Heartland (19 page)

Pauline was delighted with this news, a little stab of hope about things, something good.

Fingers crossed, eh?

What yer whispering abaht? Evie shouted.

Nothing, Mother. Kath laughed, turned to Pauline and blew her cheeks out; fingers crossed, she nodded. She looked tired, Pauline thought.

Yow've got all this fun to come with Michael. You'd think it ud get easier, wudnt yer? Kath said to her when they took the tea things back to the sink, the television going through the move that led to the penalty from different angles.

Pauline rolled her eyes. She didn't want to talk about Michael, not after his behaviour. Yes, you'd think it would get easier. She tried to think of something else to say.

As the players walked off, Simeone offered his hand to Beckham and they shook.
Rob banged his left hand on his thigh, took a sip from the pint in his right.

Dyer want anything, Dad? I'm gonna stretch me legs. See how Mom's doin.

Tom shook his head and Rob got up and weaved towards the door, away from the rush to the bar. He considered for a minute whether to go and help Stacey, but saw that his Uncle Jim and Lee had gone round. As he got to the door he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Dyer want one?

It was Glenn. Rob flinched. For a moment he thought he was going to take a swing at him. It was the first time they'd spoken since the election.

All right, mate, yeah. Same again.

Glenn had an old England shirt on, an Italia 90 one. The sleeves were tight against his biceps and a George and Dragon tattoo showed underneath the blue pattern on the sleeve. The beginnings of a belly stretched the material above Glenn's jeans.

I ay sin that shirt for a bit.

Dug it out from the back o the wardrobe. Thought I'd wear it for luck.

Rob could've sworn he was wearing it that night on the car park. Yusuf Khan. They looked at each other, the weighing up of something, both of them trying to think of what to say next.

Yow all right? Glenn said.

Arr, I am mate, arr.

I'll get yer a pint, then. I'm half pissed already, tell yer the truth.

They gorra hang on to this, ay they?

They stood like boxers, rocking almost on the balls of their feet, not quite square on to each other, Glenn southpaw, which gave them an awkwardness.

I think we'll get another. Butt and Scholes have got hold of it in the middle. Veron ay got the bottle for it. There'll be more chances with Owen.

Think it was a pen?

What yow on abaht? Course it was. I know what yome gonna say.

Never touched him, mate. Doh get me wrong, he should goo dahn but he never touched him.

I ay listening to yow. Bloke ud have to have shot him for yow to gi a penalty. Yow sayin yome a better referee than Collina?

I'm sayin I ay bothered. Yow think Kily Gonzalez woh goo dahn if he gets past Danny Mills?

Arr, well they'm cheating bastards, ay they.

Yow should hear what they'm sayin abaht Owen in Buenos Aires, mate.

I couldn't care less.

They both smiled. For a moment things felt OK.

Am yow two gooin to the bar or just standing canting? a big bloke shouted from behind them. Rob didn't know him. He was wearing an even older England shirt – Spain 82, the Keegan one – stretched across a much bigger belly.

All right, big mon. I'd like to see yow when wim losing. Cheer up, Glenn said, and started to move towards the bar. Rob leaned out of his way as he squeezed past.

Eh, Mark, Glenn shouted towards Mark Stanley. This un reckons it wor a penalty. A few heads turned towards Rob who just shook his head and grinned and walked out into the car park.

It was at a friend of a friend's thirtieth birthday party in Shoreditch.
They were people from university. She wouldn't have gone but she hadn't seen them for a while. Barristers, journalists, New Labour researchers: she wouldn't get a word in. Matt had got the girls for the weekend and they were still taking her contact with them slowly. Even after four years. She'd asked him during an argument whether he thought things might have moved a bit more quickly with his family if she'd been completely white. She'd only said it to hurt him. It was a line the kids at school would come up with.

It was the first weekend of July, almost the end of the school year. The teachers were talking about long spells away in India, Morocco, Brazil, or weeks of doing nothing at all. Matt was going to run the summer school, and spend a couple of weekends taking the girls away. Jasmine wasn't going to work during the summer this year, she needed a break.

Coming to a night like this was easier without Matt. Maybe it was the age thing beginning to show.

If they were chocolate, they'd eat themselves, he said about her university crowd and shook his head sadly.

They're just a bit naïve, she'd say.

That's right. And in a few years' time they'll be running the country.

He'd got a point. She might have said as much herself, but the cynicism was something new. She'd fallen in love with him because of his lack of cynicism, for the fact that he was so obviously someone who believed that whatever you did had an impact, made a difference, good or bad. He'd applied for Helena's job when she left – never got a look in. It was hurting him, watching people who he didn't think cared as much, just said the right things, getting promoted, getting on. He wanted to be a Head. She'd begun to think the trick was not to care as much – she didn't tell him that, though.

She shared a crowded taxi with Emilia and some others. Jasmine told them all a horror story about Rukshana, a Bengali girl in her tutor group, chased down to the river by a gang of Somali boys with knives, saved by her brothers screeching up in a car. A gun had been fired. Stories from the wild side: so much for not getting a word in. She went quiet for a moment. Matt had gone round to Rukshana's family's flat that night, said he was worried about her brothers, wanted to stress Rukshana had done nothing wrong. He said it had gone well. Jasmine had been angry with him because he was late back and the family had given him food. They were meant to have been going out for a meal.

Is Sally's dotcom millionaire boyfriend going to be there tonight? Emilia asked.

The one from the States?

He only works in the States. He's English.

I don't think he's her boyfriend. Just someone she's seeing. I'm not sure he's a millionaire either.

What's his name?

Yusuf.

I heard a story he changed his name.

Strange.

People do, I suppose.

Yeah, people do.

He was standing at the bar when she saw him. He stood holding a credit card lightly between his long fingers, smiling at the barman. The glint of a gold watch-chain showed from the cuff of his white shirt. For a moment she thought she recognized him from work or through Matt or that he was someone famous, vaguely, from a magazine. There was a second or so when she thought that. He was turned halfway towards her. The way she remembered it later was that she'd recognized his long, slim hands first. It was like everything had stopped, like the building was coming down around her.

Oh my God, Adnan!

Charlie the burger man was busy.
Rob raised a hand to say hello, messed with his phone with his other hand.

The radio commentary was playing from inside the van. A voice was saying, I think it was a soft penalty, but, hey, who cares?

He'd said he'd phone Zubair at half-time.

Doin OK, ay they?

I tell yer, mate, I think we can win this. Not just this today. I mean the whole thing.

Jesus, Zube. Long way to goo yet, mate. It ay even bin that good a game.

I'm serious. I think we can do it. Yow've gorra have the luck an all. Was a lucky penalty, wor it.

Rob laughed. I think so, mate. Everyone else thinks it was nailed on. Doh matter now, anyway.

Thass the thing, though. The luck's gotta be with yer as well. Beckham, Owen, Eriksson, there's a luck about them. Batistuta looks fucked.

I still fancy him against Campbell.

I'm sober, remember. I know what I'm on abaht.

Yer had chance to watch it properly?

Arr, course I have. Even if there's kids out up to no good the police am all watching this, ay they. It's dead quiet.

Thass good.

What dyer reckon, second half?

All right, I tode yer. We'll do this. They'll atta watch that ball behind Ashley Cole, yer know that diagonal ball for Ortega, they've tried it a few times.

I think we'll score again. Wass it like dahn there, by the way?

All right, packed. We've got seats so it's OK.

God save the Queen?

It ay bin too bad.

I bet.

Me dad's come dahn with me. Iss all right, yer know.

Thass good, mate. Say hello to him. Zubair paused for a moment before saying this and in the brief silence Rob wondered whether he was thinking about his own dad, Adnan, loneliness. There was something that caught in his voice.

Still on for a pint tomorra? Rob checked.

Course. Well, I better get some work done.

Yeah, right.

Tomorrow, look, there's summat I wanna talk to yer about. I'll talk to yer tomorra.

Rob was distracted, trying to get around the corner of the building, half-undoing his fly.

All right, no problem. I might ring yer at full time.

Tomorra, yeah, I'll talk to yer about it tomorra.

Rob guessed what it was about. Something about Katie, probably. She'd probably left him, gone back to her mom and dad's. That had happened before. Something, Adnan, loneliness.

He stood pissing against the wall with a cigarette clamped between his lips, careful not to splash his trainers. He could be seen from the road from here and realized that he was feeling the drink. He pictured himself, pissing up the wall of the football club, legs astride, fag hanging out of his mouth, Eng-ger-land shirt on his back; laughed quietly, thought how it would make a good picture. He rocked back and forth, finishing off, let himself consider the idea of England winning the World Cup. His headache had cleared. He actually rested his head gently against the wall, feeling a kind of strange peace.

Mark Stanley blew for half-time just after he booked Glenn.
It felt too soon, a half gone already, the league title – shit though it was – slipping away. Rob wandered towards the others as they made their way to the far corner. There was a circle around Glenn, a couple of the hangers-on joining in, new faces, Glenn's BNP mates, a bloke in a suit walking across towards them, Bailey, the candidate. Rob looked around, hoping he could maybe go somewhere else, realized his Uncle Jim was, unusually, nowhere to be seen, realized he'd got some sense after all. There was a policeman strolling near to the circle of players. Glenn was opening a tub of oranges. The water was being passed round. Zubair walked past Rob, equally late and slow to his side's team-talk over by the souped-up cars. His friend winked at him, looked delighted with himself, held his hand out to shake. Rob touched it briefly then tapped Zubair on the arse as he walked past him.

Long way to go yet, mate, he said.

One-nil, Zubair said.

Come on, Rob, get in, ull yer! Glenn shouted.

All right, all right, he said as he reached them.

Glenn was waiting for people to have a drink and catch their breath before saying anything. He told a couple of the younger ones to shut up when they started moaning about other players. The helicopter buzzed over, almost right on top of them, and they winced and looked up at it.

Who yow shekkin onds with? a voice said in Rob's ear. One of the hangers-on – a bloke in his thirties who looked like he'd got a false eye which gave his face a strange, fixed look, wearing a black jacket and England cap – was leaning into him. The cap's peak was nearly touching his face. Rob had never seen the bloke before.

What? Rob said, as if he hadn't heard.

I said, Who yow shekkin onds with?

Me mate on the other team.

We decide who yome shekkin onds with an when. Just remember that.

Fuck off.

Yer wanna watch yerself, sunshine.

Who am yow? Wanna watch myself?

Rob turned back now, square on to him. This seemed to take the bloke a bit by surprise because he took a couple of steps away, turned his head to look at Rob with his good eye.

Who the fuck am yer, any road? I ay sin yow dahn here befower.

There were various cries now of, Leave it, Rob, All right, Rob, Leave it, Kenny, it ay wuth it. The police looked towards them.

Rob settled his voice down a bit. Lee had got his hand on his shoulder, he could feel big Chris standing next to him. Wheer am yer from, mate? I ay sin yer dahn here befower. Tellin us what to do, how to behave.

The others in their caps and jackets were leading him away. One of the other men, who Rob thought he'd seen at a school parents' evening, was talking softly to him; Rob heard him say, Calm down, Kenny, eh. Not here, not now, remember what we said.

Bailey, with his suit on and somehow not a splash of mud on it, had walked off down the touchline.

Just watch yerself, eh, the man called to Rob, turning with his good eye again.

Prick, Rob said, mumbling that he should fuck off back to wherever it was he'd come from, that he hadn't seen him down there on a Sunday before, stamping down a divot, angry with himself for getting involved.

Come on, come on, it ay wuth it, settle down, eh, we got a game to win here, a league to win. The players fussed around Rob until they were all facing Glenn again, sucking on oranges, taking swigs of water.

Glenn began the half-time speech he used when they were in a bit of trouble. Rob was shaking. He glanced over at the group of men in the corner of the field now, caps on, smoking, cracking a few jokes with Bailey who'd rejoined them. Big Chris patted Rob on the back a couple of times.

I doh know abaht yow lot but I ay come this far this season to lose it now to that lot. I doh care who they am. For the next forty-five minutes yow've gorra ask yerself dyer want a winners' medal, dyer wanna goo um this afternoon sayin, we've won the league, or not.