by Wade, Calvin
The match! England versus Switzerland. Three o’clock start. It was becoming increasingly obvious, Jim was carrying out God’s work here, he was definitely steering me towards the righteous path. He had not managed to rescue me yet though, just provide a reprieve, but the football would be my salvation.
What would be a sensible bet at around 5-1 to turn a grand into six?
Shearer first goal? No, that was too optimistic, he had not scored for England for a year.
England to win? Too short a price and I didn’t fancy them anyway.
Switzerland win then? The price was 7-1. Seemed like a reasonable bet to me, but a draw was more likely and a draw was not going to be a decent enough price to turn my thousand pounds into six thousand pounds.
What about a correct score bet then? 0-0. Loads of England games finish 0-0 but more often than not when we are away from home.
What about 1-1 then? The price was 13-2. If it was 1-1, I would win £7500 from £1000. That seemed like a good bet to me. A nation’s false hopes riding on our first trophy win for thirty years, surely we could be trusted to completely cock things up at the first hurdle. 1-1 seemed like a plan.
“Jim, I’m just going to buy a T-shirt off the market before the England game starts. Where are you watching it?”
“The Buck. What are you drinking, Dad? I’m buying!”
“Guinness. See you up there in ten minutes.”
I ran off, bought myself a t-shirt, then doubled back to Stanley’s, entering from the back entrance, probably just as Jim left from the front. I was right, they did accept my dirty money. £990 on - England 1 Switzerland 1 - at a price of 13-2. Any other scoreline and I was a dead man. As I placed the bet, Kubilay Turkyilmaz was probably doing little warm up sprints on the Wembley turf, unaware that, as Switzerlands centre forward, he was all that now stood between me and a bullet to the brain. I did not realise at the time, but despite my new found Christian faith, I was now relying on a Muslim man to ensure I was still alive at Christmas!
Richie
My Dad was trying to speak but nothing was coming out. I don’t think he knew where to start. Mum was standing in the lounge, hands on hips, awaiting her explanation as to why Dad had stashed a load of old bills, relating to large scale credit card debts and a letter from Kelly to me, in a drawer in his office.
“Charlie!” Mum said impatiently, “I don’t really care what this is to do with, I just want the truth. The truth, Charlie, not some story you cobble together, off the top of your head, to get you off the hook. The truth!”
“Dorothy, what’s the point in raking up the past? This is all old news now. I’ve changed. You know I’ve changed. God has changed me. My lies are consigned to history now.”
“Good. Just tell me the story then, Charlie.”
“We had problems, Dot. Financial problems. Problems I had created by my gambling.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“OK. So I know the gambling has stopped, but what about the financial problems, do they still exist?”
“No.”
“Thank goodness for that! What about the letter from Kelly to Richie, why were you hiding Richie’s letter?”
Dad gave Mum a look which was a mixture of confusion and “don’t be so ridiculous”.
“I wasn’t!”
“Richie, show him the letter.”
I held up the blood smudged envelope.
“I’ve no idea,” Dad replied genuinely, before adding, “hang on, it probably arrived in the post on Derby Day 1996!”
I looked at the date stamp on the envelope, sure enough, it was stamped 7th June 1996. I knew from the years spent living with Dad, that Derby Day was in June.
“That’s the date on it, Mum,” I confirmed.
“What was the significance of Derby Day 1996, Charlie?” Mum asked.
“You should know this, Dot.”
“Remind me!”
“Derby Day 1996 was the day God revealed himself to me, the day I became a better man.”
I stood up off the settee. I had heard Dad’s story about God showing him the light before and to me, it always sounded a little crazy! I had never heard the full story, but quite frankly, I didn’t want to either. Dad had been a self-absorbed, devious, selfish gambler and a few years ago he’d changed, he had become a Christian, a born again Christian. As an atheist, I was not interested in what had triggered the change, I was just happy that he had become the father that he had not been throughout our childhood, a proper husband to Mum, a man who now cared about keeping her happy and a proper father to his children, who would now listen to what we were saying, without drifting off to a world of galloping hooves mid-sentence. It was time for me to go.
“Mum, Dad, I’m going to head to your toilet and then I’m off home!
“Do you not want to hear what your father has to say?”
I gave Mum a kiss.
“Not really.”
Dad came over to me and gave me a hug.
“I don’t have to explain everything to our Richie, Dot, he understands me.”
“That’s right, Dad, I do. I’ll see myself out. I’ll give you a ring in the week, Mum.”
I didn’t really understand. Sometimes I didn’t really understand myself, let alone Dad. As far as I could see, we were all just brains with limbs and senses. Why we thought the way we did, acted the way we did, was unfathomable. How anyone of any religion or anti-religion could claim to comprehend the meaning of life or death, was, in my humble opinion, giving their own brain too much credit. All I wanted from life was to be happy without making anyone else unhappy. This seemed a simple enough task, but I was failing to achieve it. I felt I was failing in the most glorious of ways. I had a beautiful wife and two beautiful children, but I felt something was missing from my life, not something spiritual, something physical. To me, religion and testosterone have their similarities, they both lead you on a path away from logic. Having said that, if Dad had reached a point in his life, through his belief in God, whereby he was happy and was not inflicting unhappiness on anyone, then I was genuinely delighted for him.
Once I drove away from Mum and Dad’s, I parked up a couple of hundred metres up the road to open Kelly’s letter. Dad had spent the last four years telling everyone he had been on a path laden with thorns until God had picked him up and shown him a more righteous path. In a totally different way, maybe I was on the wrong path. As a teenager, I had developed my “Black Jack Theory” whereby I felt we were all chasing perfection. Perhaps for me, Kelly was my perfect partner, would I ever have married Jemma if Kelly had not gone away? Perhaps my marriage to Jemma had just been a rebound thing, a ricochet on to the wrong path. Was I being true to myself to stick with Jemma if I was only ever going to feel like I settled for a mediocre relationship? Jemma must have felt something similar, as at least I was eager to re-ignite the passion, whilst Jemma just seemed to pour cold water on the embers. I put my hazard lights on and tore open the blood stained envelope.
As soon as I opened that envelope, memories flooded out. As I read through the letter, feelings I felt I had long since buried, raised their heads back above the ground. It was a cryptic letter. A letter short on detail, but strong on intent. In July 1996, Kelly had wanted to meet me back in Aughton, back on the “Sunny Road”, like we had always talked about, back when we were teenagers. The letter was four years old now, I felt my opportunity had been and gone, I could almost smell the burnt bridge. I wondered whether Kelly had turned up that day and I also wondered what had happened to her since? Four years was a big time span in anyone’s life. It was now 2nd July 2000, almost four years to the day that Kelly suggested meeting up. I pondered whether it would be worth just taking a journey over to the “Sunny Road” at midday on the 4th July, just on the off chance that she might be there. I chided myself. What would be the point in that? This was all ridiculous. OK, my relationship with Jemma had probably reached its nadir, but if I
was going to even consider leaving that relationship, the worst thing I could possibly do, is start a relationship with Jemma’s sister! It would be crazy. Kelly is my children’s auntie!
The problem I had though was that the same thought kept returning into my mind. A morbid thought. I had had a reminder when I was diagnosed with testicular cancer that I was mortal. We only had one life and it was a short one so we had to make the most of it, maximise the opportunities presented to us. Could I honestly say I was doing that married to a woman who seemed to lack any desire for me? For all the negatives that would surround me rekindling my relationship with Kelly, further along the line, perhaps there was an opportunity to be really happy. To coin a phrase would it be ‘short-term pain for long-term gain’? I felt there was only one way to find out. I needed to go back to the ‘Sunny Road’ on the 4th July, just to see if Kelly was there. Just to get an indication of how she was and what she was up to. Just a journey to see an old friend, I told myself. I kept telling myself that, I was not committing a crime, it was just a journey to see an old friend.
Jim
Thinking back now, I have to say it was one of the most bizarre experiences in my whole life! I did not have a clue what was going on! England were leading Switzerland one-nil in a drab start to the 1996 European Championships, when for some reason, my father swapped his allegiances from King and Country to the landlocked European neutrals.
Mark, one of the barmen at The Buck, was out from behind that prison cell of a bar, to collect some glasses and to get a proper look at the footy. Everyone in there was downbeat, it had been a dire game and to make our suffering even worse, in the 83rd minute, the ball was booted at Stuart Pearce’s hand, inside the box, from close range and a penalty had been awarded. A Switzerland penalty was not in the script for a triumphant start to Euro ’96. Everyone was crestfallen except one man. My father.
“What’s going on with your Dad?” Mark asked. “Why is he so made up? Is he part, Swiss?”
“He’ll have a hole in him like Swiss cheese, if he doesn’t sit down!” some irritated England fan warned.
“Sit down, Dad!” I pleaded.
“Does he make watches or fondue sets or penknives or something?” Mark suggested.
“No,” I replied, “he’s not Swiss and he has absolutely nothing to do with Switzerland. I haven’t the foggiest idea what goes on in that man’s head!”
“Well,” Mark continued, “he certainly seemed Swiss when he screamed handball as soon as the ball struck Pearce’s arm. He was pointing to the spot before the referee!”
I looked back over at my Dad, to see what he was up to now, hoping the bloke who was threatening to make him into Emmental had managed to calm down. Dad was fidgeting nervously in front of the screen, he had gone so close he was blocking several people’s views and was literally pulling clumps out of his own hair, chuntering to himself as Kubilay Turkyilmaz placed the ball on the spot,
“He’s going to miss this! I know it! He’s going to miss it!”
Dad clasped his hands and looked up to the heavens or at least to the ceiling of “The Buck”!
“Remember our deal, God?” he said to the ceiling, “I’m on your side now, remember? See me right, God! See me right!”
Turkyilmaz was all set to strike. He stood in the little semi circle on the edge of the box, I don’t know what its called, our Richie was the one into football in a big way, I just watched the big games in the pub.
The Swiss striker was ready, but so was the English goalkeeper, the moustachioed, David Seaman, who stood on his line with big gloves and a positive focus.
“Come on Seaman!” someone shouted at the TV like a bored housewife who had consented to sex when she was tired and ready to sleep.
“He’ll miss this!” I shouted over at Dad.
“He better fucking hadn’t!” Dad replied, “HE BETTER FUCKING HADN’T!”
Turkyilmaz ran up. A long run up for a penalty. This was not one of those Spanish jobs where they just take one step back. Seaman stared intently, all set to spring, cat like, on to the oncoming ball. Dad crossed himself. The run up towards the penalty spot could not have lasted more than three seconds, but it was during those three seconds that the penny dropped or given the circumstances, the Swiss franc dropped! All of a sudden, I understood. Dad was in trouble. Big trouble! Big trouble which would, given the sweat on his forehead and the hair in his fists, only be getting bigger if this penalty did not go in. I am a proud Englishman. I may not have a bulldog tattoo on my right arm, but I cried in 1990 when Gazza was booked. I thought St George’s Day should be a Bank Holiday. I waved my Union Jack at the TV on 29th July 1981 when Charles and Di were married. I sang the National Anthem with more gusto than any other Englishman and knew the verses that were never sung, the ones about scattering our enemies and confounding their knavish tricks. I was English and proud of it but in those three seconds, my loyalties were no longer for my country, they were solely for my idiot of a Dad, who had no doubt fucked up royally this time. “Score,” I whispered, just as Kubilay Turkyilmaz struck the ball with his left foot, “please score!”
There was an almighty groan from the four corners of The Buck as Seaman flopped to his right and Kubilay Turkyilmaz, with pinpoint accuracy, stroked the ball into the keeper’s left hand corner! With less than ten minutes to go it was England 1 Switzerland 1! Risking a beating from two hundred Englishmen and women, Dad pulled the front of his newly acquired T-shirt over his head and zig zagged around the tables and chairs with his enormous beer belly and two hairy man boobs on display.
“Bloody hell, Ursula Andress has got hairy tits these days!” shouted someone, which was a mightily impressive shout as I didn’t think anyone other than me in ‘The Buck’ would have been aware of the former Bond girl’s Swiss heritage.
“Sit down, you tosser!” someone else shouted, “I swear, if Switzerland score another, I’ll break your bloody neck!”
“Don’t worry!” Dad shouted back from under his T-Shirt, if Switzerland score another, I’ll break my own!”
Charlie
Sometimes in life, you have to reach a dead end before you realise you are heading the wrong way. I had been a gambler for over thirty years, I had won a few battles, but lost every war, yet I just kept going. It was total lunacy. Only once my life was on the line, did I understand the seriousness of my addiction and make a deal with God to stop. I had lost a lot of money, but just as importantly, I had sacrificed a lot of time. If I am careful, I still believe I can get Dorothy and I back to the financial status that we would have enjoyed if I had never completed a betting slip, but I will never get my children’s childhood back. I pray every day that I live long enough to somehow make it up to them. Once they have children, I have vowed to treasure them in a way that I never have with my own offspring.
That evening, back in 1996, following the final whistle in England’s one-all draw with Switzerland, a new Charles Billingham was born, as the greedy, sinful, materialistic, liar, died. I must admit, I was more than a little excitable when Kubilay Turkyilmaz equalised for Switzerland and uttered some of the final profanities to leave my lips, but once the final whistle went, God gave me a composure I have managed to maintain to this day. I collected my £6682-50, asked the ladies in there never to mention the win to a living soul, then after brief stops at WH Smith and the pawn shop to reclaim Dot’s rings, I headed home. Once home, I hid the plastic bag full of notes and all the mail from that morning behind a drawer in my office, to avoid Dorothy’s detection and the rings were returned to the bathroom as if they had never had a journey out.
I did not want to lie to Dorothy, but at the same time, I did not want to have to tell her that we had six grand in cash, but every single penny would be needed to make a small dent in our overall debt and would prevent a local gangster setting his henchmen on to me.
Sure enough, the following morning, as I looked out of the front bedroom window, Kiffer’s crew were there, standing menacingly outside Ki
ffer’s limo, in the road at the top of our drive. There was no doubt they would have been anticipating an act of aggression that they would need to carry out, to teach another bad debtor a lesson. As Dorothy snorted her way through her dreams, I slipped into my office, collected my plastic bag full of bank notes and another plastic bag I had prepared for them, then went outside to confront Kiffer and his band of merry men. I pitied them. A new chapter in my life was set to begin, but they were still entrenched in their violent lives. I knew I would not be betting again, God had reached out to me and I was not going to let go of his grasp now, but these men before me would continue to threaten, to intimidate and to kill. Sometimes God can only be found if you open your eyes.
I walked towards the limo, presuming, like twenty four hours earlier, that all four of them would be there. Kevin, “The Smirking Giant” and Bobby aka “Muscles” were standing outside the limo, chatting and attempting to look like James Dean whilst smoking a cigarette. Marcus, the driver, had his window down and his arm draped out, whilst Kiffer was no doubt sat in the back, contemplating what words to grace me with before setting his pack of wolves on to me. I felt empowered as I knew the last thing that they would be expecting, would be for me to repay the debt. The whole six grand. I knew they would be expecting a frightened, desperate, hopeless man who would try anything to save his skin. When “The Smirking Giant” and “Muscles” spotted me heading along my path, one plastic bag in each hand, they quickly dispensed of their cigarettes and stamped them out. Their break was over, they were back at work.
“What the fuck’s in those plazzy bags, Charlie?” The Smirking Giant demanded.
“Money and a gift for each of you”, I replied calmly and with a smile. Trust is not a word in a mobsters dictionary.
“Fuck off, Charlie! We weren’t born yesterday! Drop the fuckin’ bags where they are and step into the limo.” Muscles commanded.
