by Neil Rowland
It was never the idea to get married, in the first place. I’ve never seen the charm of churches, to be honest with you. But Elizabeth was a once in a lifetime girl, and how could I let her get away? Anyway her family’s Christian morals were offended; when they found out she was pregnant. But I surrendered willingly at the time. I was waiting there at the end of the aisle, as expected. They insisted on a grand wedding, at Bristol cathedral; where they’d been praying for years. I was hiding in a morning suit. I had this image of myself as a peacock, on his big day. But I was just a turkey in ribbons. They had to sew a few extra hoops into Lizzie’s dress.
We lost our freedom. We gave our lives up for the baby, and Liz dropped out of Uni. Dylan married Sara and still managed to write all those great songs, I explained to my lovely new pregnant wife. We didn’t have to compromise. It was just hard to avoid.
We tasted poverty. We were trapped in our small flat. But we were as tight as the ring on an anchor. That’s how we were during those days, with a screaming baby. We knew the dangers we faced, but we had a strong grip.
The referee blew for half time. Timothy nags me for a can of coke and a chocolate bar. So we leave our seats for a while.
“We’re going to lose,” Tim moans.
“Give them time.”
“We’re hopeless.”
“No, we’re playing some good football. Set your team formation, get the right tactics. Allow the team to play well... the goals will follow.”
The boy’s not convinced, on the first half performance. But he’ll carry some great memories of attending football matches with me. My grandfather first took me to games. I easily recollect the flavour of his pipe tobacco, aromatic on the frozen air. He’d press Everton mints into my gloved hands, which I would unwrap with difficulty, rather than to risk frostbite. He had great wiry white eyebrows, leathery skin over sharp cheek bones that seemed imperishable. He kept my hands warm by knocking them together with his. He’d utter phlegmatic criticism of the action, without any cursing, as the beautiful game was frustrated again.
Tim’s old enough to keep some impressions for the future. We take them along to the game to mould them, to bring them up right; to offer the same chances and excitements as we had: we fathers, I mean. I like to think that Tim and I are good friends, as well as father and son, as his young heart patters along after mine. I know he spends more time with his stepfather on balance, but I’m still the sporting super hero. He can’t be that close to Frank Noggins, despite an armoury of electronic games and toys, trying so hard to show their love and to impress. But what’s going to happen after I’m substituted?
The refreshment queue dwindles, allowing us to reach the counter. Then we take our tea, coke and chocolate bars back to our seats. There are grumbles as we pass back along our row. These guys can scream and whine like a gang of hard bitten alley cats. The masochistic joy of supporting a comparatively small club is unbeatable. Though I can’t say it beats topping leagues, or getting promotion or lifting trophies.
The referee gazes up into the sky, as if summoning the elusive gods of entertainment: he checks the moment from his watch and gets the second half underway.
How can Liz tolerate a swap of fathers? How can you permit a stranger like him to bring up our son, rather than to keep faith with the natural father? I’ve reason to resent the influence of Frank Noggins. She put me through that whole custody struggle and added heart break to insult. He never impressed me with his fat cigars and games of bar bloody billiards.
There was a photograph of them stepping out of a white Cadillac; no expense or ritual spared. He was flashing his radiator grill of caps, while Liz was looking radiant as a girl. I didn’t attempt to gate-crash their happy day, second time around. I try to keep with the good vibrations of life. Most of the time.
There was just one time, when I failed to keep negative vibrations in check. For some reason I had the crazy idea of going around there, with the intention of killing him. I don’t know what got into me, I know it was stupid and a mistake. I could have dug up a concrete road with the bad vibrations. I didn’t rationally consider the chances of killing a big bloke like Frank with my bare hands. After all he’s an erstwhile member of the Territorials. He’s got a rib cage that wouldn’t shame a shire horse: hands like medicine balls. Somehow the facts of Noggins’s physical capabilities escaped me. I wasn’t prepared to sit at home feeling sorry for myself. I’d go around there and let him know how I felt.
So I jumped into my big nosed Gallic automobile and made their business my own. On the way I cruised through red lights; I mounted a pavement along Colston Avenue, causing panic and escaping lethal collision by millimetres. As it was a Friday evening the centre was crowded with relaxing punters, strolling between clubs and bars. I managed to scatter a big crowd of smart people, waiting for an opera to begin, outside Colston Hall.
They had to physically toss themselves out of the way, many of them. There was a small column in the next evening’s newspaper about me, or the antics of a mad driver. Luckily the police had something about an old foreign car, but nobody could give an accurate model type or a full registration. But I’m a champion balloonist, not a psychopath.
Amazingly in one piece, I pulled up outside his place. After grinding up into the kerb and falling out into the road, I strode out towards her new home. I ripped aside the wooden gate, lunged up a front path and smashed my hand on the bell.
“Let’s be having you, Frank boy. Come and show your face!” I shouted.
But I was answered only by a long suburban silence.
A hallway light illuminated the coloured glass of their door. They were inside hiding. I pictured them sheltering behind their sofa; whispering to each other in panic about what to do. Calling the police was an obvious tactic. But that easy option didn’t come into my mind. I wasn’t thinking straight or cool. Frank had his contacts in this city and his police mates would turn up in rapid time. Faster than an ambulance. But I would get to him faster than even they could.
It happens that Frank has a hideous, kitsch statue in the middle of his front garden. He’s proud of it and even had it transplanted between properties, as he’s climbed the ladder, like an overweight Jack. It’s what you’d describe as a Cupid figure, balancing on one foot at the edge of a marble bowl, with a bow pointed at the moon, with water dribbling from his mouth.
So I strode out into the middle of his front lawn and managed to pick this statue up in my arms. I felt every vein popping, every sinew ripping. Having achieved this lift, I struggled back to the winding path with it. With all my strength I staggered back towards the house and heaved it through their living room window.
There was an almighty crashing and splintering. But as I looked into the recesses of their exposed living room, I began to understand that they really weren’t at home. They were not hiding, attempting to wind me up, they were simply not indoors. But it was too late to be ashamed and disown the guy I’d been, just a few minutes beforehand. I couldn’t turn back the clock, no matter how I disliked myself. They wouldn’t hear about it, even if I hadn’t been myself. In fact I was more out of character than ever. If there’s something that women don’t like it is masculine stress and aggravation.
The little god of love was wedged inside their living room. Only the rough bottoms of his feet were sticking out, as they’d broken off from the base. His face was pressed into their rug, as if after a night out on the town. He may have looked a light fellow, as he was floating off the grass, but he was only made of concrete after all. A thin jet of water shot up into the night sky, dousing Liz’s new convertible.
They were not going to be happy with my contribution. What else could I do, other than to escape the situation? There was no point staring mournfully at the spot, waiting for the couple to return. Maybe they’d bought tickets for the opera that evening.
I might have been charged. I
could have been banged up. Fortunately the neighbours didn’t hear or see anything of the assault. The Noggins pad is detached and surrounded by thick shrubs. I’d arrived in the area like Steve McQueen. I had to touch up the body work after that and fill a small hole in the side panel. There was a scrape of paint along the kerbstone; and a lot more forensic evidence. Surely there aren’t that many cool people in this city?
So I made a remarkable escape. Or they chose not to let on. Surely they didn’t think that some freak event or alien being from space had tossed that statue into their living space. No, it wasn’t only a matter of calling in the glaziers, because they required a frame and repairs to the brick work at the front of the house. I was a bit sheepish when I had to call around again, to claim my contact with Tim. But she didn’t refer to the subject. Cupid didn’t enter the conversation. That was the whole point, she chose to ignore it, as I ignored the lorry load of workers who were drinking mugs of fair-trade Kenyan tea on the lawn, between times of fitting new aluminium frames, state of the art, as well as mixing a bag of cement and moving around a pallet of fresh bricks. I pretended not to see them and didn’t ask. I hoped that she would think I was jealous.
If they sought any revenge, it was when they put that dreadful statue back. The little bastard was still in one piece.
Grimsby’s defence is at sixes and sevens, scurrying about like ballerinas with a mouse on the stage. A miskick looks as if it is going out, yet the ball takes a wicked deflection and finishes in the back of the net.
A goal! We’ve equalled the scoring. The whole stadium, with Tim and I, erupts into joyful relief. The passage of a plastic sphere over a white line can release this euphoria. We are up on our feet, shaking clenched fingers towards the sky, with renewed belief in divine creation. The City team congregate for quick hugs and kisses, before trotting back to their own half ready to restart. The away team loses its spring, as the match resumes with extra intensity; the home team seeking a winner.
By half past four the sky is closing over us; a bloodless late-afternoon light drawing in, bringing the influence of a shivery mist from the close-by Avon and gorge. Floodlights come on, intensifying as darkness gathers; casting starry shadows around each dancing player on the pitch below.
Tim has settled back in dejection, in the popular belief that another score draw is probable. Grimsby might even steal it in injury time, given our luck this season. But I’m glad to be here and look forward to our next home game. As the clock winds down my attention wanders to the crowd around us; and I gaze over at those hundreds of faces in the opposite stand. I wonder if I - my distracted or worried expression - has been picked out by anybody over there, like a still head at a tennis match? Paranoia, most likely.
I notice that a full moon has emerged in the sky. I gaze up to a smoking moon and I am reminded of love, the past and of course about death. These ideas are not as romantic as they used to be. Gravity is failing me and negativity won’t pull me through, as Bob Dylan remarked. He has an even drier sense of humour.
The referee blows for full time. Following our row out I hold Tim’s shoulders, to prevent the danger of getting crushed. Even if City will be fortunate to reach mid-table this season, I’ll be happy to see them to the end. The years of comparative cup and league glory feel long distant. I hope the team give Tim something to really cheer about in the future.
When we turn up at the Noggins’ street I notice that Frank’s tank is re-occupying the driveway. The dinosaur is back in his lair, after a Saturday afternoon trouble shooting session. I hold Tim’s hand as if I’m never going to let him go, as we wander up their garden path. I set off the chimes of Canterbury and wait for Liz to crack open her watch gates again, to receive back her prisoner.
Tim is aware of my helter-skelter health history. After that bad trip to the London hospital he tends to cling. There’s no doubt about it, he wants his real mother and father back. He wants this nonsense sorted out and to get life back to normal; our kind of ‘normal’.
His new mother finally responds and pulls him tensely indoors, with barely an exchange of eye contact. Is she afraid that Frank and I might go cheek to cheek? Maybe she has some rear windows to replace.
This is definitely the worst moment of the week. Until I find the strength to point myself back around, stride past Cupid without so much as a side glance; then to let myself through the garden gate and climb back into the spotless automobile.
Whatever happened to the girl I loved?
Chapter 11
Bob, Susan, Lizzie and me; we’ve been friends for ages. For about three light centuries I’d guess, since student days. And we’ve stayed friends ever since, come hell or high water as it often was. The Huntingdon marriage is still an unbroken rock; they’re as crazy about one another as during student evenings, crammed into a snug of a quayside pub, smoking Disc Bleu and sharing a jug of real ale, while yakking about music and movies.
The only time I ever saw them suffer a fall out was after a Donovan gig. The singer/songwriter kissed Susan on request after he gave her his autograph. Bless her mellow yellow cotton socks, she told him to write his autograph on her lacy ladies handkerchief. Bob took exception and seriously lost it. To rebuff Bob’s accusations she pointedly blew her nose on the handkerchief and threw it away. Then Bob, unable to retrieve the situation, felt as bad as Pablo Picasso eyeing young girls along the Parisian left bank.
Bob is still embarrassed by the memory, when it recurs. But I wouldn’t hold Donovan responsible for the one serious row. I wouldn’t criticise him for kissing Susan after his concert at the folk club that evening. ‘Flower Power’ holds a different meaning for Bob these days, as a keen gardener. That isn’t a bad record after twenty years of marriage. More than you can say about Donovan’s recordings. Bob and Susan still spin in the same groove. Whereas Liz and I had regular rows and crises. We were always the thermonuclear couple.
Would I have been forgiving if Lizzie had smooched George Harrison over a peace pipe, for instance? She was constantly singing the mantra of the quiet one. I found this passion out, when she showed me her bedroom, and its many rock star pictures on the walls, for the first time. As an amorous undergrad it can be hard to compete with Harrison even when he was a poster.
During our Uni days Lizzie and I were part of the ‘in’ crowd there. We were the stellar couple, much talked about on campus. Student life is formative for many of us, but I can’t underestimate the impact for us. When there was a demo in the Students’ Union or a sit-down protest at the Chancellor’s office, you could bet your bottom anti-dollar that Lizzie and I would be at the heart of it.
Our fresh passionate faces, legs crossed and fists in the air, captured in dots in alternative newspapers. The media always loved a young good-looking photogenic revolution. The cops frog-marched me down to the station to issue me with a warning. I took the caution, then got a letter from the university telling me that I was officially suspended. In response to this, our fellow students went on strike; and they set their banners out on the green; forcing them to reinstate me. Even to this day there are people, with longer memories and more conservative attitudes, who despise me for taking those radical stances. Although I’ve mellowed, considerably, of course I have.
Lizzie and I were never exactly the ‘ring leaders’ of these demonstrations, but we played our part. In contrast Susan and Bob were more inconspicuous. They restricted themselves to friendly debates. They hardly got their glasses steamed up. They agreed with many of our views and actions, but refrained from shaking their fists. Liz and I had the potential to be first class students as well as troublemakers. We were snarled up in radical politics and that crazy social scene. But then we had a marriage certificate before I was handed my degree certificate. How’s that for double honours?
At the end of our last year Bob and Sue decided to go backpacking around the world. This was not then so much a predictable rite of pass
age, as for youth in the present era.
“Let’s go, before we have responsibilities,” Bob argued.
“In theory, that’s wild,” Lizzie admitted.
We had to pull out because Lizzie was already throwing up. Since we hadn’t left the country yet, this couldn’t be put down to travel sickness. She wasn’t going to sail oceans, merely break water. Heart breaking for her.
“Maybe another time,” I came back.
They were hitching across the States, while we were moving into our first rented flat. It should have been illegal to keep pets in a box that size.
We were preparing for the baby’s arrival, as they went from San Diego to Los Angeles. I remember because I made the word association between babies and angels. I was busy painting the bambino’s room, trying to make one pot spread over four walls. As Lizzie was booking her bed in the maternity ward, we got a card from the beatnik couple, that Bob had scrawled from the bed of a truck, while the pair of them crossed the Great Basin from Salt Lake City. Man, as teenagers we dreamed of making such a journey.
Meanwhile the new married couple was festering in that pokey flat, rubbing their pennies together. On their return Bob and Sue decided to go off on yet further travels; this time doing good. They taught English in Malaysia and undertook charity work in the poorer districts of Kuala Lumpur. We had black fungi and mildew spreading from the walls of our main bedroom, as if a scrofulous devil had coughed blood there. We’d been idealistic students, but we didn’t imagine poverty. Not our own poverty, that is.
