'Come on soft lads. Here comes Sir Alf's army.'
'Hey man, who's Sir Alf?'
'Fuck off.'
*
At half time, the England boys are winning 1-0 courtesy of a Colin Bell goal.
'I tell you what lads... carrot tops are fucking brilliant.' Ged pats his head like one of the Harlem Globetrotters with a basketball.
‘I think you’re more straw than carrot,’ I suggest.
'Man, I like all of the carrot, not just the top.' Brian thinks the conversation is about vegetables.
'Not the fucking veg Bri. Alan Ball! Red Hair! Come on lad, get with it...' He pushes our hippy’s shoulder as he taunts.
‘Which cat is Ball?’ Brian's football knowledge is as meagre as the portions of meat on a plated roast dinner cooked by my dad.
‘The ginger haired one, you dick,’ says Ged.
I need some fresh air. ‘Do you want anything from the off licence? I’m going for some extra strong mints.’
Julian and Brian decline with a shake of the head, but Ged puts in an order. ‘Tell you what soft lad; get me a Watneys Party Four? No, fuck it, make it a Party Seven!’
'Bloody hell Ged, I might struggle carrying that... my bullworker’s out of action you know.'
'Come on Charles Atlas. If you're going to build up drumming arms, you need that kind of exercise.'
'Hey man, I think I have a shopping bag on wheels in the back of the van,' says Brian.
I am young enough for my ego to win the argument. 'No, I'll be fine. Right, won't be long.'
I have enjoyed the distractions of the football, and notwithstanding Julian’s counsel, my mind is still pre-occupied with Sofia and the co-incidence that her aunt lives in this road. It sounds desperate, but I figure that walking past the house a couple of times may provide one or two further clues. On the way to the shop, all I see is a house in virtual darkness, but on the way back, an external light is illuminating the driveway. I quicken my pace towards Villanova. To my surprise, what had seemed an impulsive, foolish thing to do, pays off after all. Sofia is on the driveway, opening the driver’s door to get into the MG. She is wearing a dark, three-quarter length woollen coat and a white beret. She spots me, looks away, and then turns to me again, a startled expression enveloping her features.
‘Is that you Tom?’
‘Hi Sofia.’
'You're obviously thirsty.' She notices the Party Seven under my arm.
'Oh, that's for Ged and the other lads from the band. We're watching the football at Julian’s over there. He's our bass player.’
‘He lives in this road?’
‘Sure does... the big house at the end.’
‘Gosh, what a small world.’
'Your boyfriend has a great car.' I immediately regret my words. I do not want to talk about Danny, but I am in a corner.
'Sorry?'
'The MG.'
'He doesn't drive.'
'Then...'
'It's my car.'
'Oh I see.'
It is her bloody car! This changes everything. My insides are all over the place like the Kop after a Kevin Keegan goal. Then, just as I am about to soar as high as a Jumbo Jet, I plummet down to earth with a crash.
‘I’m just about to drive to Danny’s flat,' she says distractedly. 'I've got a few things to drop off.’
This news is so deflating, if I was a balloon, I would now be flying around the air at great speed and in random directions, making a loud farting noise. It is a killer blow for me. Julian’s problem page diagnosis has renewed resonance, and I know I must let go of this obsession, not least for my own sanity. Unfortunately, I let go of something else first... the Watneys Party Seven. In my preoccupied state, the large red and gold container of beer slips from my grasp and the tin, with its heavyweight contents of seven-pints of bitter, falls to the ground via the big toe on my right foot.
‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’ I cry out, eyes watering with pain.
‘Are you OK?’ Sofia's voice is distant.
I am clearly not all right, yet things are about to get worse. As I hop around in agony, bemoaning this latest piece of bad luck, my good left foot comes crunching down on to the prone Watneys Seven tin. The impact trips me up and pierces the can so that the beer starts pouring out. As I fall to the ground, I attempt to rescue the bitter only to roll down a beer-drenched driveway and crash into the aluminium garage door. The collision sounds like something from the worst tropical storm and understandably draws the attention of the neighbours. The Morettis come out of Villanova to investigate, and lying there in agony, I hear the lads from the band approaching.
A male Italian voice, evidently Mr. Moretti, is agitated. ‘What 'as 'appened to my bella driveway? What is all 'dis beer? Oh my poor bella mosaics!’
I hear the unmistakable tones of Ged. ‘What about my bella Watneys?’
I just want to say, ‘what about my bella right toe?’
*
About twenty minutes later, Sofia is helping me out of the MG at the entrance to the accident department of Victoria Hospital. In any other circumstances, the journey would have been something to treasure, but the pain from my toe is such that I have found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than my injury.
‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK now?’
‘Yes, I’ll be fine. Thanks very much for the lift.’
‘You’re more than welcome, any time in fact.’
‘What about tomorrow night?’ I gasp as the pain shoots from my toe to my knee.
‘Fine, but make it the left foot next time.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
It occurs to me that our conversations are starting to flow more naturally, in stark contrast to our early verbal exchanges when I was as talkative as a gagged Harpo Marx with laryngitis.
‘I love you.’
I do not believe for one second that Sofia has said this, but in my pain disorientated state; there is a sub-conscious association between the words and her standing there. Before I have time to rationalize anything, there are two arms squeezing the life out of me. I am a prisoner, and though it is hardly a life-threatening situation, breathing is not as straightforward as it ought to be.
‘George, let go. Let go of him George. I’m so sorry; he’s sometimes a bit too affectionate.’
My fan releases his vice-like grip, and I take a few gulps of air before turning around to see that the apology is coming from a harassed woman with bedraggled, grey hair, probably in her sixties, who is mildly reprimanding a slightly disconsolate looking Down syndrome young man. I immediately recognize him as George ‘the drummer’ from the Ship Inn fiasco.
‘It’s alright, we’ve met before, haven’t we George?’
‘Yeah. I played the drums. I love him.’ George pretends he has two drumsticks in his hands and strikes the air.
'Oh yes, I remember,’ says the woman, ‘his uncle told me about that.’
‘Uncle died,’ says George, his smile replaced by a puckered lip frown.
‘I know son.’ Joan turns to us and whispers, ‘His Uncle John worked as a security guard at Thurston’s Funeral Home and passed away recently... died from a bang to the head when he fell to the floor. He’s really missing him.’
‘I see.’ It seems the corpse practical joke backfired spectacularly. I want the conversation to move on quickly.
‘I'm Joan, George's mum, by the way.'
'Hello Joan.' The 'Joan' moves up an octave as I feel a stab of pain in my toe. George has embraced me again and stood on my damaged foot.
'Are you alright?' she says.
'Yes, I'm fine.' I gasp. 'It's just this foot.'
'He dropped something heavy on it before,' says Sofia.' He's here for an x-ray.'
'Oh dear... well watch out for the matron. She's not the friendliest.'
'Banged my head,' says George.
His mum extricates him from his hold on me. 'George has epilepsy and he had a fit earlier.' She r
uffles his hair. 'And you knocked your head didn't you? But he's fine.'
'Banged my head.'
'I know. You banged your head,' I say.
George sees my acknowledgement as the cue for another hug, though this time; I make sure my right foot is placed behind me. Sofia seems faintly amused by the sight of George and me.
'Come on sunny Jim, let's go home,' says Joan.
'Banged my head... I love you.'
'What's he like.' Joan links him by the arm, ready to guide him away.
'Take care,' says Sofia.
'Banged my head.'
Joan stops and looks at Sofia and then me. 'Can I just say you make a lovely couple? See you again. Come on love.'
I share a few silent seconds with Sofia, as we both watch George and his mum meander their way along the pavement towards the parked cars. Then we look at one another, and I sense some kind of sadness in her eyes.
'I need to go Tom.'
'Yes, of course.'
'See you next time.'
'Right...'
I watch her drive off in the MG on her way to Danny’s, and it re-ignites the blue touch paper of misery. The chill of this November evening, warmed by my time with Sofia, is taking hold again.
I limp into the heat of the white walled hospital where a nurse in uniform treats me with customary rudeness and discourtesy. This must be the Matron, and I am evidently something to wipe off her sensible leather brogues. I move to a room that has ‘X-Ray Department’ on its door but seems to have more in common with the torture chamber at Madame Tussaud’s, and I am expecting Doctor Crippen to make an appearance at any moment. When I have had my X-ray, I am sent back to the waiting room.
It is empty with only a few metal chairs, the buzz and flicker of a faulty fluorescent tube, and an agitated bluebottle for company. There is a small, wobbly table to my left with some old copies of National Geographic and last night’s Liverpool Echo. Not being in the mood to read about some bloke following his father’s example in the forestry trade, I opt for the newspaper. The second story on the front page has a photograph with a familiar face. I cannot believe it. It is Danny, arrested for attacking a police officer at a drugs protest march. Is this person really suitable for Sofia?
I have a go at the crossword and study, for no apparent reason, tomorrow’s National Hunt race cards. The Matron reappears, clicking her fingers to indicate the results of my X-ray are ready. She has all the charm and appeal of Myra Hindley. I am told that nothing is broken, although there is very bad bruising. I will need to take soluble aspirin as a painkiller for a few days, after which the injury should start to improve. She then tells me to fuck off, admittedly without using the actual words.
I hobble out of the hospital and find my dad by his Ford Consul. After the expected, ‘What the bloody hell have you been playing at son?’ he tells me that the football ended 1-0. A sudden shooting pain in my toe makes me realise for the first time since I dropped the can that I will not be able to play drums for a while, so presumably this Friday’s date at the Social Club will be off. However, I am soon to find out that the old show business maxim still holds firm... 'The Show Must Go On.'
‘Hey son, another thing, what’s this story about you messing about with yourself on the bus and feeling an old woman's tit?’
I issue another denial. It is a second maxim that holds firm; 'Shit sticks!'
12. Deputy Dick
I have just come off the phone to Julian and am rather taken aback that tomorrow tonight’s social club date is going ahead after all. Dick the resident drummer is to take my place for the evening. There is a part of me - in truth a large part of me - that is very unsettled by this news. Some of the disquiet is fuelled by the boys deciding to compromise the ‘all for one and one for all’ musketeer approach to the band, one that I suppose I have taken for granted. However, if I am honest, the main reason for the unease is my expectation that Dick will prove to be the better drummer. I still think I am the weak link in the group, and I am nervous that the man old enough to have played drums in the original ‘Alexander’s Ragtime Band’ will show me up.
‘Your teas are ready.’ The shout from my dad is misleading. It is more of a four-minute warning.
Julian says I should come along on Friday to watch, but I am not too sure. I am mobile, though I did take the day off work, which made the geriatric about as happy as haemorrhoid patient with a bee stuck up his arse.
‘Thomas! Stephen! Your teas are on the table.’ It is my dad’s next call, about two minutes now before he serves the food.
Perhaps I could go to the gig and play tambourine. The disturbing memories of Talent Aplenty and ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ make this a complete non-starter. In fact, the experience may have induced an irrational fear of the Salvation Army. If the enemy should capture me and initiate ritualistic torture, I would probably survive the beatings and the dripping tap, only to capitulate in screaming agony when they brought out the tambourine to accompany a spirited rendition of ‘Cumbaya My Lord’.
‘Your teas are going cold here!’
Our food is finally ready.
Stephen and I make our way to the kitchen. In the month since Mum started work, our meals have gone from bad to worse. In hindsight, the baked bean pie was a dish that warranted a mention in Egon Ronay's Food Guide. On Monday, we sat down to bangers and mash, which should have been called 'spot the sausage’; such was the dearth of meat. Once again, we had to find our required nutrients and nourishment from a few rounds of toast, thanks to the only ever-presents in our kitchen stores, the large sliced loaf and block of margarine. We thought standards could not get any lower, yet we reached a new nadir on Tuesday. The evening meal was a single boiled onion, naked as a Playboy centrefold. Now I am no Fanny Craddock, but even I am aware that an onion in gastronomy is used as flavouring. I have never seen it presented as a main dish, and I doubt anyone else has... unless there is someone out there who enjoys nothing more than a solitary, bloated sheep’s testicle on a plate.
As I contemplate the food before me, it is apparent that yesterday’s uneventful egg and chips is the odd one out in a week of appalling nosh. I try to stay polite, but incredulity makes it difficult. ‘What the hell are these?’
‘Burgers.’ My dad's reply is soaked in defiance.
‘But they’re green!’
‘I ran out of mince, so I used some marrowfat peas instead. Get them down you, they’ll do you good.’
‘Pea burgers?’
‘Yes.’
Stephen starts laughing as he pushes the large green mounds around his dish with a fork, ‘Pea burgers, that’s funny,’ he says.
‘Have the government introduced food rationing again? Bloody hell Dad, why can’t we have fish fingers or something normal?’
‘Listen son, my mother cooked these for me when I was a lad, and they didn’t do me any harm.’
This is a very debatable point.
‘What? A couple of wars ago? Why not throw in a bit of powdered egg or tripe as a bit of a treat?’
‘Don’t be such a cheeky sod.’
I slice through the creation with my knife, and I am tempted to do a Norman Bates shower scene job on it. It is telling that my dad is not eating with us at the table. He is going to his mum’s for tea. And there’s the rub. His two sons are eating like Biafrans while he dines like the Queen Mother. I know that my nan will not be crushing marrowfat peas into a poo-shaped rissole. She will be cooking beefsteak or lamb chops, probably with roast potatoes, mixed vegetables and gravy, all followed by jam roly poly and custard. I was not in the best of moods before the serving of this emerald blob, but unfairness has compounded my anger. I get up from the table.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I’m going to the chippy. I’m not eating this crap.’
*
I decide to try the new ‘Fryer Tuck’ chip shop near the Red Lion. From the outside, it looks no different to the ‘Chung Wah’, and inside there is
the same chequered floor tiles, highly polished chrome fryer range, and copies of the Daily Mirror on the counter. It is more spacious though, with enough room for a pinball machine in one corner. A big guy comes out from the back carrying a galvanised steel bucket of peeled potatoes to feed into the chipping machine. His face is familiar, but for the moment, I cannot place it.
I give my order. ‘Cod and chips please.’
‘Do you want peas lad?’
‘No, no peas, Christ no peas!’
He lowers his eyebrows and upturns his lower lip, clearly bemused why his suggestion has produced such a strong reaction.
I wait for the fish to fry and have a go on the 'Space Mission' pinball. A couple of years ago, I would spend every evening going to the chip shop to play pinball and eat some fried mush. Practice makes perfect and thanks to my arcade game addiction, I became particularly proficient with the flippers. Unfortunately, I have lost the knack. The ball gets stuck between Neptune and Uranus, and my attempts to dislodge it results in a tilt. I return to the counter and look at the reflection of my distorted face in the mirrored chrome. As I gawp at the pies, fish cakes, fritters and battered sausages through the glass-fronted hot plate, the owner starts to sing.
'My heart stopped beating the day she died
My time was over when I lost my bride...'
That's it! I knew his face was familiar, though his missing tooth is now filled with a gold denture. It is Jimmy from Jimmy Jet and the Rockets, the old rock and rollers at Talent Aplenty. He is singing his 45 that did not chart. Oh dear, running a chip shop is about as far removed from rock and roll as stamp collecting.
'She came into my life on a Saturday night
But she left me a wreck like a building site.'
It is becoming quite clear why Jimmy's breakthrough single never broke through. It's crap.
'Hey lad, don't I know you?' Jimmy has recognised me. Before I can answer, he says, ‘I know. You’re that twat who sang ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ with the tambourine aren’t you?’