Of course, they had the best age group. At eleven and twelve the boys had learnt how to play football, and though keen, were still young enough to be tractable. At Under Fourteen, Gareth’s stratum, they seemed to pitch headlong into that deep and featureless ravine between boyhood and teenagerdom, their voices yodelling and booming as they fell. They were all swank and wank, and prey to a slummocky lassitude which evinced itself in large-scale absenteeism. No wonder Brian Jolliffe had resigned: he had spent the last few months trying to claw his way from the bottom rung of the Basset Area Junior League with only ten men. Without Gareth—who, they told me, was a striker of no mean clout—the Under Fourteens would long since have sunk without trace.
At the top end of the club, the Under Sixteens were under the management of Eric Chittenden. No vague malaise dogged them. There was no doubt at all where they stood—just a whisker away from the juvenile courts. Eric’s role was that of social worker. He did not have to concern himself with their performance: they won everything. What they lacked in skill and sportsmanship they made up for a thousandfold, as Eric had often remarked, in ‘competitiveness’. Once changed into the distinctive Tomahawks’ kit of red and white, like a pack of glowering, spotty Santas, they simply ground their fags beneath their boot heels and lumbered coughing and cussing on to the pitch, there to wipe the opposition off the park with their customary brutal ease. It was hard to concede that this menacing phalanx of acne’d Neanderthals had ever been the ineffectual lads of the Under Fourteens, still less the keen, bright protégés of the Nutkins. But they must have been. And it boded ill for the future.
I became aware of Robbo’s gaze resting on me. ‘… suppose we can rely on the ladies for that?’ he was saying.
Tanya and Nita both looked at me as if they knew I had not been paying attention.
‘Sorry, Robbo? I missed that.’
‘We had reverted pro tern to the question of the disco,’ explained Robbo patiently.
Stan put his hand by his mouth in a theatrical gesture. ‘Thinking of her book,’ he mouthed to the rest of the committee. ‘World of her own!’ Perhaps thinking that this sally had been a touch stringent, he attempted to soften it by bestowing on me a gigantic, hammy wink.
‘Can we ask you ladies to handle the refreshments?’ asked Robbo.
‘Of course we will, won’t we, girls?’ chittered Nita, getting out her tiny well-thumbed diary and consulting it with much purposeful rustling.
‘Shall we make a date to go to the cash-and-carry in Regis? I have Stan’s card.’
‘Count me out,’ said Tanya, who never made the slightest pretence of enthusiasm for the Toms or their works. ‘I’ll be there on the night, but days I’m over the abbatoir.’ We nodded understandingly. Tanya was crucial to the smooth running of the fat-rendering plant. Her dedication to this grisly occupation was further evidence of the awfulness of her family.
‘You and me then, Harriet?’ said Nita.
‘Perhaps we should decide what to give them first,’ I suggested, not to be outdone in the triviality stakes, but Nita was ready for that one and parried it neatly with: ‘Oh, we don’t want to take up committee time with that, do we? Why don’t you and I have a little get-together on the food some day soon …?’
I pictured Nita and I perched like gigantic bluebottles on a pile of monster cheese and chutney sandwiches.
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Now then.’ Robbo was portentous, lifting his agenda-sheet and pursing his lips to show that once more we were going to address ourselves to the central issue.
A tremor of consternation went round the pavilion annexe, a squirming of backsides on slatted benches, an exchange of speaking looks, a determined scrutiny of fingernails and trouser knees. We knew that once more the thorny question of the Under Fourteen’s managership was coming under Robbo’s hammer. Brian Jolliffe, Bunterish and impassive, was the architect of our discomfort.
‘I have to say it,’ said Robbo, saying it. ‘The Under Fourteens are a key group. If we have to abandon running a team in this age group my feeling is that the whole club will be placed in jeopardy.’
We sighed wretchedly. This was not a position with which the club was unfamiliar. Threat of dissolution hung over it always. We few, we happy few, had the task of keeping it going. The Toms were hugely popular, membership swelled horrifically each season, it towered above us like a mushroom cloud and if we failed in our duties the fall-out would be terrible. And yet there was Brian Jolliffe chickening out, apparently without remorse.
And who could take his place? Stan, Nita and Trevor were in the clear, full of rectitude, their consciences Persil-white. Even more a man apart was Eric, both secretary and manager. Robbo, as chairman, was automatically exonerated from further duties. That left Tanya and I, who as women were quite out of the question. Never had I been more thankful for the chauvinistic cast of my fellow committee members.
But who did that leave? Mentally we counted and assessed and found ourselves lacking. Our feelings toward Brian Jolliffe grew less and less kind.
‘I must ask you once more, Brian,’ said Robbo, enjoying the atmosphere of courtroom drama which now swirled about the annexe, ‘ to reconsider. You’ve been doing a great job with those lads—’
‘Balls!’ retorted Brian with such vehemence that it was obvious he’d been building up to this explosion for some time. ‘Absolute ruddy bollocks! You said—Eric said—at the beginning—they’ve been played out of sight for months—’
‘That was me said that,’ interposed Trevor, Eeyore-like.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s who said it,’ went on Brian, ‘it’s true! I’ve been knocking myself out trying to motivate those lads, but I might as well have been playing the fucking arse-flute for all the good it’s done. They just don’t seem to care and now I’m bloody sure I don’t either!’ I regarded Brian with new respect. Impressed by the frankness of this outburst. But others, I sensed, were not so admiring.
‘Now then, Brian,’ said Eric, slipping naturally into the role of mediator and advocate, ‘you mustn’t take anything that’s been said as a personal criticism of you. You don’t have a thing to reproach yourself with.’
‘I know that! I’ve been telling you that!’ squawked Brian, quite purple with fury. He closed his eyes, as if taking a grip on himself. ‘No. No—I’m sorry, but let me put it this way, I know when I’m beaten. They don’t turn up, they’re scruffy, they don’t get stuck in—’ he turned to me—‘Your Gareth’s an exception, I may say. But the rest! I turn out weekend after weekend, Monica’s got a list of jobs as long as your arm for me to do—’
‘Sounds like a blessed release!’ quipped Stan, but Brian did not hear the joke, let alone see it.
‘And what happens? Sweet F.A., that’s what!’
‘Sweet F.A.!’ Stan looked round at us, hellbent on restoring our sense of humour. ‘How very apt!’
Brian continued on his elephantine way. ‘I started out with all good intentions, you all know that. I believe in this club. I thought the Under Fourteens could do well. They began all right. They played super against Cheveley Wildcats last September,’ here a little frisson of nostalgia went round as we recalled those palmy days, ‘but since then it’s been downhill all the way. They’ve beaten me, and I don’t mind admitting it. Someone else can have a go and sodding good luck to them!’
He folded his arms and sat back. The rest of us continued to look at him for a moment, in expectation of a reprise, and when none was forthcoming re-fastened our stares on to Robbo. Eric sat with his hands clasped on the minute book, head bowed. I suspected he was tuning into The Boss to see if a higher authority could salvage something from this administrative holocaust.
‘Well,’ said Robbo, ‘Brian has said his piece. Obviously we can’t pressurise him to stay on. It only remains for me to thank him for his stalwart work with the lads, and to ask for any nominations or volunteers for this vital job as Under Fourteens manager.’
He glanced rou
nd dully, knowing there would be no bids. And we stared back with stuffed-animal eyes, all trying to prove, through impassivity, the justice of our claims to immunity.
‘I appreciate,’ went on Robbo, to fill the yawning void of unhelpful silence, ‘that we all have busy lives, and most people here are already doing worthwhile and time-consuming jobs within the club … but I beg you to wrack your brains for anyone—even someone not at present a member—who might be approached about this.’
There was another long, blank silence. ‘It goes without saying,’ said Trevor, ‘that a good working knowledge of the game is vital. You can’t win a team’s respect unless you can do what you ask them to do.’
What, I thought—must one be able to pull one’s finger out, to get stuck in, to stop acting like a flipping woofter? Was this why Trevor himself had so signally failed to imprint his authority on the Under Tens?
‘No question,’ agreed Stan Nutkin. ‘The boys look to the club officers to set an example, both as players and as human beings.’
The sheer irrefutable triteness of this assertion left everyone duly speechless, but it was in the squirming, burning silence that followed it that I had my idea. An idea which so perfectly married need with desire that it quite took my breath away. I warmed my hands on it for a second or two before presenting it to the assembled company.
‘I think I know someone who might fill the bill,’ I offered tentatively, and was at once the focus of rapt and grateful attention.
‘Who would that be, Harriet?’ asked Robbo in measured tones.
‘Dr Ghikas, the new doctor over at Parva.’
This threw them. Their expressions of slavish relief froze, their smiles became bloodless and their eyes glassy.
‘I don’t know him, I confess,’ said Nita, piqued no doubt by my rapid acquaintanceship with this substantial local figure. ‘We’ve always had Dr Salmon.’
‘I only met him recently,’ I confessed—I could afford to be magnanimous. ‘He’s an extremely nice person, and a football enthusiast. He played regularly himself till a few years ago. Being new to the area he might like to get involved in this kind of local activity.’ God help me.
‘Well!’ Robbo looked round for endorsement, but went ahead anyway. ‘ I must say, this does sound hopeful.’
‘We mustn’t count our chickens, though,’ warned Trevor. ‘The doctor may feel it’s early days for this kind of commitment.’
‘Look,’ I said, the very embodiment of sweet reasonableness. ‘I’ll try him if you’d like me to, but if you think it’s inappropriate …’
‘Harriet,’ said Eric, lifting a hand, ‘you have our blessing.’
‘You go and ask,’ said Tanya Lowe. ‘I’m on his list and I wouldn’t mind a look at him before I go there with my legs.’
I was still trying to work this out when Stan leaned towards me.
‘Excuse me for raising this—but the doctor’s Greek, isn’t he? I mean … well, how Greek is he?’
‘You’d never know,’ I said truthfully. ‘Fair hair, blue eyes, BBC accent. He actually seems rather more English than you or me.’
‘Fair enough. I’m satisfied, then,’ said Stan.
‘Perhaps before we put all our eggs in one basket we should know if there’s anyone else that anyone can think of?’ enquired Robbo with the overexcited air of a man who believes he’s struck gold. Everyone shook their heads.
‘Then can we officially ask you, Harriet, since you know the doctor, to make an approach on the club’s behalf?’
‘Of course.’ You bet your life you can. I could almost see the Fates, like a cluster of benign maiden aunts, beaming down at me from the ceiling of the pavilion annexe.
Outside, sated with drama, we went our ways. Only Tanya Lowe came up to me as I unlocked my car. She was accompanied by her dog which had been tethered outside during the meeting. It was a vast, blubber-laden labrador, like a walrus with corners. Fodder for the fat-rendering plant if ever I saw it.
‘You’ll be at this disco, then,’ she said.
‘Looks like it.’
‘You ought to get that doctor to come along, then we can all get to know each other.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s not a bad idea, Tanya.’
‘Good luck with him, anyway,’ she said. ‘ We could do with somebody new.’ How right she was.
‘Good night, Tanya.’
‘ ’Night. Heel, Sukey,’ she added, as she and the canine abomination waddled off into the dusk.
I got home in fine form, chased the children away from the television and into bed in record time, and then went to the study and sat down at the tripewriter.
In the days following my last meeting with Dr Ghikas I had advanced Maria’s story quite substantially, and had now reached a key scene between Maria and the under-gardener. The hunt had gone well, and had served to establish Maria’s dual fascination with her haughty cousin and his muscular employee.
I switched on the typewriter and began writing immediately.
Maria stopped in her tracks, the roses forgotten. The turmoil in her breast showed itself in a haughtiness she did not feel.
‘What are you doing here?’ she enquired, icily.
The young man stood lazily before her. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, brown-skinned forearms. Maria was unsettlingly aware of his brute strength, now in repose, but which might be summoned up at any instant. The sensation of feminine frailty that this awareness gave her was both frightening and exhilarating.
‘Working,’ came the reply, not without a hint of sarcasm. ‘And you, miss? Picking roses, I see.’ His dark eyes rested on the few long-stemmed yellow blooms which she held in her hand. Maria’s heart beat fast, her mouth was dry. He took a few steps towards her and was now standing impertinently close, his broad chest and shoulders only inches from her face.
‘Please,’ she faltered. ‘Let me pass.’
He waited a moment, towering over her. She could not look up at his face, which she knew would most assuredly mock her.
‘Pray step aside.’
After what seemed an eternity he stood back and she went on her way with as much dignity as she could muster. Her head was high, but the yellow roses trembled in her hand, and there was blood in her palm where she had squeezed the thorns.
I sat back and re-read these paragraphs. In doing so I realised with a shock that I had written all of them on automatic pilot. I had not, in the whole of this key emotional scene, made one conscious decision about what to put next. The realisation was profoundly depressing. With sudden energy I attacked the typewriter once more, and wrote:
Abruptly she dropped the roses and rushed back to where he stood, still watching her with sardonic detachment. Before he could prevent her she stuffed her hand down the front of his trousers.
‘This’, she whispered as she worked, ‘will show you who’s boss, you great hairy muscle-bound yob.’
Feeling much revived I switched off the typewriter and went to bed, there to read the introspective musings of a proper author.
Chapter Six
I now had two excellent, bona fide reasons for calling on Dr Constantine Ghikas. There was the invitation to my putative dinner party (for which he was as yet the only guest); and I was official representative of Tomahawks YFC, in the matter of the Under Fourteens managership.
This last appeared a slightly less wonderful scheme in the cold light of the following day. After all, if Dr Ghikas was not willing to take on the managership, where would that leave me? As an interfering female who wasted no time in trying to off-load unpleasant tasks on to unsuspecting newcomers.
I took the idea out for a short walk at breakfast time. Gareth had just completed his second bowl of Brekabix swamped in milk and granulated sugar, and was addressing himself with scowling concentration to the sports pages. Clara was on her third slice of lightly toasted refined carbohydrate.
‘What is it,’ I mused, then realised I had not captured my audience and added more loudly: ‘
Tell me, Gareth, what is it with your team in the Tomahawks? Why have they gone to pieces so?’
‘Mm …?’ Gareth tilted his head slightly but did not take his eyes off the paper. ‘ Dunno.’
I persisted. ‘I was at the football committee meeting last night. Did you know that Mr Jolliffe was resigning as manager?’
This secured his attention. ‘Ace,’ was his comment, ‘who do we get?’
‘That’s not very charitable, Gareth,’ I said. ‘Poor Brian was at his wits’ end, he says he couldn’t do a thing with you—not you personally, but as a team—and he has tried very hard.’
‘Jolliffe’s a plonker, Ma. He couldn’t organise a fart in a bean factory.’
Clara, usually unmoved by her brother’s jokes, let out a high-pitched cackle of laughter. It was one of those rare moments when I wished George was around. There would have been no farts in bean factories if he had been at the breakfast table, reading the FT and eating muesli with goat’s milk yoghurt.
I wound myself up determinedly. ‘I think that’s a rotten thing to say, Gareth. And you may change your tune when you hear that you may not “get” anybody as you put it. The team may have to be disbanded.’
‘Nice one, Ma,’ said Clara, spreading more toast.
Gareth’s jaw dropped, and his eyes goggled. Why are lads so devoid of subtlety? Everything must be writ large and dished out with a spade.
‘Flipping heck!’ he exclaimed. ‘ That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’
‘You either want to play decent soccer or you don’t,’ I retaliated. I sounded awfully like Robbo; I very nearly let slip a ‘ fupbore’. ‘But anyway, there is one slim chance of salvation, and it’s down to your mother to do something about it. So I shall expect to find your room tidy when I go up there.’
‘Sure. Go on then—who is it?’
‘Dr Ghikas from Basset Parva—’ I caught Gareth’s expression of despairing derision—‘ and before you start rubbishing him out of hand, let me tell you that he’s been no mean footballer in his time.’
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