up to read but Ted said nothing until he had finished it then took it from his hand and refolded it. William beamed.
“That’s bloody marvellous - you’re going, of course.”
He replaced it in his pocket.
“You missed the date. It’s taken so long to reach me that I’ve missed out. This grand geriatric reunion is next Saturday.”
“So?”
“So it’s probably just as well. I’m quite sure I couldn’t face Wongerup again without her and five days notice makes it out of the question. I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall there on Saturday but I’ll settle for a full report from Doc.”
William was suddenly animated.
“But you’ve got to do it. You’ve told me so many stories about that place and about that club that you can’t possibly miss out.”
Ted laughed.
“Five days William – five days. It would take me that long to find a travel agent and the flights would almost certainly be full at this late stage.”
“Travel agent! Jeez Pop, I keep forgetting you’re still half-living in the stone-age. Listen, go home and start packing. I’ll fix the tickets on-line and when I call you tomorrow with the flight details you can ring Doc at that number he gave you and he’ll look after things at that end.”
He was looking so pleased with himself that Ted had to raise a hand to stop the flow.
“Even if you could scramble all this together which despite your confidence I doubt, what makes you think that I could cope with it. That place is so precious to me that a quick trip back for a day with a bunch of drunken football players could just about kill my memories for good.”
“You can’t kill memories Pop. They are there in the back of your mind like a set of your favourite books, to be taken out and enjoyed whenever you feel like it.”
“Is that a medical opinion?”
They were interrupted by a muffled buzzing sound and William fished his mobile from his pocket with an apologetic wave to Ted.
“Brandon … yes Loretta … but they’re not due for half an hour yet … yes ok, keep feeding them coffee and I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
They parted company at the top of the Underground steps, Ted heading down and William looking hopefully around for a taxi. His last effort was ‘will you at least think about it?’ but it was said to Ted’s back as he walked away and brought no visible response.
Tuesday night was real pub night and despite the extra visit on Friday, he saw no reason this week to change it. Tonight was much quieter but for some reason Ted made his way back to the seat he had occupied on Friday. Just to complete the duplicate picture, the door opened and Arthur came in. He saw Ted’s glass looking decidedly low and carried a refill back with him from the bar, receiving a grateful smile.
“We can’t go on meeting like this.”
Ted raised his glass.
“As long as you’re buying I don’t see why not.”
An appreciative laugh and Arthur lifted his glass in acknowledgement.
“I’ve been asking round about you – you were quite a player before the accident – tipped for the big leagues.”
Ted managed a deprecating grin.
“I can’t imagine who you asked. Anyone who saw me play must be confined to an old folks’ home by now.”
“What made you go to Australia? I thought they only played rugby and that other silly bloody game that nobody else in the world plays. You must have stayed interested in football so why go to a place where they don’t even play it?”
Ted wagged a finger at him.
“Firstly that silly game you mentioned is a great game to watch. It’s hard and it’s honest and you need a lot of nerve to play it. Football’s alive and well there too, I can tell you. Most of the schools play it and the standard of the professional league is improving by the week. Didn’t you see them give Italy a scare in the last World Cup?”
“Did you get involved when you went
over?”
Ted took a long drink from his pint.
“Did a bit of coaching.”
“Professional stuff?”
“No … just er … here let me get you a refill.”
The short walk to the bar and the delay as he waited for the drinks gave him enough time to think about the way the conversation was going. That letter from Doc had stirred up enough memories for him to bore the poor bloke to tears but he was probably only asking questions to be polite. Football talk in here was all about the big time and Wongerup was a far cry from that. No, if he started on those old stories he’d end up cursing the fact that he’d missed the reunion. He returned to his seat and plonked the two pints down on the table.
“What do you think of Chelsea’s chances next weekend?”
It was the right question and Arthur launched into his assessment of the team, the league … the ground – it was like turning on a tap. Changes to the game certainly hadn’t dampened local enthusiasm and the fact that there were only three Englishmen in the current team didn’t seem to faze him at all.
Doors were locked, teeth brushed and reading material selected by the time he reached out to switch off the light in the lounge but it was only when he did that he became aware of the red light blinking on the phone. With very few exceptions, only one person ever phoned him and at this time of night and at this hour it could only be bad news. William? The girls? He pressed the button and the automated voice told him that he had one message and that it had arrived an hour ago. Another button and there was William asking him, whatever time he came home, to call back. Still convinced that the reason for the call was bad, he pressed a third button which took him directly to William’s home number. The voice on the line was sleepy.
“Hi Pop.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. Look I’m sorry it’s so late but I thought I should let you know as soon as possible that I’ve fixed you up for that reunion, just in case you were planning to swan off for a dirty weekend somewhere.”
“Fixed me up … but I thought I told you that I couldn’t …”
“Yes I know what you told me but when I got home I decided not to believe you. All that stuff about not wanting to spoil precious memories just didn’t ring true. What you have to do my old mate, is to go out there, re-live the ones you have and add a few more for future enjoyment.”
Sitting in the chair, Ted took the phone from his ear and stared at it, unsure of how to react. It wasn’t like William to do anything on his behalf without any sort of agreement but it seemed like this was a done deal. He lifted his arm.
“Surely it was too late …”
“No – tight but not too late. I’m afraid I couldn’t get you into Business Class but I did manage to get one of what they call Preferred seats by the exit doors. Not only do you get to jump out first in an emergency but the few extra quid got you a little more leg-room for that gammy knee of yours.”
“Supposing I refused to …”
“You won’t, now that the chips are down I know you won’t. Anyway, there’s a favour I want you to do for me when you get over there so you can’t refuse. Now get something to write with and I’ll give you the details.”
It was all going too quickly but before he could think of a reason to argue his hand reached over and grabbed the pad he always kept on the telephone table.
“You ready?”
“Well, I suppose …”
“Right then – you take off from Heathrow at twelve-thirty on Thursday, flight QA 642. I’ll pick you up at around nine to give you time to check in. I’m afraid you’ll have to grab a cab when you get back next week because I’m checking a few of our labs up North but apart from that all you have to do is pack.”
“You don’t have to pick me up Thursday, I’m not so decrepit that I can’t get myself to the airport.”
“Oh no, that would give you the opportunity to chicken out and hide yourself somewhere so I’m not taking that chance. It seems a bloody long way to go just for the weekend but the rest of the mob will almost certainly take off as soon as it’s over and you don’t want to be hanging around there on your own.”
“Doc and Mary will be there.”
What the hell was he doing? One minute he was adamantly refusing to be part of something that would certainly shake his carefully worked ordered existence and the next he was happily helping with the organisation.
“Will, I’m really not sure that I …”
“Oh yes, that’s the only other thing you’ve got to do. Doc gave you a Perth phone number on that letter so get in touch and arrange for him to pick you up at the other end. My memories of Wongerup are not that clear but I do know it’s a fair hike from the airport and the buses are few and far between.”
“You’re a bastard, you know that?”
William chuckled.
“Well technically yes I suppose I am but you’ve never held that against me before. Look, I’m off to get some beauty sleep so if you can’t think of any other weak excuses to hold me up, I’ll see you about nine on Thursday. Save me a coffee.”
“I might not open the door.”
“Goodnight Pop.”
After a good deal of hesitation he had finally consigned the old leather suitcase to the bin and treated himself to one of the flash new fibreglass efforts on wheels, telling himself that if his knee was bad then he would need all the balance he could muster. Now, as he thankfully checked it in he wasn’t so sure as the thing had taken all of his skills to manoeuvre it, the wheels acting more like the infuriating ones on a supermarket trolley. William was waiting for him at the foot of the escalator, a carrier bag in his hand.
“All ok?”
He nodded.
“They were a bit worried about the stick but I managed to convince them that if they didn’t allow me to take it with me then they would probably have to carry me on board. They thought I was serious.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll check it out again when you go through the scanner.”
William’s phone started to buzz but he stuck his hand in his pocket and silenced it without looking to see who was calling.
“I’m sorry Pop but I really do have to go.”
“Of course you do – I’m amazed that they let you out at all on a working day. What’s in the bag, some sandwiches for the flight?”
He handed it to him.
“Two things. The first is a Kindle – I know that you and modern technology don’t get on too well but this is …”
“If I didn’t know you better I’d say that you were patronising me my old son. I’m not so removed from this era that I don’t know what a Kindle is.”
“Can you operate it?”
“I didn’t say that, I just said …”
“Ok smartass, it’s so simple that the hostess will be able to show you how it’s done. I just thought that the little screen entertainment they provide wouldn’t meet with your cultural approval so I downloaded half a dozen books to keep you going. Even at the speed that you read they should last you until you get back here. You might not approve of all of them but I know your tastes well enough to be sure that there will be enough to keep you busy between naps. Did you get hold of Doc?”
“He’s picking me up at the airport and has booked me in at the Arms for the weekend so I won’t have to go far.”
“From memory, the Arms never had rooms to let – it was just a rough country pub.”
“It seems that Wongerup is starting to thrive with visitors coming up to see the new dam every weekend so the Arms has gone up-market – lunches, boutique beers and rooms to rent. I probably won’t even recognise the place. What else have you got here?”
William’s grin vanished. He dropped his eyes and shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
“Don’t look at it now. There’s a note with it but it’s … it’s the favour I told you about.”
Ted waited until he could look him in the eye.
“I don’t have to look Will, I know what it is.”
“And you don’t mind?”
Ted reached out and held him by the shoulder.
“No, I don’t mind. I think it’s a great idea.”
Somewhat unwillingly William started to back away.
“I’ve really got to go.”
Ted nodded.
“I know you have. Just one thing …”
William was now far enough away that he had to raise his voice to reach him.
“Don’t take any notice of the ramblings of a grumpy old man. I know I have to do this and if it wasn’t for your insistence I’d never have plucked up the courage. Thank you.”
The grin returned and he gave a last wave as he walked away.
Comfortable would be an exaggeration but the little extra leg room his seat afforded made all the difference and he stretched out and started to relax. The meal had been fine, a great improvement on the airline food he remembered and the hostesses friendly and helpful. Two hours into the flight he started to take out the Kindle, intrigued by its new possibilities but that had quickly gone the way of the newspaper. He was too full of past thoughts to concentrate on reading – thoughts that had been pushed to the back of his mind and left deliberately undisturbed for a very long time. Now they were shoving their way back and he struggled to handle them all at once. They had left Australia in eighty-five but the thoughts that were winning the battle came from seventy-five. If they had all been good then he could have basked in them but they weren’t. He reached over and pulled down the blind on the window to block out the sun, pushed the button on the side of the arm rest and eased himself back as the seat angle changed. He took Doc’s letter from his pocket and scanned it again before replacing it, knowing as he did that he was wasting his time for he knew it practically by heart. If he remembered rightly seventy-five had started with a letter, hadn’t it?
2
April 1975
He pushed open the bar door and stepped in out of the weather. A quick glance round was enough to tell him that half of them were there already. The Perrys too, perched on top of their bar stools like two garden gnomes fishing round a pond. How they had got wind of the meeting he couldn’t imagine but nothing else would have brought them into the pub on a windy Monday evening. They all looked up as he entered so he gave a general wave hoping to encompass the room before heading for the bar. Mary too registered his arrival and hurried along in a flurry of pink organza with his usual middy. She took the two from his hand and was into the till and back with his change in a single practised movement. He raised his glass to the formidable figure in front of him.
“If our defenders could turn as quickly as that we might win a few more games.”
Her laugh was loud and raucous.
“Listen Ted, if your defenders had legs on ‘em like mine you wouldn’t need a bloody goalkeeper.”
Why was it that whenever she spoke to him her voice got louder and her accent coarser as if daring the schoolteacher to correct her? He raised his eyes to the large ex-railway station clock that hung over the curtain leading to the living area.
“How’s the time?”
She didn’t bother to turn round.
“What’s it say?”
“Six
thirty.”
She considered.
“It’s about a quarter past.”
The clock worked – Doc’s ritual winding at the same time every evening guaranteed that it never stopped but it was still necessary to consult its owners to make any sensible use of it. He’d give it until half past. Most of them should be home from work by now but Monday was a strange night for a meeting and some of them might not think it serious enough to break their usual routine. He’d told them just how serious after the game yesterday and he meant it but he knew only too well that their enthusiasm for the game was limited to training and match days so you never knew did you? Mary was still standing in front of him, waiting for something so he shrugged at her. What? She leaned over the bar and gave him a nudge that a full-back would be proud of.
“What’s up?”
“Up?”
“Don’t go all mysterious on me Ted. This place is like a graveyard most Mondays but suddenly we’ve been told to expect the whole bloody mob of you. What’s up? Have you got a European tour planned or something?”
She had lowered her voice in what he assumed was an attempt at a whisper, an attempt that failed dismally. Nobody moved but the low hum of conversation faded as the rest of them tuned in.
“Can’t tell you yet – soon all will be revealed.”
The stare continued but when she realised that this was all the information she was going to get she sank back and returned to her former place at the far end of the bar. The two Bourne brothers were certainly glad to get her back as the sight of her considerable cleavage, most of which was on show as usual, was a great deal better than the sight of each other which was all they were treated to all day long. They were still in working gear of shirt, shorts and boots, the colour of which was indistinguishable under the coating of brick and cement dust. It was said that they never bothered to wash anything, just stood it up in the corner to be buckled on again in the morning like a suit of armour. In the ribald banter of the dressing room this was one of the more polite things said about them but they knew that it was the usual Aussie sign of acceptance. They would be insulted not to be insulted as politeness was a well-known sign of mistrust.
Ted took a sip of his beer and looked around the bar, careful not to catch anyone’s eye. It was a good bar in the older tradition of Australian pubs with dark jarrah panelling up to shoulder height below a rough white plaster wall that bore a variety of photographs, cartoons and posters, there to entertain anyone who might be in the unlikely position of drinking alone. There was no pool table, no dart board and certainly no juke-box – it was a place where you came to sit, drink and talk. It was a large room with mirrors backing the bar all of the way down one side. This created the illusion of a larger establishment whereas it was the only bar, an arrangement that suited the town well as everybody more or less knew everybody and the bar had become a sort of licensed community hall. The large stone fireplace divided the right hand wall into two good sized alcoves and the only lighting came from the hidden neon strips behind the bar and the glow coming from the fire.
At one of the centre tables was Luigi, head down, brooding over a glass of white wine and Patrick, his eyes seemingly blank behind thick glasses. They were together yet each in a world of his own. A shout from the table by the door made him look over to the card school that was ensconced there. Alan Roberts who claimed to be the only real Australian in the team, was raking in his winnings, trying to make the gain of a half-dozen coins sound like a big jackpot.
“Got yer again you bastards. Jeez I sometimes think I should give up work and just play cards with Poms for a living – it’s easier.”
Jimmy looked distinctly unimpressed as Alan shoved his chair back, picked up the empty jug from the table and walked over to the bar. With a nod to Ted he banged it on the wooden surface to attract Mary’s attention.
“If you can drag yerself away from Dad ‘n’ Dave for a minute there’s a bloke up here who’s dying of thirst.”
The first look was scathing and would have intimidated lesser men but Alan stood his ground and eventually she dislodged herself from the corner and came down to pick up the jug and lift it to the tap. There was no need to ask for further direction as there was only one beer. In this establishment you drank Swan or Swan. As her arms rose Alan peered in mock horror at the increased cleavage they created.
“Christ, a man could suffocate in there – if he was lucky.”
Totally unmoved she finished her task, allowing just enough foam to spill over into the sink before topping it up. She shook her head at Ted.
“The trouble with your bloody footballers coach, is that they’ve forgotten how to talk to a lady.”
Alan dropped a handful of coins on the bar and claimed his jug.
“You might be right Mary, it’s a bloody long time since I met one.”
She started to react but he was off, pausing only to top up the Perrys glasses before returning to his table. Ted gave Mary a sympathetic grin, picked up his beer and his change and carried them over to the far corner where he sat with his back to the wall so he could keep an eye on anyone who came in. Unbuttoning his jacket, he took the letter from his inside pocket. It had arrived only last Friday yet it already had a rather dog-eared look, witness to the number of times he had handled it. He flattened it on the table in front of him, not reading but just registering the contents once more. The timing was as bad as it could be, not only as far as the team went but for him personally. If they were going to fight this, and he was determined that they were, then he was going to need a good deal of energy and resolve and for some unaccountable reason, that was just what he was lacking at the moment. There was no reason for it – the job was no different, the team, unfortunately, was no different and Eileen … well he was starting to worry that Eileen would never be different. He put both elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. He was as fit and well as he ever had been but the energy that he had always taken for granted seemed to be slipping away from him.
The door swung open to admit Eric and Clive. Ted knew that they were both in their late twenties yet he never got over his initial impression that they looked like two different generations. Eric with his fresh, freckled face topped by an unruly mop of red hair appeared totally out of place at the bar, the top of which came up to his chest whilst Clive, leaning over his shoulder, had other problems. His receding hairline and permanent worried expression made him appear to be the old man of the team. Since school they had been close if unlikely friends. Ted waited until they had been served then finished his beer and beckoned them all over. A wave was all that was necessary as he knew that most of them had kept one eye on him since he came in. They carried their chairs and drinks over to his table and sat expectantly, the Bournes last to arrive, loathe to leave their private session with Mary.
“I think this is about all we’re going to get tonight. Dan’s bus doesn’t get in for a while yet so we might as well get it over with.”
A movement at the back caught his eye and he paused, thinking they had gained another but it was only Mary, fetching her husband from the back room. They moved over to stand with the Perrys, all four of them paying as much attention to him as the surrounding players. He cleared his throat again.
“I’m sorry to drag you in here at such short notice, especially as some of you I know haven’t been home from work yet.”
He picked up the sheet from the table and held it up to them.
“On Friday I received this letter from the Holy of Holies, the Soccer Federation of Western Australia.”
There was a sarcastic ‘ta-raa’ from the back of the group as he dropped his eyes to read it aloud.
“To the Secretary, Wongerup City Soccer Club … dear sir …at the end of this, the 1975 season, a change is to be made to the make-up of the Fourth Division, of which your club is a member. After much deliberation, the Executive have decided to look favourably at the application from Bowden, presently playing in the South-West Country League, to join the Federation Fourth Division.