Monday lunchtime
Ellie Dodds said, “Your grandfather is a liar.” She didn’t say it quite like that. She was prodding me in the shoulder with a finger as fat as a prime pork sausage. “Your” – prod – “grandfather” – prod – “is” – prod – “a” – prod – “li-” – prod – “ar.”
We were in the school yard and half the school had gathered round to watch. Her face was close to mine. I noticed she had a spot on the side of her nose that turned redder as she grew angry.
“What is your grandfather, Billy?”
“My grandfather is my father’s father,” I said and tried to look stupid, not cheeky. If she thought I was making fun of her, I’d have had five prime pork sausages rolled into a fist and planted on my nose.
You could tell the rest of the kids were just waiting for it. Nothing like a bit of blood on the playground, is there? I like to watch it myself. Just not when it’s my blood.
“Fight,” someone muttered and the words spread around the circle of eager faces. I prayed for the whistle to signal the end of break.
Ellie Dodds’s face turned as red as the spot on her nose while the spot itself turned purple. “Repeat after me, Billy Campbell: My grandfather is a liar…”
“Um…”
No whistle. No sign of Mr Golden Eagle Arthurton with his beaky nose. When I was in junior school, I used to think teachers cut our breaks as short as they could. They wanted to rush us back to the classrooms. When I got to secondary, I found the teachers wanted the world’s longest fifteen-minute breaks, in no rush to get back to class. They hate us as much as we hate them.
So, no whistle.
“Repeat after me, Billy Campbell: My grandfather is a liar…”
“Yes, Ellie,” I said boldly, “your grandfather is a liar.”
Now her face turned purple and the spot seemed to be throbbing a yellow light. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I was sure it was going to explode.
“Fight!” someone shouted and stamped his foot like a drum. “Fight,” the word echoed and the feet rumbled on the tarred yard.
The sausages were raised and ready to strike. I closed my eyes and waited.
Ah, you think I should have fought back, do you? Well you never met Ellie Dodds. Let her punch you and she walks away happy. Fight back and she punches you twenty times more.
Or maybe you think I should have just said, “My granddad is a liar”?
I’d rather be punched a hundred and twenty times, thanks.
I half opened my eyes again. I saw the fat fist pulled back.
The whistle went for the end of break. The crowd of kids let out a sigh. “Awwww!” Disappointed.
“I’ll get you after school, tomorrow, Billy Campbell,” Ellie said, dropping her fist. “Tonight I’m off to a meeting of the Shelby Town Supporter’s Club. My Dad is the President, you know.”
Yes, I knew.
“I’m playing football tomorrow night,” I told her. “For the school team. Last game of the season … we only need a draw to win the league.”
“Ooooh,” she sneered. “Surprised you aren’t playing for Shelby Town. Like your lying granddad.”
I walked towards the main door into the school and Ellie followed. The Golden Eagle glared at both of us. Ellie smiled at him as sweetly as she knew how. That’s about as sweet as a bottle of vinegar.
“You’ll be playing with a broken leg,” she hissed, and vanished into the sour-smelling gloom of the school.
“Last game of the season,” I repeated, calling after her. “Will you break my leg before the game or after?”
“After.”
“You could come along and watch,” I said, muttering under my breath, “if you’re not too busy pulling the legs off spiders or bullying boys that are smaller than you.”
She stopped. Her face was pale now in the dim corridor. That was even scarier than her angry face. “I’ll be there,” she promised. “Maybe I’ll break both your legs.”
I sighed. It was all my fault. I had been so pleased that morning. So-o-o-o pleased. I had stood up in assembly to tell everyone about my famous granddad.
Now, at the end of the school day, I trudged home with my backpack full of homework. Other students walked along in little groups. No one walked with me. Not after lunch … and what Ellie Dodds had told everyone.
I turned up our street – a row of terraced houses – and saw the nurse’s car outside our door. I walked into the house and it smelt like a hospital. The door was open to the downstairs bedroom and the nurse was wittering. “Now, Jack, that’s your nappy changed. You’ll be comfy till I get back in the morning, won’t you?”
Granddad didn’t reply. He lay in the bed, mouth open and twisted down to one side. His grey eyes were as pale and watery as Shelby Town tea. The nurse looked up and saw me. “There you are, Billy. Just in time to take over.”
“Yes, but I wanted to ask—”
“Your dad said he’d be home in an hour. You can manage till then, can’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“And remember what I said yesterday? Your granddad has had a stroke. He needs to get his brain working again. Sometimes they lose their memory, you know. It’s up to you to talk to him – keep his memories fresh. It’ll all help,” she said as she packed her bag and put on her coat.
Then she was gone. Granddad turned his eyes towards me. He struggled to make the words come out. “Hello, our Jim,” he finally managed.
“Billy,” I told him. “I’m not Jim … I’m Billy.”
He frowned. “I don’t know any Billy.”
“I’m your grandson,” I reminded him.
“Are you?”
His eyes fixed on my scarf. “Shelby Town, eh?” he said and saliva dribbled down his chin. “I used to play for Shelby Town, you know.”
I sighed. Here we go again. It was going to be a long hour till Dad got home.
“You didn’t play for Shelby Town, Granddad,” I said quietly.
“Not…” He struggled to find the word. “Not lately.”
I wanted to say “Not ever”, but I hadn’t the heart. If he wanted to think he was a football star, then let him. He’d been living with Dad and me for a month and hadn’t said anything about football before. He’d been poorly, had no one to care for him, and so Dad said he was coming to live with us. “Just till he gets better,” Dad explained.
But after two weeks he got worse.
I hadn’t met my granddad before – well, not since I was a baby, he said. And I didn’t remember that, of course. He lived in Scotland. A quiet and shy sort of man, so we hadn’t had much to say to each other after he moved in. Not until he turned really ill.
I got back from school after a game one night and found him lying on the floor in front of the fire. I thought he was dead.
Well, I would think that. I’ve never seen a dead person, have you? I mean, I knew about death. My mum died when I was born and Dad brought me up. But I’d never seen death close up.
My mouth was dry and my legs didn’t want to move. It was all I could do to find my mobile in my pocket. My hands were shaking so much, I could hardly punch in 999.
Then I heard a croak, a groan like an old door, and I saw the fingers on his left hand twitch. The ambulance was there in five minutes and I don’t think I’d moved.
After a week in hospital they sent him back to our house. That’s when the nurse explained about his memory. “Get him to talk about the past,” she advised.
And that’s where all the trouble had started.
“Remember 1973, Jim?” asked Granddad.
“Billy,” I corrected.
“I played for Shelby for five years – ’70 to ’75,” he went on softly.
I remembered Ellie Dodds’s words. I said nothing.
“Back in those days they were non-league. They’re in the Second Division now, of course…”
“The Premier League,” I said.
He turned his eyes towards me. Seeing me as if for the first time. “What’s that?”
“Nothing, Granddad.”
“Non-league, we were … but we caused the biggest upset in cup history,” he said. The left side of his face was not frozen by the stroke. It crinkled a little in a smile. “A non-league side got all the way to the third round of the FA Cup. The whole town was excited. The ground only held five thousand, but fifty thousand wanted to see us play in that third round … that’s when the First Division teams joined the cup, of course.”
I nodded. It was going to be the same story he’d told me the night before. The long lie. I looked out of the window, through the faded net curtains, into the April evening. And let him get on with it.
“You were there, Jim, weren’t you? You were there, son? For the West Ham cup match?”
“Yes, Granddad,” I sighed. I wasn’t born. It was useless to say.
“Shelby drew First Division West Ham. Their top scorer was “Pop” Robson – Bryan Robson was his real name – a little feller from Sunderland. They called him Pop because he looked older than his years – the Bald Assassin. Top goal-scorer in the First Division. And he was coming to Shelby.”
“Yes, Granddad.”
“What a day – the greatest day of my life.”
I was suddenly sad. This old man remembering his greatest day … a day that never happened.
“I’d hurt a hamstring,” my granddad said. “I hadn’t played for a month so I was on the sidelines for that game. The crowd was spilling onto the pitch and they let an old bloke sit next to me on the bench. Hah! Wouldn’t happen these days, would it, Jim?”
I shook my head. The old man’s eyes were glowing in the dim evening light. “You’re a good player, they tell me, Jim. Wish I could get to see you play. Just once. Too busy. I’d like to see you play.”
“Tell me about West Ham, Granddad,” I suggested.
“That Pop Robson was a different class. Fast feet, that was his secret. He turned us inside out. Twenty minutes gone and we were two down. The crowd had gone a bit quiet. They expected us to lose … but not roll over and die so easily. I was holding my head in my hands and the old bloke next to me said, ‘It isn’t over till the final whistle, Jack.’ I thought he was dreaming, of course. And what happened next?”
“Shelby scored, Granddad.” It was the same story he’d told the night before. The one I’d repeated in assembly this morning.
“Aye. Shelby scored. I’m forgetting, you were there, Jim.”
“No, Granddad.”
“Then, on the half-hour, that Pop Robson put his bald head on the ball and thumped it past our keeper: 3–1 and I was sure we wouldn’t come back a second time. But that old feller just laughed and said, ‘It isn’t over till the final whistle, Jack.’ And then he said, ‘If you were on the pitch you could make a difference … your pace on the wing’s what Shelby needs.’ And, blow me, what happened?”
“Shelby’s fullback got injured and you went on.”
He tried to nod but his head wouldn’t move. He licked his lips and I wiped a wet sponge over his tongue. “I never knew who that old bloke was … he wasn’t there when the game ended and I never saw him again. Sometimes I think … I think he was a ghost. Aye, that’s daft, I know. But I went on as a sub and it was like I was electric. I started to run at their defence and beat those Hammers defenders like they weren’t there. They were glad to hear the half-time whistle, I can tell you. And the crowd … the crowd that had gone quiet … roared us off. 3–1 down but not out.”
“It isn’t over till the final whistle,” I said.
“The second half … it’s still talked about at Shelby today, I bet. We kicked off … the ball came out to me … I raced down the wing and crossed and Eddie Paynton nodded it in to make it 3–2. West Ham weren’t attacking any more. Even Pop Robson was helping out in defence. They packed their box. We couldn’t get through. Then with ten minutes to go they got so desperate, they fouled Eddie. Penalty.”
“And you took it, Granddad.”
“Aye, I’m forgetting you were there, Jim. I never thought I’d miss. And I didn’t. Nearly burst the net, son. 3–3 and ten minutes to go. Ten minutes to make history… Five minutes to go and the Bald Assassin hit our crossbar. I guess that woke us up. Our keeper collected it and threw it out to me on the right wing. I was just inside our half. There was only one place I was heading.”
“Towards their goal,” I put in.
“Aye. They’d just been attacking. They were tired. Slow to get back. Shelby Town were tired too, but I’d only played fifty minutes. I put my head down and ran down the wing. I’d gone round the outside of their fullback half a dozen times that afternoon, so he moved over to block me. And I did the last thing he expected – I cut inside. Their centre back was still up the field in our half. The goal was open in front of me. I pulled back my left leg and let fly. Top right-hand corner. Their keeper never had a chance.”
Granddad’s eyes began to close and his voice was a whisper. “The crowd were on the pitch. We were winning 4–3 with a minute to go. The pitch was cleared but the ref would add on time. I told my mates to be careful. ‘It isn’t over till the final whistle,’ I said. But we hung on. Till…”
“The final whistle,” I finished. But Granddad didn’t hear me. He was asleep.
On that day back in ’73, when Shelby knocked West Ham out of the cup, my granddad was the hero. That was the story I’d told the whole school on Monday morning.
Then, Monday lunchtime, Ellie Dodds had come up to me and said, “Liar. I phoned my Dad … he’s president of the Shelby Town Supporter’s Club. Nobody called Campbell has ever played for Shelby. He checked the record books. And there was no Campbell in the famous 1973 team. Your granddad is a liar.”
And that’s when she poked me and said she’d break my legs.
After school today I was in the dressing room and then out onto the pitch before Ellie could get me. She had a detention.
Let me ask you something. Do you believe in ghosts? Granddad reckoned the old bloke on the Shelby bench may have been a ghost. I’ve read books about spirits. They say that a person dies and then appears to the living just once on their way to the afterlife.
Is it true? I don’t know. But listen to my story and make up your own mind.
We kicked off at quarter past four. After half an hour we were pressing. Our goalkeeper bowled the ball to me on the right wing. I ran at their fullback and suddenly remembered what my granddad had told me. “I cut inside… The goal was open in front of me.”
I cut inside.
That’s when it turned weird. It seemed like everyone on the pitch was frozen in time. No one moved towards me. My own team had no one in the penalty area for me to pass to. Even the crowd seemed silent as a winter night. “I pulled back my left leg and let fly. Top right-hand corner,” Granddad had said. In that eerie silence I pulled back my left leg … and that’s when it all went wrong.
I got my toe under the ball but then caught my studs in the grass, sending a feeble shot looping into the air. Their keeper watched it, yet he seemed to move in slow motion as it sailed over his head. Super-slow motion… The ball dropped behind the keeper, landed on the goal line and bounced gently into the net.
Back to real time and my teammates were shaking my hand and hugging me. I was just stunned. I’d scored – but it was a freak goal. I looked up at the clock on the changing-room roof. Quarter to five.
In the second half we gave away a soft own goal but we hung on to win the league. The teachers and the lads were well chuffed, but all I could think of was Ellie Dodds, waiting by the main gates with a bunch of her friends.
I changed as quickly as I could and ran out of the side gate to dodge them, but they spotted me. I heard Ellie’s angry cries and looked back to see five big kids pounding down the road towards me. I was aching from playing ninety minutes and their shouts were getting closer by the time I turned into our street.
I stopped suddenly. There were cars outside our house … the nurse’s car and two strange ones. But it was the sight of the ambulance with the lights flashing that stopped the kids who were chasing me. They just gawped, the way people do.
The paramedics carried out a stretcher with a covered shape on it. I jogged down the street. Dad was standing at the door talking to the nurse. When he saw me he tried to smile.
“Granddad?”
“He had another stroke,” he said gently. “He died.”
“When?” Stupid question. “What time did he die?”
“About a quarter to five.”
And I remembered Granddad’s words, “Wish I could get to see you play. Just once. Too busy. I’d like to see you play.” Maybe he had.
But Granddad was a fake, wasn’t he? I really needed to know. “Did your dad ever play winger for Shelby Town?” I asked.
Dad snorted. “Don’t be daft, Billy. My dad couldn’t run from the pub, let alone run down Shelby wing. Why do you ask?”
“He told me he did,” I mumbled.
Dad frowned. “My dad told you? My dad died before you were born, son.”
It was my turn to frown. “So who just died in our downstairs bedroom?”
“Your granddad.”
“Your dad?”
“No, no, no. Your mother’s dad … Jack Macdonald.”
And suddenly I understood.
It was a busy week. First the stream of reporters knocking on the door, wanting to interview us about the famous Jack Macdonald, hero of the Shelby Cup shock of 1973, who’d moved away to Scotland after he left the club.
You couldn’t move in the house for flowers and cards. The lamppost outside was muffled in a hundred scarves and Shelby strips. Kids left their teddy bears and fans left photos and flowers on the doorstep. The little scribbled notes could have caught fire in the rows of candles. Reporters were camped in the street and at our school.
On Wednesday, there was a special assembly where the headmaster reminded everybody that Jack Macdonald was the very same man that Billy Campbell – me – had told them about just a couple of days before. We said prayers for him.
On Thursday Jack’s son, Jim, turned up for the funeral. It was the first time I’d met my Uncle Jim.
On Friday it was the funeral. One of the biggest Shelby has ever seen. Hundreds stood outside in the graveyard listening to the service among the television cameras and the newspaper reporters. But it was inside the church that was most amazing.
All the current players from Shelby Town Football Club were there to “pay their respects”, plus dozens of the retired players – men who were heroes in our town. But not one of them as great a hero as my granddad. At least, that’s what the vicar said.
Of course the President of Shelby Town Supporter’s Club was there too, and he managed to get a seat inside the church. Along with his daughter, Ellie Dodds. At the end, Dad and I stood at the door of the church and shook the hands of our heroes. Ellie looked on with envy.
After we left the church I saw her standing by the gate. She raised five pork-sausage fingers in the air in a high-five. I slapped her hand as she said, “Your granddad was a hero, Billy, a hero. Respect. Sorry about … you know.”
She blushed till her spot turned purple.
My granddad, a liar on Monday, was a hero by Friday. “Forget it,” I said as if I forgave her. But I’d never forgive her one thing. Because of her, I spent my last hours with my granddad thinking he was a liar.
Saturday was a home game against Sunderland – hometown of the Bald Assassin, Granddad’s old enemy. A story went round that Pop Robson was in the crowd. Before kick-off the announcer called for a minute’s applause in memory of Jack Macdonald … my granddad. It rumbled like thunder and shook the tears out of my eyes till they splashed onto the seat in front of me.
Shelby won the game – of course – with a lot of luck. After the final whistle, Dad said, “They reckon ghosts visit their favourite people before they pass on. I guess today was your granddad’s final visit.”
I shrugged. I didn’t think so.
The old footballer had heard another final whistle, another place, another time.
