by J M Gregson
Four of his team from Saturday were in the treatment room, receiving physiotherapy for knocks they had taken or strains they had aggravated. When he had started playing football almost thirty years ago with a small Scottish second division club, the treatment room had been a tiny place which reeked of embrocation, with a single washbasin and a cupboard containing elastic bandages and aspirins.
Now the corresponding place at Grafton Park looked like a hospital treatment room, with eight massage tables, heart monitors, and a variety of expensive medical machines designed to monitor players’ progress and to restore them to full fitness as quickly as possible whenever they were injured. It made good sense, when you were paying average Premiership players a million pounds a year and some of the stars more than twice as much as that. There were three players in here that might be fit for next Saturday’s match. Robbie would insist on them being fully fit by Thursday to be considered; intensive treatment might just make the difference
He glanced at his watch: time for his meeting with the club’s secretary. Though they were on good terms with each other and genuinely liked each other, Robbie always felt at a disadvantage in any sort of formal meeting with Darren Pearson. The secretary conducted meetings, formal and informal, all day. Some were merely with individual members of the non-footballing staff, who all answered to Pearson for their work, some with outsiders. Some were with large groups, some with tiny ones. The point as far as Robbie was concerned was that Pearson did this sort of thing all day, whereas for him sitting down for a formal exchange was a rarity, a necessary evil in a working day otherwise dominated by footballing considerations.
Among other talents he had, Pearson was an expert at giving nothing away unless he wanted to reveal it. He wanted to sound out Black to find whether he had heard any whispers about a change of ownership at the club, but he would do so subtly and in his own good time. Let the other man make the running whenever you could: give yourself the opportunity to size up the situation. In this case that was easy, because it was Black who had asked for this meeting, which had originally been scheduled for Friday.
‘What was it you wanted to talk about, Robbie?’
Black thought how very much at ease Pearson looked behind his desk, how uncomfortable he felt in the easy chair which had been allotted to him. He said rather desperately, ‘We’re almost safe from relegation now.’
‘Almost. I know that you more than anyone else won’t count your chickens too early, Robbie.’
‘I want to talk about what’s going to happen in the summer.’
Darren wondered in that moment whether he had heard something about the future ownership of the club. But he wouldn’t give anything away until he was certain. ‘Happen to the team? That is surely first and foremost your concern.’
‘It is. And I want to know about finance.’
‘Spoken like a true Scotsman. And it gladdens the heart of the club secretary to hear it. Some managers charge on and take no account of the financial position of their clubs.’
‘I’ve always been a realist. But I need all the money I can get to do my job. It gets more difficult every year to compete with the big boys.’
‘Indeed it does. I’ll do everything possible to secure you all the funds I can. I’ve always done that. But I don’t see it being easy, in the midst of a world recession.’ The usual caution: Darren could hear club secretaries in all but three of the ninety-two clubs playing league football uttering similar words, in the next few months.
‘Will we sell Ashley Greenhalgh?’
Darren smiled. ‘I wish I had a ten-pound note for every time I’ve been asked that over the last six months. In some respects, you’re better able to answer that question than I am. He has three years left on his contract. Will he want to go this summer?’
Robbie smiled back, so that for a moment they were friends united against a common enemy. ‘He’s a sensible lad, is Ashley – I wish all our other youngsters had their heads screwed on like him. The trouble is that his agent will be dangling offers in front of him, like the rest of his bloody tribe. But Ashley’s got enough sense to take good advice: it won’t be just a question of more money. My guess is that if one of the big four clubs comes in for him, he’ll go.’
‘That’s your answer, then. We’ve already had preliminary enquiries from both the Manchester clubs and from Liverpool. So far, we’ve always said we’re not interested in selling. But you know and I know that once a player decides he wants to go, it becomes a matter of getting the best price for Brunton Rovers.’
‘I think he’ll be sold.’
‘I agree with you. I think Ashley will decide it’s time for a move and our owner will decide it’s time to cash in on his asset.’
‘Will I get the money to spend on new players?’
That was the key question he had wanted to ask. That was why he had requested this meeting with Pearson and both of them knew it. ‘I hope so. I’ll be completely honest with you, Robbie. I don’t think anyone can really answer that except Jim Capstick. And I’m not sure he’d be prepared to give you an answer at this minute.’
‘Without Ashley Greenhalgh we’d have gone down this year. If he goes, I’ll have to spend wisely to replace him. I don’t mind that, it’s part of my job to back my judgement in the transfer market. But I’ll need the funds to buy: we’ve no young players of Ashley’s quality coming through the academy at the moment. I don’t think we’ve any youngsters who can hold down a place in the first team.’
‘You may need to put these arguments to Mr Capstick, in due course.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow, if he’ll see me. I need answers on this, as soon as possible. There are one or two managers I can chat to, before the transfer window opens. I’d rather do that than deal with agents.’
Pearson nodded. He liked Robbie Black and found him easy to work with. If he continued to be as successful as he’d been with Brunton Rovers, one of the big city clubs would be in for him, sooner rather than later. But Darren wanted to keep him here as long as possible. ‘I wouldn’t speak to him yet, if I were you.’
‘Why? You think he’ll say we can’t talk about anything until we’re sure relegation isn’t going to happen?’
‘I’m sure he would say that. And he’d probably be right. But there’s something else I think you should know. In strict confidence.’
‘What’s that?’ Robbie’s mind flew suddenly to those two suited men with briefcases he had seen with Pearson earlier. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Maybe nothing. Nothing immediate, I’m sure. And I wouldn’t want this to get to the players; we don’t want them unsettled by anything now that they’re on a good run. The chairman has asked me to reveal all the details of our financial situation to those blokes you saw with me earlier. They’re accountants operating on behalf of a third party. We have a legal duty to make this information available. It’s called “due diligence”. It allows anyone who is considering the purchase of a business to have access to everything they ask for, so that clever and unscrupulous operators can’t hide skeletons in the cupboard.’
‘He’s thinking of selling the club.’
‘You now know as much as I do, Robbie. Mr Capstick always plays his cards close to his chest. I expect in his position we’d do the same.’
‘I wouldn’t trust Jim Capstick as far as I could throw him.’
Pearson smiled grimly. He agreed with that, but he drew the line at outright criticism of his employer. ‘Nothing is going to happen quickly. Mr Capstick has assured me that any possible purchaser must have the long-term interests of the club at heart.’
‘Those blokes you’ve locked in the board room with the books aren’t football men. They don’t care a damn for Brunton Rovers. But they’ll settle the future of all of us.’
‘They’re merely gathering financial information, Robbie. It’s part of their job to be dispassionate about it. They’ll relay their findings to a third party. For all we know, they may not even make a recommendat
ion: that may not be part of their brief. Or whoever is employing them may decide that the figures do not make us an attractive proposition.’
‘I bet it will be someone with lots of money and fuckall knowledge of football!’ Black lapsed for a bitter moment into the language of the dressing room, then strove for decency. ‘This wouldn’t have happened in the days of Edward Lanchester. He loved the game and loved this club.’
Darren could have reminded the Scot that in those days the manager like his players would have earned a fraction of what he was being paid now. Instead he said firmly, if with a touch of regret, ‘Those days are gone, Robbie, and you know it. A smallish businessman with relatively modest means could never become chairman of his local club nowadays. Not if it’s a Premiership club, anyway.’
‘This will get out, you know. Not from me, but it will. The rumour factory will be busy within a week at the most.’
‘You’re almost certainly right. When “due diligence” is exercised, due secrecy goes to the wall. Too many people have to be consulted. Our bankers and our auditors have to know, for a start. It’s impossible to keep the lid on things for long.’
‘I hope Jim Capstick realizes that.’
‘Our chairman and owner isn’t a fool,’ said Darren Pearson with a tinge of bitterness. ‘He knows the score about most things.’
Tea with his future mother-in-law. A prospect calculated to fill brave men with gloom and less brave ones with fear. Yet Percy Peach was looking forward to tea with Agnes Blake with the happiest anticipation.
‘You said just tea,’ said Agnes a little nervously, as her daughter led Percy into the cottage. I’ve not got you a full meal – I’ve just done a bit of baking.’
Percy surveyed a table groaning under thinly cut sandwiches, home made scones, cherry buns, fruit cake and Victorian sponge trifle. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Mrs B. I’m only marrying your girl to get more of your cooking, if you want the real truth of it!’
‘Get off with you!’ Agnes giggled delightedly and slapped Percy’s sturdy shoulder. ‘But they used to say the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, when I was a girl, and if you’re hoping for that in our Lucy, you’ll be let down. As a cook, she’s a washout.’
More hilarity, only increased by Lucy Blake’s attempts at haughty disdain. ‘When you two adolescents have finished, we’re supposed to be talking about final arrangements for my wedding,’ she reminded them desperately. It wasn’t a subject she usually needed to raise, with her mother around.
‘All in good time, my impetuous darling,’ said Percy. ‘First of all, we must do justice to the culinary efforts of the lady of the house.’ He held out his arm at shoulder height to Agnes, who stretched her fingers to meet his and allowed herself to be led to the table, as though embarking upon a formal minuet at an eighteenth century ball.
Lucy Blake wondered how many years of such pantomimes she must anticipate, though not with the foreboding she pretended but with a certain lightness of heart. She would never dare to voice such sentimental slush, but it seemed to her quite miraculous that the only two people in the world whom she really loved should have taken to each other so readily.
It had its disadvantages, of course. It meant that they were able to outsmart her in too many decisions. It was this combination which had fixed her wedding for May when she had planned to leave it for at least another year whilst she got on with her career. She had got used to the idea now. She found to her surprise that she was quite looking forward to being married, though she couldn’t afford to admit that to either of her companions.
What she did say, as the putative bridegroom was enthusiastically demolishing a piece of fruit cake, was, ‘You still haven’t fixed on your best man.’
Percy finished his cake unhurriedly, aware that Agnes was looking at him even more expectantly than her daughter. ‘Not easy, for a man without real friends like me,’ he said gloomily.
‘Isn’t there one of your cricketing friends?’ said Agnes Blake hopefully. Any cricketer must to her mind be a man of suitably sterling character: she had some pleasantly old-fashioned views about the national summer game.
‘No one close enough, Mrs B,’ said Percy dolefully. ‘At least, no one whom I’d care to release upon unsuspecting bridesmaids.’
‘You have an exaggerated view of the innocence of country girls,’ said Lucy. ‘What about one of your golfing chums?’ She timed the question to provoke an indignant splutter from her mother, as she hastily set down her teacup.
Percy shook his head. ‘No one close enough as yet. Golfers haven’t the style and breadth of vision for this job. They tend to question my parentage every time I hole a long putt.’
‘What about a senior officer in the police force? Someone you’ve worked with for years?’ suggested Agnes Blake hopefully.
Percy shuddered. Lucy said, ‘That’s a thought, Percy. Chief Superintendent Tucker would do the job beautifully. He’d add the touch of gravitas which you don’t seem able to muster for yourself.’
Percy glared at her; there were limits to humour. ‘Tommy Bloody Tucker couldn’t even find the right church.’
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
Percy glanced from the young face to the older one. ‘There is one bloke I might use, though. But I’d need Mrs B’s approval first.’
‘And who is this mysterious and courageous person?’
Percy took a deep breath. ‘Clyde Northcott.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘I’m deadly serious.’
Agnes decided it was time to intervene. ‘So who is this person whom my daughter thinks cannot be a serious candidate?’
‘He’s a DC who works for Percy,’ said Lucy. ‘One of his protégés. Clyde was once a suspect in a murder case and a user and small-time supplier of cocaine. A man whom Percy recruited, first into the police service and a couple of years later into his CID team. A hard bastard.’
‘Language, our Lucy,’ said Percy primly.
‘That’s your own phrase for him. He’s a young man, mum, about twenty-four, I think. He’s six feet three and as tough as they come.’
‘Sounds like a hard bastard,’ said Agnes Blake reflectively. ‘And a reformed sinner. Well, from your description, he seems eminently well suited for the job. If he’s as tall and erect as you indicate, he might even bring a touch of added distinction to our old church.’
‘Oh, Clyde Northcott would stand out all right, Mrs B,’ said Percy. ‘He’s also very black indeed.’
‘Is that why you needed my approval?’
‘I suppose it is.’
Agnes sighed theatrically. It was always good to shock the young. ‘You disappoint me, Percy Peach. I didn’t think I would ever have to say that, but now I do. He will certainly add distinction to this occasion. He will set off my daughter’s pink and white complexion perfectly and probably be the star of the reception at Marton Towers.’ She drew herself very erect on her chair. ‘I look forward to making Mr Northcott’s acquaintance.’
Percy beamed fondly at her. ‘And Clyde will certainly think you are the cat’s whiskers with cream on, Mrs B!’
It was confession time at Gamblers Anonymous.
Darren Pearson listened to a quiet catalogue of successes from the rest of the group with increasing dismay. They were like smug participants in a Weight Watchers group who were boasting gleefully of losing a few pounds in weight, he thought sourly. The difference here was that the pounds lost by gamblers were monetary and deadly serious. It was going to be his turn soon at the end of the circle; he willed each of the three before him to confess to some falling by the wayside, even to the veniality of being sorely tempted, but none of them did.
It was his turn. He stared down at the threadbare carpet, bit back the irrelevant comment that it would have been better removed altogether. ‘I slipped up, this week. Went to the betting shop, the one I always use.’ He glanced at the counsellor in the middle of the group. ‘You’re right; we should cultivat
e the habit of walking past those places, concentrating on some other shop at the end of the street. I didn’t do that. I drove there specially to use the place.’ He piled on the detail, needing to lacerate himself, to expose the full squalor of his failure.
He paused for such a long time, sinking more deeply into his misery, that they thought he was not going to speak again. He was not sure where the gentle voice came from as it said, ‘How much did you stake, Darren?’
They did not use surnames here, though some of them knew each other as friends now from long acquaintance. He smiled a mirthless smile, staring still at the tired carpet, echoing its defeated state in his own tone. ‘I tried to stake a thousand. They wouldn’t take it. I already owed too much, they said.’
The silence was profound. The group did not know whether to celebrate this small, negative victory, which had been offered to him rather than won by him. Again they thought he was not going to speak, but eventually he said, as though the words were being wrung from him against his will, ‘It won, you know, that horse. Three to one. Supreme Nelly, it was called. Daft name, but I’d have knocked three thousand off my debts, if they’d taken the bet.’
It was the counsellor’s voice which now said firmly, ‘I’m sorry about that, Darren. Believe me, it would have been better if it had lost. That way it wouldn’t have fostered the absurd idea that you can get yourself out of trouble by more betting. You know and we all know that it doesn’t work like that. The reason why all of you are here is that you have learned that the hard way. The odd win just supports illusion. What is the thing we have to do?’
She spoke to them like children, but they were children, in this context, and they knew it. A ragged wail from three or four of them said, ‘Look at the whole picture!’ and the others nodded firmly, to show their endorsement of this new axiom of their existence.
‘And when we look at the whole picture, we invariably find that we lose far more than we gain, that the occasional windfall never compensates for our losses during a year, that we get ourselves further and further into trouble, if we try to bail ourselves out by the very means which has scuppered us.’
