Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 22

My digs were at 42C Kentside Rd in Bentham Green, a tiny suburb just west of West Hampstead. My place was about 300 yards from Kentside Field, where Bentham United played, and 500 yards from the West Hampstead Sportsmen’s Club.

The digs had been arranged by Mervyn. It was essentially a private home with a room to let, owned by one Bernice O’Toole - a youngish old stick, about 65, who had more in common with a tropical cyclone than with your standard-gauge British widow. Most of her energy was reserved for surfing the Internet, and when she discovered I’d never ventured into cyberspace, she was aghast.

“What, nivvir surfed? Young man like you? That’s a disgrace, so it is.”

Her computer was in the little office, just outside my bedroom door, and before I could stop her she’d set me up with an e-mail address.

“What’s yer nickname?” she’d asked, causing me to consider.

“Actually, I haven’t had one for a while. They used to call me Mr Cleansheets.”

“And best yer keep it that way,” she chuckled. “Right. Yer now Mr Cleansheets at hotmail dot com. Who d’yer wanna contact?”

Well. There was only one e-mail address I knew:

FROM: mrcleansheets@hotmail.com

TO: dbender@soulscapes.com

SUBJECT: Hello

Hi Doreen, how’s it going?

This is my first ever email.

Eric Judd (from the plane - first class)

“Last o’ the great romantics, so ye are,” smiled Bernice.

“Dunno what else to say,” I said. “She’s not me girlfriend.”

“No,” said Bernice. “Just the first girl ya thought of.”

* * *

I was deliberately late to training. I wanted to have a bit of a look at the guys before I reintroduced myself to the world of football. Southern Conference was semi-pro, after all. Probably about the same level as State Super League back in New South Wales - a level I’d never reached (despite being easily good enough).

Watching from a small copse on the far side of the field from the shed, they looked the same as any other bunch of guys who took the game reasonably seriously - standing around chatting - having a laugh before the coach showed up. Jaffa was clearly the centre of attention, and from his movements, I could tell he was acting out the incident in the bar at lunch time.

It was right on 5.30 - getting dark and a definite chill in the air.

The idea of training was suddenly extremely unattractive to me, but something very strange happened. I had more or less made up my mind to give the whole thing a miss, but as I started walking, I found myself moving towards the group of footballers, rather than away from them as I (thought I had) intended.

A bit of a silence fell as I approached. Jaffa gave me a grin and said,

“‘Ere ‘e is! Eric Judd. The Great White Hope!”

I was introduced to the boys but most of the names went in one ear and out the other, with a couple of exceptions. The oldest bloke there (besides me) was Trevor. He would’ve been late 30s and I already knew from Jaffa that he’d actually played for Oxford United in the old third division (now League 1) in his younger days. Could’ve been a star, according to Jaffa, but too fond of the bevvy. Most of the other blokes had similar stories - lots of talent and opportunity in the past but always frittered away or lost via the bad luck or stupidity of youth.

Trevor was a Souness-like hardman midfielder and captain of the Bentham United Reserves, and the only one to shake hands with me.

“‘Ear yer can play a bit.”

“Used to,” I said, inwardly weeping at the vocalisation of retirement.

“Used to, bollocks,” scoffed Jaffa. “Yer did alright this afternoon. Kept two outta three out.”

“Actually, it was three out of three.”

“Fahk off,” laughed Jaffa.

Another name I noted was Dennis: a tallish, blondish bloke who played left half for the first team and was also a chemistry grad who’d done nine months for possession of laboratory paraphernalia and precursor chemicals. Dennis just sort of nodded vacantly in a manner that could have been either a polite acknowledgment of my presence, or an answer to voices within.

Then, two skinny Latin types sauntered over, exuding all the natural arrogance and style of their race.

“This is the Santos brothers: Juan Pablo and Juan Marco,” introduced Jaffa.

Jaffa had told me about these blokes too: fantastic ball players but incorrigible thieves and pants men. No-one ever knew for sure that they’d turn up for a match, and they didn’t look like brothers. And upon being introduced to a stranger seemed a trifle furtive.

“You’re brothers?” I asked.

They looked at each other.

“Si,” said Juan Pablo.

“And you’re both called Juan?”

They looked at each other again.

“Our family ees verra close,” explained Juan Marco.

The first grade goalkeeper was Charlie, known as Charlie the Cat. He was off with the reserve keeper, Col Cochrane (Cockie) going through some of the same stretches as I had always done before training, and I was suddenly itching to join them. But at that moment, the laughter and banter stopped as a bloke in his late fifties or early sixties strode into our midst.

“What the fack is this?” he exclaimed in exasperated cockney. “It’s gone ‘alf-fahkin’-past and yer still gas-baggin’!”

Without another word, the entire group took off on the traditional warm-up laps, with the exception of me and Jaffa.

“Awright, Ronnie?” asked Jaffa.

“Oo the fahk is this?” responded Ron Wellard, the Bentham manager, as I tentatively held out my hand.

“Eric Judd, from Australia,” I replied.

“What you want?”

“‘E’s come to train,” said Jaffa.

“If that’s okay,” I added.

“Train? Yer fahkin’ older than me mate,” said Ronnie, then waved a dismissive hand at us. “Well fahk off then. Four laps, Jaffa.”

“Come on,” said Jaffa, shoving me in the direction of the other blokes, and still not entirely sure whether I’d been given permission (“fuck off” could be so ambiguous), I trailed after Jaffa - plodding along and immediately feeling the ill-effects of jetlag and bugger all training over the weeks of my recovery from the back injury.

At the end of the first lap, I was already puffing. Jaffa had sprinted ahead to join the others, but two of them dropped back and nodded at me, plodding alongside for half a lap. These two definitely were brothers - Billy and Gareth - nephews of Mervyn, so doubtless also members of the Irish mafia that seemed to infest this part of London.

“Jaffa tells us yer ‘ad a bit o’ bother today,” said Gareth.

Billy and Gareth were both young and fit, and very hard. Billy would’ve been six foot and Gareth slightly older and shorter, and for all my expertise with my fists, I wouldn’t have liked taking on either of ‘em.

“Just a bit,” I puffed, not wanting to have to talk too much with two and a half laps to go.

“Blue Fury?” asked Billy.

“Think so.”

We plodded on for another half lap or so.

“Mervyn’ll wanna see yer later … back at the club,” advised Gareth, and the two of them sped up again, leaving me to finish as best I could. In fact, I was lapped by the main group at the end of three laps, so that seemed like enough. But instead of standing around stretching - getting a breather like I’d always done in the past - it was straight into sprint work. We took off in threes, at intervals of five seconds, sprinting twenty meters and then jogging back to the end of the line to go again. There were about 30 at training so you had a breather of about 20 seconds before you had to sprint.

It was never enough. After ten sprints I was fucked and just about to quit when Trevor muttered to me:

“Come on mate, there’s only two more. We do everythin’ by fours yeah?”

It was enough to push me for two more sprints and, sure enough, Ronnie told us to stop. But the torment wasn’t over - not by a long shot. We went through four laps of circuit work and didn’t even see a football, but I started to feel good. This was training - in England, the home of football. The city, the team and the locale were strange, but the steaming breath and the tang of liniment and sweat were so familiar. I started to relax and enjoy myself, but hoped to see some ball work.

Eventually, Ronnie told us to stretch for a few minutes while he talked about the coming Saturday’s game against Havant & Waterlooville, then concluded by letting us know that: “Fahkin’ Chris Wyndham has got ‘imself busted again.”

There were a few chuckles but Col Cochrane swore. And I gathered that, as Col sat on the bench for first grade, Chris Wyndham was the youth team keeper who sat on the bench for reserves.

Before I could stop him, Jaffa had piped up: “Eric’s a keeper. Not bad either.”

Ronnie’s look was withering.

“We got no space in this side for unregistered, Aussie geriatrics. We’ll take young Philip from the 17s.”

So that was that: another rejection. I finished the training session and even spent a bit of time with Charlie and Cockie. They both had a bit of skill, especially Charlie, but I knew they weren’t in my league. In any case, I was happy enough to train. It was quite unrealistic to hope to play when it was halfway through the season.

The shed had one of those large communal showers and a procession of pink bodies emerged from the steam relieved of dirt and sweat and cruising with endorphins. By 8.00, we were all trooping down the road to the Sportsmen’s Club for dinner. I found myself talking to Trevor and Charlie, with Jaffa pissing us off with his fuckin’ cigarettes about five yards in front.

“If yer packed in the fahkin’ cancer sticks yer’d be twice the player, mate,” moaned Trevor, but Jaffa was heedless of his ancient wisdom. Twenty-two year olds are immortal, after all.

“I’m not fahkin’ kiddin’, mate,” repeated Trev. “You were fahkin’ nowhere in the last ten minutes on the weekend. We needed a goal an’ all.”

“Fahkin’ bollocks,” retorted Jaffa. “I got us a fahkin’ goal, which is more ‘n anyone else did.”

“You got us a goal in the first 15,” said Charlie, “an’ ‘ow many did yer miss? Yer don’t value the chances when they come.”

“Twelve games, thirteen goals,” said Jaffa. “Some might say I’m carryin’ this side.”

Trevor and Charlie just shook their heads as Jaffa pranced about up ahead with a couple of the younger blokes - also smokers but still full of energy.

“Got a lot o’ talent that lad,” muttered Trevor. “Goin’ to fahkin’ waste. If he was fit and ‘ad bit more fahkin’ mongrel e’d be playin’ in the league. But I’m not gonna embarrass meself droppin’ ‘is name when I still want it more ‘n ‘e does.”

* * *

Most of the squad had come to the club (the Santos brothers had disappeared on God-know’s-what type of missions for the evening) and we ate counter meals in the small bistro area. Mine was a fairly disappointing seafood pasta but the beer was good, and colder than rumour would have it back in Australia.

Paddy and Liam nodded at me from their usual place at the corner of the bar, still nursing the same two pints of Guinness by the look of ‘em.

Mervyn was holding court at the same large round table as the day before, chatting with a couple of blokes who looked like graduates from Arthur Daley’s Finishing School for Toerags and Geezers. Billy and Gareth were also there and, as I expected, the summons eventually came.

I made my way over with a fresh pint, and looked up at the Bentham United squad portrait - I knew most of the faces now. Jaffa, also, was required at the high table, and we sat in the only two available chairs.

“‘Ow wuz de food?” enquired Mervyn.

“Not bad,” I lied. “Could’ve done with a bit more herbs and chilli.”

“Tell the cook,” said Mervyn to a bloke called Lucas - another humourless Paddy whom, I eventually discovered, it would be unwise to disobey.

“‘Erbs an’ chilli … no problem,” said Lucas, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Whut ‘appened at lunch time?” asked Mervyn, and before I could stop him Jaffa launched into a graphic description of the melee at The Rose , which didn’t exactly over-exaggerate, but certainly portrayed me in more heroic terms than I would have cared to use myself.

Mervyn listened, then asked me: “Is dat ‘ow it ‘appened?”

“More or less,” I shrugged.

“They’re becomin’ a problem, the Blue Fury. Weren’t the same blokes as in Sydney?”

“Pretty sure they weren’t.”

“Aye, dere’s too many o’ the fockers.”

“Nombers need thinnin’ out,” remarked Lucas.

“Dat’s your answer to everyt’in’,” sniggered Mervyn, but no-one laughed. There was a bit of a silence at the table, notwithstanding the fairly raucous banter going on all around us - the club was filling up.

“Right,” said Mervyn. “You’re to stay away from Maida Vale. Dey’ll come back to The Rose in nombers, dat’s certain. We don’t want trouble … not yet.”

“Dey put our Danny in ‘ospital,” said Gareth (he and Billy were also cousins of Danny Malone). “Dey’re encroachin’ in our territory. We’ve already got trouble.”

“Aye,” agreed Mervyn, “but we don’t know the full score yet. Looks like McNowt’s mobilised the Blue Fury. But is it just McNowt, or is it a wider coalition? We bide our time fer now … public at least. Might be some work fer you, Lucas.”

They all looked to Lucas, who grinned for the first time - and there were a few grim chuckles about the table. Then Mervyn turned back to me and his mood lightened.

“Onderstand yer play football, Mr Judd?”

“I do.”

“Bit old aren’t ya?”

“Not really. Not too old to play in goals.”

“Is dat so?”

Before I knew it, Ronnie Wellard had been summoned and was standing beside us.

“‘Ow’s de team lookin’, Ron?” asked Mervyn.

“Not bad,” replied Ronnie. “Havant shouldn’t be too much trouble at home.”

“Heard about young Wyndham,” said Mervyn. “Bad business.”

“We’re covered,” said Ronnie.

Mervyn considered him for a moment, then said, “Will yer do me a favour, Ron?”

“Course I will,” replied Ronnie, “if I can.”

Mervyn nodded in my direction.

“Mr Judd here is a goalkeeper … not a bad one as I onder-stand.”

“He’s not registered,” said Ronnie.

“How long would it take to get ‘im registered?”

“Don’t know. Couple of days at least.”

“Could yer look into it, as a personal favour to me?”

Ronnie glanced down at me, and there was no mistaking the resentment.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “But— ”

“So that’s settled then,” interrupted Mervyn. “Bring yer gear on Saturday, Mr Judd.”

Jaffa was grinning his ginger head off, but Ronnie Wellard was not best pleased.

* * *

When I got home, Bernice was just going to bed.

“Oh, and yer’ve got mail,” she told me, pointing at the computer.

I sat down and, as she had shown me, clicked on the bolded Doreen Bender:

FROM: dbender@soulscapes.com.au

TO: mrcleansheets@hotmail.com

SUBJECT: Re: Hello

Hi Eric, great to hear from you. I’m very honoured to be the recipient of your first ever e-mail. It’s been pretty hectic for me. I’ve been doing some work with the RCM (that’s Royal College of Music) and preparing for the Ley Lines festival at Glastonbury in a couple of weeks. I suppose you’re in Manchester. Maybe we could catch up some time.

Doreen xx

“Well, aren’t you going to reply?” asked Bernice, making me jump. I hadn’t realised she was reading over my shoulder.

“I guess so.”

Bernice reached for the mouse.

“Just click on Reply, and there you go.”

It wasn’t easy writing with Bernice standing there, so I kept it brief:

FROM: mrcleansheets@hotmail.com

TO: dbender@soulscapes.com.aU

SUBJECT: Re: Hello

Hi Doreen, glad it’s going well.

I’m actually back in London and playing for Bentham United in the Southern Conference. It didn’t work out with Man United, but no worries.

Eric

“Is that all?” demanded Bernice, before I could press Send.

“Dunno what else to say,” I said, feeling embarrassed and adolescent.

“Men!” exclaimed Bernice. “Honestly, at the very least, you could tell her you want to catch up.”

“Oh, okay.”

“And put kisses in like she did.”

“Girls can put kisses in,” I replied. “They know it doesn’t mean anything, but if a bloke puts kisses in, it looks like he means it.”

“The rubbish you talk,” said Bernice. “And why shouldn’t he mean it? Lovely girl sends you kisses and you want to respond wid a formal handshake?”

“Okay, I’ll put the kisses in.”

“Put three.”

I turned and looked up at her.

“Three? She only put in two! She’ll think I’m out to rape her.”

“It’s strategy,” winked Bernice. “A small escalation of affection to see if she comes along wid yer.”

“Okay,” I sighed.

I added the three kisses.

FROM: mrcleansheets@hotmail.com

TO: dbender@soulscapes.com.au

SUBJECT: Re: Hello

Hi Doreen, glad it’s going well.

I’m actually back in London and playing for Bentham United in the Southern Conference. It didn’t work out with Man United, but no worries.

I’d like to catch up, when you’re free.

Eric xxx

I pressed Send before Bernice could suggest any further complications.

“It’s all a bit weird, Bernice. She’s not my girlfriend. Shona’s my girlfriend, back in Australia.”

“So why aren’t you writin’ to her then?”

“I would, but she doesn’t have a computer.”

Bernice offered me a chocolate from the bottomless box that seemed always to be by her side.

“So, which one do you like best?” she enquired, as I perused the little menu and selected a strawberry whorl.

“I … well, I don’t know. I’ve been with Shona six and a half years but I don’t think we make each other terribly happy. An’ I’ve known Doreen for a day … on an aeroplane.”

All of a sudden a loud ping rang out from the computer.

“Yer must’ve made an impression in 24 hours,” said Bernice. “She’s replied already.”