Читать книгу Mr Cleansheets - Adrian Deans - Страница 29

Jaffa and I started a new job at Hampstead on Monday morning - another lovely house, another fucking cow that owned it. Why do people have to be such arseholes?

I was still a bit pissed off about the fact that Doreen had, once again, disappeared just as things were getting interesting. But I was very much looking forward to Friday morning when we were taking off for Glastonbury which, according to Doreen, was about a hundred miles west, in Somerset.

“‘Ave yer told Ronnie yer won’t be at the game on Sat’day?” asked Jaffa.

“No. Why should he give a shit? He can barely stand the sight o’ me as it is.”

“Yer don’ understand the way ‘is mind works,” said Jaffa. “‘E loves the team to death, an’ expecks everyone else ter be the same, yeah? You don’ show up to support, an’ it’ll jus’ confirm ‘is suspicions.”

“What suspicions?”

“That you’re jus’ some fahkin’ Aussie tourist takin’ the piss. Not a serious footballer committed to the glory of the Bentham United cause.”

We paused our conversation to manoeuvre a large, oaken bed frame through a doorway and then consider how we were gonna wangle it down a curving stair case without dropping or scratching it.

“Take it apart?” I suggested.

“Naah, fahk that,” said Jaffa. “On’y ‘ave ter put the cunt back together again. Come on, lift!”

With a massive effort, we got it half way down the stairs, but then we were stuck. The bed was just a fraction too large to get round a tightish angle on the stair, and too heavy to take back up.

We paused for a breather, Jaffa panting like an old greyhound.

“I need a fag,” he said, squeezing between the bed and the wall.

“That’s the last fuckin’ thing you need,” I told him as I followed him into the back yard.

“Oh not you an’ all!” moaned Jaffa, lighting up and sucking down smoke like a drowner gulping oxygen. I found a place in the sun upwind of him and sat on a wall, eating an apple.

“Whose fault was it,” I asked him, “that first grade didn’t win on the weekend?”

“I dunno,” said Jaffa. “Boydie, Gareth … Charlie?”

“None of the above,” I responded, staring at him.

“Oh do fahk off,” laughed Jaffa. “‘Ow yer gonna say it’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say it was your fault, but that’s an interesting admission.”

“Bollocks! I didn’t admit nuffin, mate!”

I just nodded and continued to stare at him.

“You reckon it’s my fault we drew and it’s the fahkin’ fags ter blame?” he asked with a sneer, trying to blow smoke at me but was thwarted by a light cross breeze.

I remained silent, shrugging my shoulders and pursing my lips. Jaffa was starting to get the shits, so I put him out of his misery.

“Mate … an’ I’m sure I’m not the first bloke to say this: you’ve got a talent. You were the shining light out there on Saturday, but we only got to see a few flashes in 90 minutes ‘cause ya don’t have the puff. If ya got fit mate, there’d be no stoppin’ ya. Yer know what Trevor says?”

“Trevor?” snided Jaffa. “Trevor’s full o’ shit, when he’s not full o’ piss.”

I felt like decking the prick.

“Listen shit-for-brains,” I seethed. “Trevor’s played full professional an’ he knows more about football than the rest of the squad put together. He can see it, but it breaks ‘is heart ‘cause you don’t understand that yer body is yer number one tool for playin’ football. You gotta look after it, you fuckin’ plonker.”

Jaffa, like any young bloke, could simply have got the shits at my outburst and refused to engage in any further conversation, but his ego was strong enough to be curious.

“So what does Trevor reckon?”

“Trev reckons you could play professionally. He’d call one of ‘is old mates tomorrow if he thought you were prepared to get serious.”

“I do play professional,” whinged Jaffa. “I get 60 quid a game and 40 per goal. That’s professional, mate.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “David Beckham does removals Monday to Friday. Thierry Henry’s a drycleaner when he isn’t bangin’ ‘em in at Barcelona.”

Jaffa laughed. Then he stubbed out his fag and said, “Alright yer fahkin’ know-it-all. Let’s go take that bed apart.”

* * *

That night, when I got to training, I could feel there was something different happening. There was a tension in the air you could cut with a rusty bread knife. Everyone was on edge and I said to Trevor: “What is it? Everyone’s that wound up, you’d think they’re about to go to court.”

“Aye,” said Cockie. “We’re on trial, but the on’y judge is oursel.”

I must have looked confused because Trev explained: “It’s the magic o’ the Cup, mate. Second round Cup Tie on Saturday.”

Certainly no-one disagreed with him. And perhaps a little of the occasion started to seep in through the pores of my skin - breathing the same air as these boys - and I suddenly felt a pang of regret that I wasn’t gonna be there on Saturday, even though I had no chance of being involved in the game. They were still my team mates - my tribe.

Suddenly Jaffa barged into our little circle.

“Right,” he announced. “I’ve packed in.”

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but the other blokes laughed and said they’d believe it when they saw it. Eventually, I gathered he was giving up the fags.

“But you’re gonna ‘ave to fahkin’ ‘elp me,” he said to me, and I laughed.

“Help you? How fuckin’ old are yer?”

A few of the blokes grinned, but Charlie came unexpectedly to his aid.

“If yer’ve not been a smoker mate, yer can’t understand ‘ow ‘ard it is ter pack in. ‘E’ll need all our fahkin’ support.”

“Oh, I’ll support ‘im,” I said. “I’m just not gonna fuckin’ help him. How am I supposed to help him?”

“Jus’ keep talking’, mate,” said Jaffa. “Jus’ go on givin’ me the shits like yer did today. That’ll ‘elp no end!”

We all laughed and then Ron Wellard materialised in our midst, as he usually did despite our vigilance, and started his usual ranting: “What the fack you lot doin’ standin’ abaht for? Fahk off ‘round the park! Six laps!”

The boys were shocked. Six laps? It wasn’t the extra work, it was the fact that Ronnie had never before departed from his multiples of four method. There was surprise bordering on fear in their eyes as we all took off running.

Immediately, Jaffa started coughing his guts up.

* * *

It was the hardest training I’d ever done, but I loved it. The jet lag was completely gone, my back felt 100 per cent, and all my confidence came pouring back in as the sweat poured out and the oxygen tingled in my fingers and toes. This was the stuff. This was what I lived for. In the past, I’d always been a bit of a sergeant-at-arms at training, urging the other boys on with insults and mock threats, and I found myself back into that routine. Jaffa in particular copped the edge of my tongue: “Fuckin’ ‘ell yer ginger fuckin’ minger, I’m twice yer age an’ I’m doin’ figure eights round yer!”

Jaffa’s response was either to swear at me or even, occasionally, to lift his effort. Then suddenly, to our great surprise and delight, Jaffa was on his knees retching. The boys all erupted with laughter and Trevor stood over him with one foot on the small of his back as he heaved his guts up on the edge of the pitch.

“Abaht fahkin’ time!” yelled Trev. “‘Ow long ‘ve we tried ter get somethin’ out o’ this red ‘eaded twat?”

“Gettin’ plenty out of ‘im now,” said Charlie. “Peas, carrots …”

“Not enough fahkin’ goals,” said Trevor, and to my surprise Jaffa reacted.

“Fack off, pisshead!” he sneered, wiping his mouth on all fours. “I’ve scored more goals ‘n the rest o’ you cunts put together!”

The excellent camaraderie of moments before was instantly replaced by something very different. It was okay for Trevor to refer to himself as a pisshead. It was not okay for Jaffa to call him a pisshead, and without a word, Trevor just launched at Jaffa and kicked him in the guts.

Instantly, two of the younger blokes came at Trevor and one of them - Boydie, I think - landed a shot that put Trevor on his arse. Jaffa was scrambling to his feet and about to return serve to Trevor on the ground when I intervened.

“Jaffa!” I shouted, but the red mist was on him and he went for Trev, who was also jumping to his feet.

Billy half-tried to hold me back, but I brushed his arm away and shoulder charged Jaffa off course to prevent him getting to Trevor.

Then a couple of the boys held Jaffa, while I restrained Trev: “Out o’ my fahkin’ way, Mr Cleansheets!” bellowed Trevor, and a strange thing happened. All the anger and tension was suddenly gone. The boys were all laughing.

“Mr Cleansheets?” echoed Charlie. “Where’d that come from?”

“It’s what they call ‘im in Australia,” laughed Trevor, rubbing his jaw. “But who fahkin’ belted me?”

Everyone seemed to find this hilarious.

“What they call yer one yer let one through?” asked Charlie.

“Mr Skid Marks,” said Cockie, and the boys were falling about. But not the manager.

“Trevor … Jaffa … get yer arses into the shed! Rags … Gareth… get ‘em goin’!”

The boys resumed training, with the exception of Trev and Jaffa.”

“You too,” said Ronnie, grabbing my elbow as I went to jog off with the rest.

The tension, momentarily released by laughter, was back as the three of us sheepishly followed Ron into the shed. I expected him to start tearing strips off Jaffa and Trev, but I was speechless when Ron Wellard seemed to find me responsible.

“Ever since you showed up at this club there’s been trouble,” he said. “We’re tryin’ to prepare for a second round Cup tie, and what’s this? A fahkin’ riot!”

I was too amazed even to speak, but fortunately, Trevor spoke up for me.

“That’s out of order Ron. It’s nuffin ter do wiv Eric.”

“Oh yeah? Who told Jaffa ter give up the fags? I don’t want fahkin’ changes this close to the game, unless I make ‘em.”

“Ron,” said Jaffa. “Fahkin’ Trev’s been tellin’ me ter lay off the cancer sticks for 12 months! ‘Ow can yer say it was Eric’s fault?”

“Coz yer never packed ‘em in until now,” said Ron. “An’ look ‘ow yer respond! Chuckin’ yer guts up, I don’t mind. Squarin’ up to team mates, I fahkin’ do.”

“Yeah, that was my fault,” said Trev. “Sorry, Jaff. You shouldn’t call me a pisshead when I’m fahkin’ sober, mate.”

Jaffa grinned. They were clearly reconciled, but Ron wasn’t finished with me.

“Listen to me Mr Cleansheets, or whatever yer fahkin’ name is. I don’t give a toss abaht yer gangster mate. I want you out of this club.”

Trevor and Jaffa were horrified.

“Ron!” pleaded Jaffa. “Yer can’t get rid of Eric! Can’t yer see how he gees the lads up? “E’s good for the side.”

“I don’ like ‘ow ‘e gees the lads up,” said Ronnie. “We’re losin’ our discipline … our control. Just the fact we’re ‘avin’ this conversation shows ‘ow the ‘ole fing’s fallin’ apart, an’ four days out from a fahkin’ Cup tie!”

“Ron,” said Trevor. “Yer makin’ a big mistake. If Eric goes, I go.”

“Me an’ all,” agreed Jaffa.

Ron Wellard turned on me in a fury.

“Yer see what you’ve done?” he fumed, and turned on his heel.

“Ron … wait!” I called.

Ronnie Wellard paused in the doorway, and faced me with a look of thunder.

“I don’t know what the hell I’ve done to piss you off,” I said, “but I’m not stayin’ in a club that doesn’t want me.”

Trevor and Jaffa started to protest, but I strode from the room.