Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

  The lady opens her mouth, then closes it again.

  ‘I’d better not talk any more,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to wake my brother up. He’s really tired.’

  Which is true. On the way to the airport we had to go to the gala opening of one of the club superstores. Ken made us all pose for the TV cameras, and Matt got asked lots of questions by reporters. I could tell he found it exhausting, even though I answered most of them.

  The lady pats my head and hurries away.

  ‘You OK, Bridie?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  He’s taken his headphones off and he leans towards me across the aisle.

  ‘Are we there yet?’ he whispers.

  We both grin. And suddenly I want to confide in him how I’m feeling a bit anxious. This is an incredible opportunity and everything, but I’m worried about Matt. The pressure on him. What if the leg pains he had last year come back? When he’s got them, he doesn’t even like going to school, let alone England.

  Uncle Cliff listens carefully. He nods and you feel he really understands. He must have been a great person to take a faulty toaster back to.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says. ‘It is a big responsibility for Matt.’

  ‘But luckily,’ says a voice on the other side of me, ‘I’ve got a really good manager.’

  I turn round.

  Matt is awake.

  ‘And a fairly good uncle,’ he says.

  We all grin.

  Suddenly I don’t feel anxious any more. I’m remembering how brave and determined Matt can be. When I was three he saved me from a snake. It was only a jelly one, but still. I was choking and he reached into my mouth and pulled it out with his bare hands. There was sick in there and everything.

  Matt goes back to his usual expression, which is serious.

  ‘I want to do it for Mum and Dad,’ he says. ‘They’ve worked their bums off for years and years to give us a good life, including weekends. And look what life gave them. So they deserve some good stuff.’

  I nod.

  I’m feeling too emotional to say anything, so I just give Matt a look. So he can see I’m feeling the same as him.

  Millions of pounds won’t bring back what our family’s lost, but at least Mum and Dad won’t have to work overtime any more.

  We’ll do it.

  If it’s humanly possible, we will.

  Uncle Cliff gives us both a high-five.

  ‘Team Sutherland,’ he says, which is very generous because his name’s McGuffin.

  I glance across at Ken. He’s still on his laptop with his headphones on. Pity he’s missing this. He’s probably still thinking of Matt as just a photo opportunity. Rather than a match-winning goal-scoring genius.

  The flight starts to be more fun, even with fifteen hours to go.

  First me and Matt and Uncle Cliff make a list of all the famous footballers we hope Matt will play with. Because that means we’ll meet them.

  Then we stretch our legs at Singapore airport, which has about a hundred kilometers of carpet. We find a quiet bit, and Matt and Uncle Cliff have a kick-around with a business-class toilet bag.

  Back on the plane we discover that the entertainment system has some really good soccer matches, and me and Matt work out how to get football on our screens and relaxing music on our headphones at the same time.

  I doze a bit. Whenever I open my eyes there are beautiful midfield build-ups on the screen, all elegant and flowing like when Dad unpacks a four-bedroom house.

  Each time someone scores a goal, I imagine it’s Matt.

  Because soon it will be.

  If you ever fly to England, try to have a top Premier League soccer club do all the travel arrangements.

  They’re really thoughtful. They get everyone a passport and give your uncle special elastic socks so his ankles don’t swell up on the plane. And when you get to London airport they have a big car waiting with a driver.

  Ken gets in the front, and me and Matt and Uncle Cliff sit in the back and just stare at the TV screens and leather seats and the strips of shiny luxury wood on the inside of the doors. I’ve never seen wood in a car before, except on our way home from the hardware store.

  Then we all fall asleep. (Not the driver.)

  When we wake up, Ken is leaning over from the front seat shaking Uncle Cliff’s knee.

  ‘Wakey, wakey,’ he’s saying. ‘Here’s your digs.’

  That must be English for hotel.

  I peer out the car window. I can’t see a hotel. Or a motel or even a caravan park. We’re in a street completely full of old-looking houses. Tall ones all joined together.

  The car stops outside a house with a dark green hedge in front of it. The top of the hedge has been clipped into unusual shapes.

  ‘Judas H amazing,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Soccer balls.’

  ‘Everybody out,’ says Ken. ‘Come and meet Mrs Jarvis.’

  Outside the car it’s freezing. Ken warned us about this before we left. Luckily our local op-shop had some old ski clothes. I zip my jacket up and make sure Matt’s scarf is tucked in all round his neck. I can see Matt wishes he was wearing an old leather motorbike jacket like Uncle Cliff instead of a tangerine ski parka.

  As we go through the gate, the front door opens. A pretty lady with short dark hair smiles at us. She mustn’t feel the cold because she’s only wearing a white shirt and jeans.

  ‘Come in,’ she says. ‘Make yourselves at home.’

  Inside the house it’s warm. We take our coats off and introduce ourselves to Mrs Jarvis.

  ‘Nice hair,’ she says to Uncle Cliff.

  I’ve never seen Uncle Cliff blush before. He’s very proud of his hair. Specially the little blue feathers I gave him for his birthday.

  ‘Keith Richards,’ says Mrs Jarvis.

  That’s the name of Uncle Cliff’s favourite person in the Rolling Stones.

  Uncle Cliff beams, and I can see he’s feeling at home already.

  Mrs Jarvis takes us into a room with a fire burning in a fireplace and a table covered with breakfast things.

  ‘Bacon and eggs for everyone?’ she says.

  While she goes to get it, Ken explains that a lot of the youth academy boys from overseas live in digs like Mrs Jarvis’s place. So their health and diet and bedtimes can be supervised by specially trained people like Mrs Jarvis.

  I look around the room. It’s different to an Australian room. The ceiling is really high up. Probably so the youth academy kids, when the weather’s bad, can practise headers indoors.

  Ken also explains that we’re staying here instead of in a hotel because it’s got better photo opportunities for the media. Makes us look like we’re part of the club family.

  ‘Which you are,’ says Ken. ‘For example, today one of our club’s most famous players has invited you to his place for afternoon tea.’

  Ken says the famous player’s name, but I’m not going to repeat it because a good manager respects privacy.

  But you’d know it.

  My head is buzzing, partly because I’m very sleepy and partly at the thought of meeting such a huge star in person. If anyone can give Matt hints about how to get into the team, he’ll be able to. And tell Matt what type of wallet is best when you earn two hundred thousand pounds a week.

  Mrs Jarvis comes back with a tray of bacon and eggs.

  ‘Pop this into you,’ she says. ‘Then you can have a little snooze before your outing this afternoon.’

  She smiles at Matt.

  ‘At least you won’t have any trouble getting to sleep,’ she says. ‘Not like the other poor loves I’ve had staying here. Those academy boys get so stressed about impressing the club I have to put them on a hot milk drip.’

  ‘Sounds very nice,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘You can hook me up any time.’

  Mrs Jarvis gives him a look.

  ‘It’s a figure of speech, Cliff,’ she says. ‘If you put somebody on a hot milk drip their blood coagulates and they go into vascular trauma.’

 
‘Sorry,’ says Uncle Cliff.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Mrs Jarvis, looking more cheerful. ‘This is nice. You’re here on a fun holiday without a care in the world, and you can just relax.’

  After she goes out to get more toast, me and Matt swap a look.

  If only she knew how wrong she was.

  I’ve read a few soccer star biographies, and they usually have stuff that makes ordinary people jealous. Humungous houses and million-dollar cars and hat-tricks at Wembley and cures for asthma in very expensive spa resorts.

  There’s a bit of that here in the soccer star’s house where we’ve come for afternoon tea.

  A waterfall, for example. Indoors. On purpose, not just because a toilet’s blocked upstairs.

  And a lift.

  And a cinema.

  And a swimming pool in the basement.

  ‘Judas H amazing,’ says Uncle Cliff, staring up at the waterfall.

  A phone on the wall buzzes.

  The soccer star’s wife picks it up, listens to it, and presses a button. She grabs a remote, opens the blinds and peers out of one of the huge windows.

  In the distance, a car is coming up the very long driveway.

  ‘Media’s here,’ says the soccer star’s wife, checking her reflection in a shiny painting.

  She doesn’t need to worry. She looks very beautiful. Specially her hair, which is even more carefully done than Uncle Cliff’s.

  Ken, who brought us here, heads towards the door.

  ‘I’ll go and meet them, Terrine,’ he says to the soccer star’s wife. ‘Just a bit of filming. Won’t take long, I promise.’

  Terrine looks around the big living room.

  ‘Where’s Gazz?’ she says, sounding a bit annoyed.

  I’m not sure who Gazz is. Her dog? Her personal assistant? Then I realise it must be her nickname for her soccer star husband. I don’t know why she calls him that. His name isn’t Garry, or Gareth, or Garibaldo. Well, maybe his middle name is.

  ‘I bet he’s out on that blessed pitch,’ says Terrine.

  She presses another button on the remote, and more blinds open on the other side of the room.

  ‘Judas H,’ says Uncle Cliff. He’s so stunned he can’t even finish the sentence. I know how he feels.

  Outside, right next to the house, is a soccer pitch. Not a normal backyard one with a garden path down one side and a clothes hoist in the middle.

  A full-size one.

  With full-size goals.

  And floodlights.

  And hundreds of balls all over it.

  Up one end a man in a silver tracksuit is taking penalties. One after another. Banging them in. It doesn’t look too hard because there’s no goalie. Standing in the goal there’s just a statue that looks ancient Greek or something.

  ‘Come and meet Gazz,’ says Terrine.

  We walk across the pitch, which is made of real grass. As we get closer, Gazz, or as you would know him, one of the most famous footballers in the world, turns and looks at us.

  ‘Allo,’ he says. ‘Who are you?’

  It really is him. I’m feeling a bit faint and I can’t actually speak. I can see Matt and Uncle Cliff are the same.

  ‘Ken brought them,’ says Terrine. ‘Superstores in Australia, remember?’

  Oh, yeah,’ says Gazz. ‘Wotcha.’

  While we all struggle to say g’day, Gazz drags the statue out of the goal.

  ‘You play?’ he says to Uncle Cliff.

  ‘Just a bit of drums,’ mumbles Uncle Cliff.

  Gazz gives him a look, then chuckles.

  ‘Shame,’ he says. ‘Elton John was here last week.’

  I take a deep breath and try to stay calm. My heart wants to leap out of my chest and do joyful cartwheels down the pitch. Not because of Elton John. Because I’ve just noticed something.

  Gazz isn’t that chunky.

  He’s more muscly than Matt, but in no way is he mega-chunky. So it is possible to be a Premier League star without being two hundred kilos of beef.

  ‘My brother Matt plays soccer,’ I say. ‘He’s very good.’

  ‘Is that right?’ says Gazz, looking at Matt. ‘Alright nipper, in goal.’

  I start to explain that Matt isn’t really a goalie, but Gazz dribbles a ball away down the pitch. Matt goes in goal. Gazz does a few shots. Matt throws himself at each ball, but they all get past him.

  ‘Good try,’ says Gazz to Matt each time.

  ‘He’s not really a goalie,’ I say.

  But Gazz doesn’t hear me. He’s distracted by Ken arriving with the media, who are a man with a video camera and a woman with a microphone on a pole.

  ‘This is for Australian TV,’ Ken explains to Gazz.

  ‘Righty-o,’ says Gazz. ‘We’d better see our Aussie in action then.’ He turns to Matt. ‘Me in goal, you on penalties.’

  ‘Actually,’ says Matt, ‘can I do some long shots?’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ says Gazz, jiggling up and down between the goal posts and giving Ken a wink.

  Matt pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket and hands it to me. He always does that when he’s planning to do some big kicks.

  He takes a ball halfway towards the middle of the pitch. Then he turns and shoots. The ball misses the goal by miles.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Matt.

  I think his legs might be a bit stiff after the flight. Metal leg pins can do that. But I don’t say anything. If the club finds out he’s got metal in his legs, even a tiny bit, they might not give him a fair go.

  ‘He’s nervous,’ I say to Gazz. ‘We’ve never played with goal nets before.’

  ‘Come closer,’ calls Gazz to Matt. ‘Give yourself a chance.’

  Matt moves a ball two steps closer to the goal and shoots. Gazz doesn’t move. He doesn’t think he needs to. Then he realises he should have done. The ball’s in the back of the net.

  ‘Woah,’ says Gazz to Uncle Cliff. ‘What you been feeding him?’

  Uncle Cliff thinks about this.

  ‘Bacon and eggs,’ he says. ‘And we had some pork and pistachio paté on the plane.’

  ‘Shall I do more?’ says Matt, lining up another ball.

  ‘Bring it on,’ says Gazz, really concentrating now, crouching and flexing his shoulders.

  Matt does six more shots. Gazz does some really spectacular dives, but he doesn’t touch the ball once.

  I’m hoping that with each goal Matt scores, Gazz will be more and more impressed. It’s not working out that way. He’s getting more and more irritated.

  Gazz picks himself up for the sixth time and rubs his neck.

  ‘We need a new bed,’ he says to Terrine. ‘That water bed’s doing my back in.’

  Terrine doesn’t look like she agrees. I need to be a manager quickly.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Let’s play blindfold penalties.’

  Ken frowns.

  ‘I think we’ve got enough on video,’ he says, looking nervously at Gazz.

  ‘Blindfold penalties?’ says Gazz. ‘I haven’t played that since I was nine.’

  ‘This has been lovely,’ says Ken. ‘Thanks for having us, Terrine. We’ll get out of your hair now.’

  ‘Hang on,’ says Gazz. ‘Few more minutes won’t hurt.’

  Ken gives in. Me and Matt and Gazz show the others how blindfold penalties work. After a bit, Terrine wants a go. And the cameraman.

  We play it for ages and have lots of fun.

  Then, after Terrine scores a hat-trick and does a bit of dancing around, she looks at her watch.

  ‘Blimey,’ she says. ‘We’re late for drinks with the Beckhams.’

  Suddenly everyone is saying goodbye and packing up.

  This is my last chance.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say to Gazz. ‘Do you think Matt’s good enough to play in the Premier League? You know, one day?’

  Gazz doesn’t say anything at first. He looks over at Matt like Matt’s a new waterfall he’s just installed and he’s not sure about.

&nbs
p; ‘Got talent,’ says Gazz. ‘But scouting isn’t really my area. Best talk to the people at the academy.’

  ‘Let’s go there now,’ I say to Ken, in a voice that is perhaps a bit too pushy for a visitor.

  Ken shakes his head.

  ‘We’ve done enough for today,’ he says.

  Gazz frowns thoughtfully.

  ‘Few shots at the youth academy wouldn’t be bad,’ he says. ‘Give you more, you know, like, you know . . . ’

  ‘Visual variety,’ says the cameraman.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Gazz.

  I don’t exactly know what that means, but I can see Ken does, because he sighs.

  ‘Alright,’ says Ken. ‘But we’ll have to make it quick.’

  I’ve never met Gazz before. I don’t know him personally at all. And ordinary people like me are meant to keep our distance from big stars.

  So I don’t give him a hug.

  But if things work out like I’m hoping, and in a few years I write Matt’s soccer star biography, I’m going to give Gazz a very big thank you.

  In the car on the way to the training centre, Matt is very quiet.

  ‘You OK?’ I say.

  ‘I want to get Mum and Dad a house like that,’ Matt says. ‘With a waterfall.’

  I look at him.

  He means it. I feel a jab of worry. I don’t think we should be planning a new house just yet. Not without checking with Mum and Dad.

  ‘Waterfalls probably take a lot of looking after,’ I say.

  ‘In a drought,’ says Uncle Cliff, ‘you’d have to use lemonade.’

  Matt doesn’t say anything. I think he knows Uncle Cliff is joking. Maybe not.

  ‘There are only four of us,’ I say. ‘So we wouldn’t really need nine bedrooms.’

  ‘And a six-car garage is a bit of a waste,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Unless your dad gets his own removal truck and wants to park it on its side.’

  Matt still doesn’t say anything. Which is not like him. He’s not the chattiest person in the world, but he usually can’t resist having a go at Uncle Cliff when Uncle Cliff’s being a prawn.

  I’m tempted to give Matt a tickle. Just to relieve the stress. But before I can, we arrive at the training centre.

  It’s huge.

  We all gape through the car window.

  There are loads of modern buildings and loads and loads of soccer pitches.