Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 15

Emerging from the darkness of the longhaul limbo, I found myself staring out the window at a dim and watery sky (Doreen didn’t want the window seat), and was suddenly aware of a green and watery landscape below. It was 5.10 p.m. local time - mid Autumn. The sun was still a while off but the predawn light revealed a landscape that would have had Turner and Constable duelling at dawn for the right to commit to canvas.

We landed in a cold drizzle. The first class passengers were first to leave the plane - a privilege bitterly resented by the losers in business class, but those crammed into economy were largely ignorant of the slight. Doreen and I walked quickly, trying to beat both the cold and our fellow passengers to Customs.

I had intended to have a go at the dark-faced stranger, but he never rejoined the plane in Bangkok. The red-haired hostie, however, was back to wave goodbye as we left the plane.

“Goodbye, Mr Judd,” she said with an evil grin. “I trust you enjoyed first class as much as the loud, drunken Glaswegian enjoyed business.”

“Loud, drunken Glaswegian?”

“Yes,” she clarified. “The loud, drunken Glaswegian who was upgraded to seat 4B after you were upgraded to first class. Miss Palmer found his company … unrelenting, shall we say?”

I was still laughing as we made our way through the terminal to locate Customs.

Quickening our step around a couple of corners, I was expecting to be at the head of the queue, but ours obviously wasn’t the only plane landing at Heathrow that morning. The Customs queue stretched forever - winding back and forth for fucking kilometres.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I muttered under my breath, causing Doreen to giggle. Once again, I was reminded of the difference between uptight Shona and other more sane and relaxed women.

Slowly we shuffled, surrounded by hordes of immigrants, or so I presume, because the Customs people were taking their time about letting them through. Time and again some family from India or Africa would get to the front of the line, be surrounded by all available officials and then shunted off to a holding bay for special scrutiny. All of which took time.

I did manage to get one bloke’s attention and asked if there was a fast lane for Commonwealth citizens, but his stiffly bureaucratic answer was like listening to a lecture from a referee. Those bastards know they hold all the cards.

If anything, Doreen seemed amused by my impatience, smiling and giggling at my every whimper and snort of annoyance. And before I knew it even I was amused. Doreen was a calming influence and I found myself regretting the fact that our shared adventure was about to come to an end.

Finally, I was directed to a counter and handed over my shiny new passport.

“Your reason for entering the United Kingdom?”

“Erm … football.”

The fellow looked up at me.

“You wish to attend a football match?”

“Heaps of football matches. I’m here to join Manchester United.”

The fellow threw his head back and laughed.

“Course you are, mate!”

He stamped the passport and said, “Right, Tourist visa. Not to work in Britain and must be out of the country within six months, yeah?

Enjoy your stay.”

I collected my passport and hefted my backpack. Six months? That meant I’d have to be out of the country by April. Well, the Cup Final’s in May. No doubt the United staff would be able to sort that out.

* * *

Four hours later, I was sitting on a British Rail train at Euston Station, bound for Watford, Rugby, Birmingham and Manchester. I was still wearing my Man United shirt, which was more than a tad whiffy after approximately 30 hours. But start out as you mean to finish, I always say.

Doreen and I had parted ways after collecting our luggage. She was being picked up by her friend Gina. It felt strange saying goodbye. We just sort of stood there for a while with our bags around us, avoiding eye contact. I felt like asking for a phone number or something, but I didn’t really know her status. Come to think of it, I didn’t really know my own status. Had I broken up with Shona, or were we simply separated by half the planet and different universes?

In the end, Doreen pressed something into my hand, pecked me on the cheek, swept up her bags and was gone. In my hand was a card:

Doreen Bender BA (hons) MSc (Music)

Musicologist

dbender@soulscapes.com.au

I’d never been terribly internet savvy, but I recognised an e-mail address when I saw one, and vaguely wondered whether she had to be in Australia to receive an e-mail, or whether I could reach her in England.

Anyway, that could wait. I was still in a bit of a daze from jet lag and alcohol, but began to take note of my surroundings. England was similar to Australia, but also very different. Everyone spoke English, but it was a strange English - the language of football, I decided, and found myself grinning. I was here! I was actually here in England. The home of football. And it was Saturday.

I’d managed to pick up a couple of newspapers and couldn’t believe how much was devoted to the game; the back eight pages in The Sun and the back twelve pages, plus the front page in the Daily Mail. You’d get half a page, six pages in from the back in Australia. This was fuckin’ paradise.

The front page of the Daily Mail was concerned with rising football violence which, largely buried since the 1980s, seemed to be making a return. Jeez, but even that was something to be proud of - in a way. I mean, at least they give a shit.

At that moment, I was disturbed by a bit of a commotion out on the platform. Two young blokes in Manchester United shirts bolted along the platform, weaving among the alarmed bystanders. Then three more United fans followed suit, pursued by about twenty thugs, most of whom were wearing Chelsea shirts.

Ten seconds later, a couple of police appeared, chasing after the Chelsea boys and shouting into walkie talkies.

Yep. At least they give a shit.

* * *

Half an hour into the journey I suddenly felt thirsty so decided to head for the bar car.

As soon as I opened the door, I was hit with a wave of singing. It was hard, at first, to pick out the words but the tune was Teddy Bears’ Picnic. About 50 United fans were clustered around the bar and, gradually, I was able to make out the words: If you come down to the Stretford End You’d better not come in blue

If you come down to the Stretford End

You’d better bring all yer crew

For all the fans that ever there was

Are gathered here today because

Today’s the day that we play Man City.

On the words “Man City” the boys all screamed and spat and skulled their beers. Then someone noticed my shirt and pounded me on the back.

“Ay oop lad! Getcha beers in!” shouted some fellow in my ear. For chrissakes, it was 11.00 in the morning and I had been wanting an orange juice, but bugger it. I ordered a large can of Carlsberg and managed to back out of the heart of the scrum.

“‘Ow ya doin’ lad?” enquired an enthusiastic young fellow in a Cantona shirt and covered with tatts.

“Not bad, mate. Bloody tired,” I responded and took a deep slurp of the Carlsberg.

He looked me up and down, considering.

“Australian?”

“How can you tell?”

He nudged his mate and said, “Oy, Matty!”

Matty turned round and did a double take.

“Fook me! I thought you was—”

“Yeah me too,” interrupted his mate. “but ‘e’s Australian. This fooker’s coom even further than oos fer ‘ome match!”

I didn’t always understand what they were talking about. But fuckin’ paradise.

* * *

Ray and Matty were two mates from Manchester working in London - probably early 30s. They didn’t get to that many Old Trafford games, but there was no way they’d miss a derby at home.

“So you’re playin’ Man City today?”

“Aye! Where the fook you been?”

“But, didn’t I see you blokes running along the platform earlier? Why are you getting chased by Chelsea when you’re not even playin’ ‘em?”

“You got a fookin’ lot to learn, mate,” advised Matty.

Ray laughed. “Aye. It’s no fookin’ game supportin’ United. You cop it at both ends: home and away.”

Matty said, “I work with one o’ them blokes. I’m ‘is fookin’ su-pervisor! But that won’t stop ‘im kickin’ ma fookin’ teeth in before a game.”

“Probably joost encourage ‘im,” laughed Ray.

Matty saw the back of my shirt and said, “Judd? Oo the fook’s Jood?”

I probably should have been just a tad more circumspect, but the jet lag and the beer combined to inflate my confidence.

“Just remember where you were, when you first heard the name Eric Judd,” I told them.

Ray and Matty exchanged glances, and I realised I was about to make a dick of myself. But the jet lag - the beer - I was powerless to prevent it.

“Is that you?” asked Ray.

“I’m goin’ to Old Trafford for a trial,” I told them. “I’m your new keeper.”

“Hedge keeper?” asked Matty.

“Goal keeper, smartarse.”

Ray and Matty roared with laughter.

“I think we’ve got a game in the Coop,” said Ray, “against the Sun-nydale Nursing Home. They moost ‘ve bought you for that.”

Fuckin’ paradise.

* * *

With most clubs, the running of the gauntlet between the train station and the stadium is done by the away supporters, but Manchester United was different. The vast majority of the locals, with the exception of those few Salfordians who lived in the shadows of Old Trafford, followed City. United fans were numerous but far flung, and they had to get past the thick, blue line to enter.

Police on horseback hemmed us in as we jogged down the rat maze towards the ground while hundreds of chanting City fans pelted us with eggs and tomatoes and sharpened coins. It reminded me of a medieval infantry charge as we trotted along, heads down, dreading danger from above. The bloke in front of me was caught fair in the face by a soft tomato and he whirled about screaming in rage as his face dripped red. Then a rotten egg exploded on his shoulder and we all scattered - desperate to escape the stench while the City fans erupted with laughter and song.

And there it was. The Theatre of Dreams, six storeys high and dwarf-ing its surroundings like Ayers Rock over spinifex scrub. I’d managed to keep myself comparatively clean getting through the gauntlet and once we’d reached the stadium it was the City fans being hemmed and corralled, so I was free to explore.

It was half an hour before kick off and, in retrospect, I might have waited until the following business day. But after twenty four years and Jimmy’s passing, The Letter was suddenly burning a hole in my pocket. It was time to introduce myself to Sir Ally.

Surprisingly, it was fairly easy getting through the main entrance. I mean, I had been invited, but I hadn’t phoned ahead to let them know I was on my way. But the ease of entry was soon explained. It was a shop - the MU Megastore, no less.

I made my way to one of the counters and addressed a chubby, young girl with henna-red hair and a name badge informing me that she answered to May.

“Hello, May.”

“‘Ullo. What can I doo for ya?”

“Look, I know this is a bit sudden. But I need to see the manager.”

“No problem, sir. I can call the manager right away.”

She picked up a phone, pushed a couple of buttons, and smiled at me as she waited for an answer.

“‘Ullo, Charlie? There’s a coostomer wants to see you. Checkout four. Thanks.”

She replaced the phone but, sensing a misunderstanding, I said, “Look, erm, who’s Charlie?”

“Store manager,” said May, as though that should have been perfectly obvious.

“Right. I didn’t mean the store manager. I meant the real manager: Ally Berg … Sir Ally Bergsen.”

May just stared at me. Then a young man with dark hair and very bad acne appeared.

“What’s the problem?” he enquired.

“I need to see Sir Ally,” I informed him. “Or if not him, then John Argyle or anyone else connected with team management.”

The young manager looked confused.

“Sir Ally? On match day?”

Just the merest skerrick of doubt began to prick at my beer and jet lag fuelled confidence, but I’d come too far to back down now. I pulled The Letter (yellowing and brittle with age) from my pocket and showed it to him.

“Look, I suppose it’s a tad inconvenient for Sir Ally right now. But what about John Argyle … is he around?”

The manager scanned the Letter and handed it back to me.

“I’ve never heard of John Argyle. And this letter was written more ‘n 20 year ago.”

“So? It says to come when I’m ready. I know it’s taken a while, but it says I can have a trial, so I need to see John Argyle, or whoever’s running the Youth Team these days.”

The Manager was incredulous, and I was aware that a bit of a crowd had gathered, sensing a scene.

“You want to play in Youth Team?” asked the Manager, and my confidence took a further dent as a ripple of sniggering burst out among the supporters lined to pay for their hats and scarves and tacky, plastic flags.

“Well, not the Youth Team. They might start me in the Reserves, but first I just need to make contact.”

“Need to make contact with reality, mate!” observed a large fat bloke with his arms full of merchandise. “Joost buy summat or fook off!”

“I’m afraid I have to agree,” advised the pimply, young manager. “We really can’t help you with this. Maybe if you try tomorrow you might get to see Sir Ally?”

“And maybe there’s pixies at bottom o’ fookin’ garden?” said the fat bloke.

“‘E’s got letter, though,” suggested a middle aged woman surrounded by her squabbling grandchildren. “If they’ve offered ‘im trial they ought to do the right thing.”

“You’re as mad as he is,” sneered another bloke in a raincoat with bicycle clips around the bottom of his trousers. “Letter was 25 years ago. ‘E wouldn’t be coovered by our insurance!”

“Looks a bit like Danny Malone, though,” said the middle aged woman.

“Too bad ‘e don’t look like soomone oonder 30,” said the fat bloke, and something inside me all but snapped as my vision cleared. The Pethidine had finally worn off after six weeks of madness and I seemed to see myself through their collective eyes - a ridiculous old fart who’d travelled 10,000 miles to make a complete prick of himself.

“We’ll give yer a fookin’ trial, mate,” said the fat bloke, “at the Old Bailey fer football fookin’ fraud!”

It wasn’t a particularly clever or funny joke, but it set them all off - roaring with laughter as I folded The Letter and walked away from the checkouts.

Away from the MU Megastore.

Away from the Theatre of Dreams.

This time, I was all alone as I made my way back down the maze towards the station - no Bobbies on horseback - no chanting Blues. Occasionally, the stadium behind me would erupt with sound and fury but it meant nothing to me: a tired, old man, making his way slowly back to reality.

If it would have me.