Football
SANDRA AND I WALKED INTO TOWN. We were going to see Chelmsford City play.
No one we knew was about; the interesting people had all gone to Clacton, where there was supposed to be a mods and rockers battle on the beach. But then opposite the Orpheus, sitting on the back of Jeff’s Lambretta, looking cool in his bottle-green suede, was Mick Flynn.
‘Watcha Mick,’ Sandra called.
‘Sandra!’ Mick said. ‘I’d know that foghorn voice anywhere.’
‘Where you off to?’ she said, as we crossed the road.
‘We are going down Clacton, my dear,’ Mick said.
Jeff looked up from where he was tinkering with the front wheel.
‘Funny time to go to the seaside,’ Sandra said. ‘Won’t it all be over?’
‘It’s never over,’ Mick said. ‘I’m going to pick up the pieces, and if we hurry, we’ll catch ourselves a plate of fish and chips and a couple of girls to kiss-me-quick on the pier.’
‘Seen Tap?’ she said. I pinched her.
‘He’s never much of a one for a bundle on the beach. But if I do see him I’ll tell him you were asking.’
‘It’s not for me, it’s for Linda here.’
‘Hello, Linda,’ Mick said. ‘All right?’ He wrapped his coat round himself, Jeff revved the scooter, kicked the stand and, waving in our direction, they swooped away.
Suddenly the street was quiet.
‘See what I do for you?’ Sandra said.
‘But it’s embarrassing.’
‘Mick doesn’t care.’
*
Chelmsford City football ground was quite full, compared to most weeks, because it was the last game of the season and Chelmsford were playing Yeovil, who’d won the league the year before. Sandra and I walked through the park, paid our money and passed through the turnstile. We wove our way through the Chelmsford fans – groups of old men with scarves and flat caps standing on the terraces, smoking roll-ups, with the Daily Mirror sticking out of their pockets; some dads with little boys with caps on, and mods from the Orpheus in parkas and Crombie overcoats. It was a cold afternoon, and the sky was filled with grey clouds, threatening rain at any minute. A group of Yeovil supporters huddled together at the far end.
We were standing with boys from Sandra’s old school, but Sandra was hoping that Danny would turn up, which was always a possibility, she said. Ray and a few of his mates leaned against the concrete and corrugated iron wall at the top of the steps behind the goal. We’d said hello to them on the way in, and I was conscious of Ray behind us throughout the first half.
At half-time Sandra wandered off to look for Danny. Five minutes later she returned with a thin, scruffy man with greased-back hair.
‘This is Peter,’ she said, almost triumphantly. ‘He’s Sylvie’s uncle.’
‘You’re kidding,’ I said.
‘This is Linda,’ Sandra said.
He looked me up and down.
‘Where did you meet him?’ I said to Sandra.
‘He just jumped out at me,’ Sandra said. ‘He thought I was you.’
‘Cheek,’ we said together. There was a pause. Sandra was looking at me as if I was the person whose job it was to say something.
‘Do you know what the score is?’ I said.
He roared with laughter, and the sour smell of beer on his breath was smothering. ‘That’s a fine thing,’ he said. ‘You go to a fancy school and you can’t tell the score in a football match. What do they teach you?’
‘Not to drink before dark,’ I said. I didn’t mind smelling beer on a Saturday night, with my friends, when we were all having a good time at the Corn Exchange, when the smell was fresh and almost sweet, but here, with him – he had to be over thirty and it was only ten to four – I didn’t like it.
‘I hear you’re a friend of my niece Sylvia.’ He made a face.
‘Sylvie’s very nice,’ I said. I wasn’t going to say anything bad about Sylvie to a man in an ancient car coat with a button missing and oil stains down the front. ‘She’s very interesting. She knows a lot.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘And she’s been to a lot of interesting places.’
‘You what? Like where?’
‘Paris.’
‘Come off it. She ain’t even got a passport.’ He grinned. One of his side teeth was missing. ‘She’s never been anywhere apart from Wethersfield air base. She ain’t right in the head.’
‘She’s been under a lot of stress. From her relations,’ I added under my breath.
‘Stress? That’s the first time I heard it called that. She’s been under a lot of things, darling, particularly Yanks, but stress, well, that’s a new one on me.’
‘You obviously don’t understand Sylvie,’ I said.
‘And I suppose you do? That makes sense – she thinks she’s Brigitte Bardot, and your dad thinks he’s Lord of the Manor. Oh, and your mum thinks she’s the Virgin Mary.’
It was like a punch in the stomach, though I’d never been punched before. I gasped and stared at him. Was this what people thought about my mum and dad? I was having trouble breathing. ‘Yeah, well, you’re not Pope Pius, from what I heard.’
He stepped towards me. ‘Yeah, and what have you heard?’
I hadn’t heard anything. His face and his breath were two inches from my nose.
‘I don’t have to hear anything,’ I said. ‘I can smell it.’ I gazed at him, trying to keep my breathing under control.
Peter stretched out his long thin dirty fingers and with a pointed black nail he flicked me. Then he did it again! I stepped back a pace and tripped on a step. Sandra said ‘Hey!’ as she caught me. I wanted her to say something funny, like, ‘Seconds out!’ or ‘You can’t fight here, you haven’t got your gumshields in’, to make it feel less threatening.
‘What are you playing at?’ I shouted. ‘These steps are concrete. Someone could get hurt.’
‘Yes,’ Sandra said, ‘and that person could be you!’ She poked him in the stomach.
Sandra and I stood side by side. Peter’s face twisted into a grin. ‘Oh, got your friend to protect you now, have you?’ he leered.
Sandra laughed.
Someone came up behind me. ‘Watcha, Frenchy. Ready for the second half?’ It was Ray. ‘They’re coming back onto the pitch. All right, mate?’ he said to Peter.
Peter eyed Ray. ‘What’s your fucking problem?’
Ray looked at me and Sandra, then back at Peter. ‘Sounds like you’re the one with the problem.’
Peter swayed gently, his lips still curled in a sneer. No one said anything. Ray stood beside me, tense. Peter moved back and Ray straightened as if he expected Peter to throw a punch. Something had to be done. I opened my mouth.
‘Your flies are undone,’ I said to Peter.
His head snapped down. I turned away and walked up the steps. Ray followed and Sandra trailed behind. At the top we began to walk round the perimeter of the ground.
‘It’s all right,’ Sandra said. ‘We don’t have to walk to Witham. He’s gone. And I’ve got the wrong shoes on.’
We stopped near the drinks stand. ‘What was all that about?’ Ray said. ‘I come over to talk to you and I’m in the middle of a fight.’
‘It was nothing. He was being rude about Sylvie, you know, Mrs Weston in the shop – her daughter.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him.’
‘But all those things he said about my dad. And my mum! I don’t even know him.’
‘Forget it. He probably votes Conservative. You gave him as good as you got. Better.’
We stood together till the end of the match. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Peter had said. He’d been so rude. I wasn’t used to that.
Sometimes Ray put his arm round me, sometimes he took out a cigarette and smoked. My stomach gradually relaxed. It was nice to be with him. At the end of the game he said, ‘I’ll walk you up to the bus station in case he’s still around.’
It felt good, walking through the park in the middle of the crowd, knowing I’d stood up to a bully, and being with someone who wanted to be with me. He kept his arm lightly round my shoulders and tried to explain why a corner was better than a free kick. Even being bored was comfortable. For today, I could like this.
As we approached the bus station Sandra said, ‘Wonder who’s in Snows?’ Snows was the other coffee bar that mods went to – especially ones without scooters because it was handy for the bus station, being directly opposite. I could see Blond Don sitting astride a shiny Lambretta, chatting to some lads from Kelvedon. A group of other people were leaning against a bottle-green Mini, Tap’s Mini. I saw Tap. He looked up as we drew level. I could see him looking at me and then at Ray. My shoulders sagged. I wished Ray’s arm wasn’t there.
Tap strolled across the road. ‘Watcha,’ he said.
‘Watcha Tap,’ said Sandra, but he didn’t look at her.
Tap was staring at me. ‘Nice Fred Perry,’ he said.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
His eyes slid across to Ray. Then he glanced back at me. ‘I see,’ he said and turned and crossed back to his car. He said something and people laughed. I wanted to run after him and say, ‘What do you see? And what was so funny? This isn’t what it looks like.’ But something stopped me. Up till a minute ago I’d liked Ray’s arm round me. And anyway, what would Tap say if I did go over to him? He was still laughing.
The driver of the 311 was climbing into his cab. Ray, Sandra and I all got on the bus. We went upstairs. Sandra walked to the front, Ray and I sat at the back and Ray paid my fare. As we passed the boys’ grammar school, he said, ‘You’re not still thinking about that bloke, are you?’
‘Which one?’
‘The one at the football . . . Oh, you’re thinking about that fella, Tap. What was that about?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why was he looking at you like that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is there something I should know?’ he said.
‘No!’ I said, thinking, it was just a Fred Perry. I didn’t even kiss him.
‘You sure? The way he looked at me, I thought there was going to be another fight. Blimey, the people you hang about with!’
‘What do you mean?’
He hesitated. ‘People in the Orpheus, Tap, Danny Mulroney. That bloke at the match.’
‘I don’t know that bloke at the match. But you go into town. You know that lot too.’
‘I’m just saying. You should be careful. Some of them are . . . tricky.’
‘Don’t you start.’ I knew he was right, but I didn’t need him to tell me. ‘They’re just friends. They’re not going to be my friends for the rest of my life.’ As I said it I felt I was being disloyal to Tap. He’d given me a Fred Perry. I hadn’t even said a proper thank you.
‘No, but it’s now. They’re, they’re . . .’
‘What? They’re what?’
‘I’m just saying. Tap is the person people go to for their pills.’
‘Well, I don’t take drugs.’ I was getting hot.
‘I didn’t say you did, but –’
‘And who are you? My dad?’
‘No, no.’
‘So where should I go? Down Baddow Road in the Long Bar with the rockers? Is that where you go?’
‘No, no. I’m just – just concerned about you.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t be!’ I shouted. I didn’t know what to say. He was talking about my friends, Sandra’s friends. He was here and Tap wasn’t. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘I think I got on the bus with the wrong person. This is my stop.’ I stood up and rang the bell and ran down the stairs. Sandra called out, ‘Linda!’ The bus stopped opposite First Avenue and I jumped off, pushing through the queue waiting to board.
Sandra was standing at the next bus stop, by Sunrise Avenue. ‘What’s going on? I paid to go to Sperry Drive,’ she said. ‘Ray was going to get off, but I told him I’d sort it out.’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘He was going on about Tap.’
‘I’m not surprised, Tap looked ready to punch him.’
I still couldn’t believe it. ‘I don’t think he would have done, he was wearing his nice suede. I don’t know who Ray thinks he is.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said I – we – should watch out.’ Now I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell her he’d included Danny. I didn’t want her to hate him. ‘He said people who go down the Orpheus are tricky.’
‘That’s why we like them,’ said Sandra.
‘Yes,’ I said. I knew what Ray meant and I knew what Sandra meant, and I didn’t know what to think.