Extra Time

by Morris Gleitzman

  While I’m doing that, and Ayo is flicking some of the rude ones with a towel, I notice that Matt isn’t in the changing room yet, so I hurry outside to find him.

  He’s over by the pitch talking to Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis. Terrine is with them, but not Gazz.

  ‘Hi Bridie,’ says Terrine. ‘I’ve been hearing how well Matt’s doing.’

  ‘The trainers are very happy,’ says Mrs Jarvis.

  ‘Pure rock ’n’ roll,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘Home-sickness, constipation, nothing slows him down.’

  Matt looks a bit embarrassed. I don’t blame him.

  ‘Thanks for the tea the other day, girls,’ Terrine says to me and Mrs Jarvis. ‘Got to choof now. We’ve got fourteen for dinner and one of them’s a royal.’

  We say goodbye and watch Terrine get into her yellow Lamborghini.

  Matt can’t take his eyes off it.

  I bet he’s thinking of buying one for Mum. I know she wouldn’t want it. Not if it cost her the only son she’s got left. I reckon if she knew, she’d say I’m doing the right thing here.

  I hope.

  ‘Poor Terrine,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Gazz sends her down here to check up on the trainees. Make sure none of them looks like taking his job this week.’

  ‘Gazz sounds really stressed,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I should offer to lend him my iPod. It’s got some really relaxing Grateful Dead on it.’

  ‘What Terrine really wishes,’ I say, ‘is that Gazz could rediscover the joyful spirit of the beautiful game. And play football as football should be played. Like he used to, growing up on his council estate.’

  I think I got all the words in the right order.

  I look at Matt.

  Matt doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Which is a coincidence,’ I say. ‘I was just talking to Ayo and he grew up on a council estate.’

  Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis give me a look.

  ‘Sort of a council estate,’ I say. ‘It was more like an African village really, but Ayo’s very keen to have a game on the estate here. I think he’s feeling lonely being so far from home.’

  ‘Nice kids on that estate,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘He’ll have fun.’

  Matt is frowning.

  ‘It’s against the rules,’ he says.

  Mrs Jarvis gives Matt the sort of look she often gives Uncle Cliff.

  ‘Matt,’ she says. ‘Breaking rules is like breaking wind. You don’t do it all the time, but occasionally you have to.’

  Uncle Cliff gazes at her. He’s definitely in love.

  Mrs Jarvis leans towards Matt and speaks in a whisper.

  ‘I’m not meant to make fishcakes,’ she says. ‘They’re not on the club diet. But I do because Mr Merchant likes me to bring them in for him sometimes.’

  She gives Matt a naughty grin.

  Matt looks doubtful for a moment, then grins back.

  When we arrive at the council estate, there are about ten kids already having a kick-around.

  I get out of the car first. Lola is pleased to see me and wants me to go in goal again, which is really nice of her.

  ‘Not today, thanks,’ I say.

  For a moment I think Lola is going to argue, but then she meets Matt and Ayo and gets distracted.

  I’m feeling too stressed to go in goal. I know I’m not a manager any more, but sometimes it’s just as stressful being a sister. Specially when you’re trying to save your brother and he doesn’t even want to be saved.

  While Uncle Cliff gives some of the estate kids high-up handshakes to show how friendly we Aussies are, Mrs Jarvis gives me a quick squeeze.

  ‘You’ve done all you can,’ she says. ‘It’s up to Matt now.’

  I know she’s right. But I wish there was an easier way of saving him. Hypnotism or something.

  The game starts up again with Matt and Ayo playing one on each side.

  Matt starts having fun almost straight away.

  Me and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis grin at each other. It’s so good seeing Matt doing cartwheels down the whole length of the council estate pitch after the goal he set up was booted in by a boy in a Chelsea shirt. Who’s blowing him kisses.

  A couple of times Ayo forgets the difference between a game and a match and grabs other kids’ shirts. Uncle Cliff gives him a whistle from the sideline and Ayo remembers and lets go and says sorry.

  When Ayo is relaxed, he plays really well. Skilful and fast. Not as skilful and fast as Matt, but almost. I can see why he was the top under-fifteen player before Matt came along.

  It’s starting to get dark.

  The estate kids don’t seem to care. They play on in the gloom. When they can’t see the ball or each other, they just laugh more.

  Uncle Cliff turns the car headlights on and aims them towards the pitch.

  ‘Thanks,’ yells a boy in an army greatcoat.

  He gets tackled by Ayo. Who gets tackled by Matt. Good clever tackling without any holding, turning or elbows.

  Which is why the angry car horn we hear, loud and going on and on, seems a bit out of place.

  ‘Who’s that?’ says Mrs Jarvis, peering at a pair of headlights flashing towards us.

  I recognise the vehicle. Mr Nkrumo’s minibus.

  It drives off the road and onto the pitch, horn still blaring angrily.

  ‘Hey,’ yells Uncle Cliff. ‘We’re having a game here.’

  The minibus stops in the middle of the pitch and Mr Nkrumo gets out. He yells at Ayo. Ayo stares at him, shoulders slumping. Mr Nkrumo yells even more angrily. Stuff about how Ayo is a very stupid boy. Ayo walks slowly over to the minibus. Mr Nkrumo pushes him inside, glares at us, gets in and drives away.

  As the minibus revs past us, I see Ayo’s sad face against the glass, his eyes closed.

  We’re all a bit stunned.

  ‘Is it his bedtime?’ says one of the younger boys.

  I can see Matt looking concerned. About Ayo, but maybe also wondering if he’s being a stupid boy himself.

  ‘Come on,’ I say to them all. ‘Don’t let dopey old Mr Nkrumo spoil the fun.’

  ‘That’s right,’ says Uncle Cliff. ‘I’ll have a word with him at training tomorrow. Tell him he’s not doing Ayo any favours, behaving like a prawn.’

  Mrs Jarvis doesn’t say anything.

  She keeps glancing down the street in the direction the minibus took. I know how she feels.

  Poor Ayo.

  ‘Come on, Matt,’ says Lola. ‘Your sister’s right. Play on.’

  Matt plays on. But it’s not the same.

  He tries to be fair. He doesn’t score for several minutes. And when he does it’s with his left foot. While he’s lying on the ground.

  ‘Yes,’ yells the boy in the Chelsea shirt, who’s happy because he’s on Matt’s side.

  ‘Fluke,’ yells the boy in the army coat, who’s not.

  ‘Matt,’ I say. ‘Time to change sides.’

  ‘Hang on,’ protests the boy in the Chelsea shirt. ‘We don’t change sides here.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ says the boy in the army coat. ‘When Liam used to play with us he changed sides all the time.’

  ‘He was three,’ says Lola. ‘He didn’t know what a side was.’

  All the other kids start arguing and nobody listens to me as I try to explain how changing sides is perfectly normal in Australia. Matt tries too, but they ignore him as well. The argument just gets worse, right up to the moment the yellow Lamborghini arrives.

  Then nobody says anything.

  We all just stare as the Lamborghini parks next to Uncle Cliff’s car.

  Me and Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis are a bit more prepared than the others for what happens next. So we don’t actually do any squeaks or say any Horns And Tail Hotel words when one of the most famous footballers in the world gets out of the Lamborghini with his beautiful girlfriend.

  ‘Flippin heck, Terrine,’ says Gazz. ‘It’s a bleedin’ estate.’

  ‘So what,’ says Terrine. ‘Don’t be rude.
Anyway, you had fun growing up on yours, you’re always telling journalists that.’

  Gazz isn’t sure what to say.

  He glances at Mrs Jarvis, who’s smiling at him.

  Then he sees all the open mouths and all the big eyes staring at him.

  ‘Allo, kids,’ he says.

  ‘Wotcha,’ Terrine says to the rest of us. ‘Thanks for suggesting this, Mrs J. It’s just what Gazz needs.’

  Gazz is walking onto the pitch, giving a car parts hole a wary kick.

  ‘You’d have to be well skilled to play on this,’ he says.

  ‘That’s lucky,’ says Terrine. ‘Cos you are.’

  Gazz flips the ball into the air with his foot and does some ball juggling with his knees, shoulders and head.

  ‘Come on then,’ he says to the kids. ‘Tackle me.’

  Nobody moves.

  ‘They don’t know whose side you’re on, you wally,’ says Terrine.

  The boy in the army coat clears his throat. He does it several times before any words come out.

  ‘We need an extra player on our side,’ he croaks.

  ‘Is that right?’ says Gazz.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Matt, stepping out from behind the other kids. ‘They do.’

  Gazz looks at Matt.

  ‘Allo, Nipper,’ he says. ‘So this is your secret, eh? This is where you get it all from. Dribbling round the old car parts, eh?’

  I can see Matt isn’t sure what to say.

  ‘Gazz,’ says Terrine. ‘Be nice.’

  ‘Given this one’ll be wearing my shirt in a few months,’ Gazz says, ruffling Matt’s hair, ‘I think I’m being very nice. OK, which way am I kicking?’

  The game starts again.

  At first nobody wants to tackle Gazz. Matt shows them how. Even I hold my breath the first time he does it. But an amazing thing happens. Gazz doesn’t mind. Well, he does, but not in a cross grown-up way. In a laughing kid way.

  Then Lola and the others tackle him too. You can see they can hardly believe what their feet are doing. But only for the first couple of minutes. Then it’s just a normal game, only with slightly more dazzling footwork and a couple of players who are a bit better than the others, but just as hopeless when they laugh too much.

  Uncle Cliff’s headlights start to fade, so Terrine switches theirs on instead.

  I’m not kidding, a Lamborghini lights up a soccer pitch better than the floodlights at Wembley stadium.

  Mrs Jarvis puts her arm round me, and Uncle Cliff puts his arm round her.

  The kids play on, giggling and falling about, with Gazz the biggest happiest kid of all and Matt not far behind.

  After a bit, Mrs Jarvis sighs and shakes her head.

  ‘Why would anyone give all this up,’ she murmurs, ‘for a measly two hundred thousand pounds a week?’

  Terrine nods sadly.

  I don’t think Uncle Cliff heard her, because a few minutes later, after he finishes cheering a goal, he turns to me.

  ‘This plan of yours is Judas H brilliant,’ he says. ‘Matt’s happier than a pig in porridge. Now he’s cheered up, I reckon he’ll crack a place in the first team before you can say fat wallet.’

  I don’t reply.

  I glance at Mrs Jarvis and Terrine. They don’t say anything either.

  But I can see we’re all hoping Uncle Cliff is wrong.

  ‘I reckon I’m right,’ says Uncle Cliff at training. ‘Matt’s a new bloke after that kick-around on the estate last night.’

  Mrs Jarvis gives him a look.

  ‘I don’t think he is, Cliff,’ she says. ‘It takes between two and seventeen years for the cells in the human body to be renewed, not one night.’

  Uncle Cliff gazes at her adoringly.

  I gaze at Matt miserably.

  The council estate kick-around didn’t work. Matt hasn’t gone back to his old self. He’s still grim-faced and training hard like he wants to be the one. Still holding and turning and elbowing as much as the others.

  He told me he enjoyed the kick-around, but he can’t do it again because it’ll make him soft.

  ‘Go, Matty,’ yells Uncle Cliff as Matt does a sliding tackle into somebody from behind.

  I don’t think Matt’s even noticed that Ayo isn’t at training today.

  ‘Aussie leg pins,’ says Uncle Cliff as Matt scrambles to his feet. ‘Best in the world.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Jarvis, squinting at something.

  She takes my arm and points at Mr Nkrumo’s minibus driving past.

  I catch a glimpse of Ayo in the back, eyes down, face miserable.

  ‘Ayo,’ I call.

  But he doesn’t hear me, and the bus zooms towards the exit gate.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I think it’s time I had another chat with Mr Merchant.’

  Uncle Cliff isn’t listening to her.

  ‘Don’t look,’ he says, wincing. ‘Matt just elbowed somebody in that really sensitive spot just inside the penalty area.’

  Too late.

  I saw it.

  This is a tragedy.

  And I don’t know what to do.

  Something’s happening that’s as unexpected as the chilli in Mrs Jarvis’s cheese and chilli omelette.

  The others are so busy they haven’t seen it yet.

  Mrs Jarvis is busy cooking Uncle Cliff an extra treat because he ate all his omelette. It’s a kipper, which is a kind of smoked fish with a flat face. Uncle Cliff is busy gazing at Mrs Jarvis like he is the kipper.

  Matt is busy flipping an egg between his feet.

  I’m busy gazing out the window wondering how I can get Matt back onto the estate for another chance at happiness.

  Which is how come I see it.

  ‘Oh,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Look at that.’

  At first I think she’s seen it as well. The big black car pulling up outside the house. But she’s talking about something else. The beads of chilli sweat running down the side of Uncle Cliff’s face.

  ‘It’s very black,’ says Mrs Jarvis.

  ‘I think it’s a Bentley,’ says Matt, who’s just seen the car.

  ‘I’m talking about Cliff’s perspiration,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Do you dye your hair, Cliff?’

  ‘Not dye exactly,’ says Uncle Cliff, mopping his face. ‘The box says it’s colour enhancement.’

  ‘Look,’ I say urgently, pointing out the window.

  Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis look.

  A uniformed driver is getting out of the big black car and coming to the house.

  We hurry to the front door.

  ‘Good morning,’ says the driver. ‘Mr Jean-Pierre Michel would like to see Miss Sutherland in his office as soon as possible.’

  We stare at him.

  I realise Miss Sutherland is me.

  ‘Have I got time to finish my kipper?’ says Uncle Cliff.

  We’re all in the car in about ten minutes. The driver says he doesn’t know what it’s about.

  ‘I just drive,’ he says. ‘And sometimes pick up Mr Michel’s duck sandwiches.’

  ‘Maybe the club wants you to be a mascot again,’ says Uncle Cliff to me.

  Mrs Jarvis gives him a look.

  I don’t say what I hope it’s about. How I hope the staff at the academy have noticed Matt doesn’t seem very happy. And how Jean-Pierre Michel is wondering if there’s anything he can do to help.

  ‘Yes,’ I’ll say. ‘There is something actually.’ Then I’ll ask him to please book us some plane tickets home immediatement, which is French for pronto.

  We arrive at the stadium.

  Jean-Pierre Michel’s secretary meets us and takes us to Mr Michel’s office.

  ‘Just the young lady,’ she says. ‘The rest of you please wait here.’

  While Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis and Matt sit in the outer office next to a cardboard cut-out of Gazz, the secretary takes me into the inner office.

  ‘Hello, Bridie,’ says Jean-Pierre Michel, standing up
and brushing crumbs off his suit. ‘Thanks for coming. Would you like a croissant or a brioche?’

  I think that’s food. I explain to him we’ve just had chilli omelette.

  Jean-Pierre Michel asks me to sit down. Then he tells me that last night the club played Ajax in the European Champions League and won four–nil. Which is the first match they’ve won in five weeks.

  I’m not sure what to say.

  It’s good and everything, but he didn’t have to bring me here to tell me that. I would have heard it on the news.

  ‘Best of all,’ says Jean-Pierre Michel, ‘we had a hat-trick. A wonderful return to form by a player who’s been seriously off-form for several months. A player who, the evening before, visited you and your brother. I think you know who I mean.’

  I’m still not sure what to say.

  Mr Michel must have found out about Gazz playing with the estate kids. Are me and Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis in trouble? Is Jean-Pierre Michel cross that his forty-three-million-pound player could have fallen into a car-part hole?

  He doesn’t look cross.

  While I’m feeling confused, Mr Michel comes round from behind his desk and sits in a chair next to mine.

  ‘The first time you were in this office,’ he says, ‘you told me about fun.’

  I remember. He wasn’t that impressed.

  ‘Tell me again,’ he says. ‘Tell me about fun. Because last night I saw that a certain player was having a lot of fun.’

  ‘Well,’ I say, and I take a deep breath and tell him about the council estate game, and the friendliness of it, and the no violence, and how much laughing there is, and how big Lola’s handbag is, and how much better people play when they’re happy.

  ‘And,’ I say, ‘if your stadium lights ever pack up, I’d use Lamborghinis.’

  Jean-Pierre Michel nods thoughtfully.

  ‘Of course,’ he says, almost to himself. ‘That’s where Gazz started out. Fun kick-arounds on a council estate.’

  ‘Everybody starts with fun kick-arounds,’ I say. ‘Every soccer star in the world was a kid once. Having fun. That’s why they want to do it as a job.’

  Jean-Pierre Michel thinks about this.

  ‘What about the ten million pounds a year?’ he says.

  ‘That’s good too,’ I say. ‘But not if you’re so worried and miserable that you can’t even enjoy a simple waterfall.’