Heartland (28 page)

No.

They day see nuthin. We cor help yer.

They was just here. The man in the suit kicked the football back to em.

Jim, less leave it, mate. Bill was more urgent this time.

If yer sid so much what yer want their help fower, yer pervert? The boy's head was almost in through the car window.

All right. Jim sighed then his anger rose again. Is this yower son?

What if he is? Her voice wavered now, back towards the hostility of before.

Yow wanna have a word with him abaht his language.

Doh come dahn here telling we what to do. Fuck off.

She began walking closer to the car. He had no choice but to get it in reverse. He couldn't even try to turn it around because of the tribe of kids standing there, laughing.

They reversed and thumped into a speed bump, jolting all over the place; the kids laughed and the mother glared after them from the gate. He had half a mind to drive back up there. Thump on Tony Woodhouse's front door. She must've been his granddaughter or niece or someone, but there'd have been no way of getting out of the car through the kids and what if Tony told him to fuck off too? When they hit the second speed bump, the couple of kids who had followed them down the road stopped running but scowled after them. A young man, in his twenties, the woman's husband or boyfriend or whatever they called them these days, was standing on the path with her glaring down the road after the car. The bloke with the dog
turned the corner as they drove away, bag of shit hanging from his loose hand. One last kid ran past him as they drove up the road, no more than seven or eight, and hurled a stone after them. Jim watched its arc in the rear-view mirror as it bounced and hit the back wing.

He drove on, his mouth clamped shut, gripping the wheel as tightly as he could to stop himself from shaking.

Iss allus bin rough up theer, mate, Bill said calmly. I wouldn't worry abaht it.

They were distracted slightly by the sight of a young Asian lad running towards Juniper Close, wearing camouflage and a Manchester United shirt, a bandage on his wrist and jogging bottoms tucked into his socks.

Jim tried to ungrit his teeth, managed to nod towards the boy.

Think he'll be all right?

Who?

That lad in the Man United top.

Course he will, arr. Yow all right?

I've bin better, Bill, to be honest, mate.

Rob and Lee both went up for a corner.
Rob asked Mark, how long? Ten plus injuries. Thirty-five minutes had just disappeared, in need of a goal.

Rob stood on the edge of the box, Lee was in front of him.

Yow goo in first, mate, I'll come in the back of yer. Just wait, hold back.

The others started to crowd the area. Doh goo too early, Rob ordered. Doh goo too early. No one seemed to listen.

Glenn's corner barely left the ground. He looked tired, swore loudly after he'd hit it. Zubair was at the near post, hacked it clear. A better ball might have put Tayub away down the field but they were all tired and the clearance
was decent enough, just up in the air towards the touch-line. They didn't move out quickly enough. Rob stayed pushed up. Rhys Woodhouse got the ball under control for once, stuck it back in, another clearance went up in the air, Glenn ran into the box and went up for a header, another header by the penalty spot, another header, a clearance that dropped towards the edge of the D.

As it dropped Rob saw it, took a stride towards it, expected a challenge to come in, saw Glenn trying to duck out of the way as it came towards him. He wanted to take a touch but there was no space, no time, and instead he kept his eye on a patch of mud on the side of the ball as it dropped, and he was there, and striking through it, head down, laces, he thought, a decent strike on it, felt it as it dropped off the outside of his boot. Rob's head shot up, taking a step through it. It went straight at the keeper but then veered and dipped past his hands and dropped towards the corner and it was in. For a moment it was in. It made a sound as it hit the inside of the post on the half-volley, spun back into the middle of the six-yard box, rebounding the other side of the keeper's arms. All this was taking ages now, ages and no time at all. The ball landed in front of Lee, who hit it, toe-poked it, right into the middle of the net. There were shouts. He thought he heard Zubair shout, No. Glenn ran towards him with his arms out. Rob listened for the whistle and there it was, Mark Stanley pointing towards the centre-circle and it was in! The keeper sat down in the mud and Zubair was sat down in front of him. The ball had gone through a hole flapping in the net and rolled away down the bank. Rob turned away with a rush, after Lee, chasing Lee, who'd found a bit of pace, running back towards the halfway line, running away from them all.

And none of it mattered now. Who was playing, who they were playing for, none of it mattered, other than the
fact that they'd scored, that they were winning the league. Rob's fists were clenched, pumping. He ran back past Mark Stanley towards their half, the rush fizzing away, chasing Lee, grabbing a handful of Lee's shirt. The figures on the sideline caught his eye, the bloke who'd spoken to him at half-time, Bailey, laughing and enjoying the goal. Rob pulled Lee's shirt and Lee scampered to a halt, arms raised, the others catching up. Glenn tried to jump on Rob's back as they pulled Lee to the ground. As he hurtled around Lee the figures came into view again, their arms raised in triumph. Mark Stanley blew hard on the whistle to stop the celebrations. Glenn's arm came round in front of his face and they fell in a nest of arms and legs on top of Lee. Rob could feel Lee's heart thumping against the cool muddy ground as he rolled across him.

Collina blew for a high foot from Nicky Butt.
Rob tore half his little fingernail off as it was awarded, stuck his finger in his mouth as Argentina lined up the free-kick. Stacey was out collecting glasses. She put her arm on Rob's shoulder and leaned on him as she bent to the table. Rob saw Glenn glance across at them, look away, back at the screen.

Rob had been waiting outside the Head's office for a while.
He should have been outside getting the tennis courts ready. The nets took a while to untangle but it was a nice job, laying out the nets and counting up the rackets, making a note for Jacko to order more tennis balls. There was the feel of summer around with the weather, the idea of a game of tennis. He planned to take a cup of tea out there and grab a few of the kids kicked out of lessons to help and maybe have a little game with them, but if he had to wait much longer, waiting for her to get off the phone, then he'd get caught up with the madness of swarms of kids coming out for lesson 4, running around with the
rackets and wrapping themselves in the nets. He assumed she wanted to talk to him about the attack on Andre. The old Head would see him occasionally for a chat about things that were going on and whether he'd heard anything. It might've been about the reading scheme, though, about helping Jasmine next year.

He sat daydreaming about Jasmine. In the daydream they were playing tennis. Afterwards they went for a meal, sitting outside in the sunshine; after that they walked along holding hands.

Come in, Rob. Ms Dragovic popped her head around the door. He got up and followed her.

Sit down, please. She gestured.

She'd changed things around in here, turned the table more towards the window and got things up on the wall, some kids' artwork and a couple of African-looking fabric prints. Next to her in-tray and computer screen was a series of photos. A family group of her with her husband and two daughters. One of the young women on her own in university graduation gear; the other one dressed in outdoor stuff and wearing a helmet, standing in front of mountains somewhere like Australia or Canada. The room looked brighter, more cheerful for its makeover. He'd signed his schoolboy forms for the Villa in here, the old Head looking over his desk. He remembered how his mum was beaming. How his old man had looked like he'd rather not be there. The Head announced to everyone, He's a good lad, and nodded his head as if that sealed the deal. They were talking about Lilleshall, about England schoolboys, and Rob remembered his heart beating a bit faster as he listened but the letter or call never came.

The new Head sat on the edge of her desk, which felt too close, and it meant she was towering above him, even though she was short and wore astonishingly high heels with her smart business suits and perfect makeup. She
looked the part, though, Rob had to say, fiftyish but with a hard, tight body that you could tell she'd be sorting out in the gym on her way home to her perfect family or with laps around the park listening to a self-help mantra on her headphones. He wouldn't have been surprised if she had a personal trainer; a couple of lads he'd played with at Stourbridge had gone into that, said it was all the rage with the older, wealthier, professional women and that sometimes there was a little bit of work on the side – but he reckoned they were making that up. He tried to push the thought from his head by thinking about the increasing size of his stomach and the way his body felt as if it was slowly turning to jelly. He was the one in need of a personal trainer.

You've made it look nice in here, he said for something to say.

Look, Rob, I'll get straight to the point. I was going to get Peter Jackson to speak to you but I thought I should see you myself. It's your shirt. I'm not sure it's appropriate for you to be wearing it given the nature of the school and the community we're in.

Rob pretended to look down to check what shirt he was wearing. It was the new, red England football shirt. He was wearing that over a pair of Umbro jogging bottoms, his shorts underneath, with the bottoms tucked into a pair of old Cinderheath first team football socks. That was what he wore to work. He had hundreds of football shirts, literally, in piles in the bottom of his wardrobe.

What dyer mean?

Well, a lot of people might not notice it at all, but given the nature of things that are going on, tensions in the community, the local election coming up, as you know, but wider concerns than that as well, I think that some members of our community might be offended. I wouldn't
want you standing on patrol on the front gates wearing that, for example.

The message was really only dawning on him now.

Because it's an England shirt? he asked.

Well, yes. She was obviously uncomfortable saying this but it wasn't stopping her. Not just an England shirt but the connotations of it. I mean the message it gives.

I know what connotations means.

In that case you understand what I mean.

You don't want me to wear it.

Well, I'd like you to think about it, because of the message it might send out to people.

Dyer want me to goo home and change? he asked in a voice he'd intended to sound challenging but came out as a straightforward question.

No, no, not at all. That's not necessary. You're out in PE the rest of the day, after all, and you're not on the gate tonight, so that's fine.

Right, OK. I don't think it's offensive.

No, nor me personally, but, like I said, I think some people might, and we need to be sensitive about these things in our community.

She'd said our community about seventeen times. He knew for a fact she lived over in Edgbaston or Moseley, somewhere, somewhere not here.

OK. He said this meekly but couldn't look up, felt embarrassed. Are any other shirts banned?

No, your shirt's not banned. Not at all and I wouldn't want to give that impression. I'm just asking you to think about wearing something else. It's only overtly nationalistic ones that I'm worried about. I'd be happy to see you running around in a Villa shirt, for example. She was trying to joke with him now, authority imposed.

I think those days might be over, he said, realized she
didn't get the joke – why would she? – and said, I've got a few of them, actually. Then he said, What if I think there's nothing wrong with it?

Well, obviously I appreciate your opinion, Rob. We want to listen to the views of all staff here. Like I say, it's just that I've got some concerns. I think we need to think about these things sensitively. You could talk about it more in line management, of course, I've asked Daniel Bell to talk to Mr Jackson about your contract.

I haven't got a –

They were quiet for a moment.

I've got loads of football shirts, he said. Villa, everybody.

That's great. OK. Thank you, Rob, I thought you'd understand. I appreciate it. What've you got now?

I'm meant to be sorting the tennis stuff out, getting the courts ready. That's what they're teaching mainly, next few weeks.

Great. I have to see Mr Bell with some exam data.

She was still trying to be friendly. Shaking her head and smiling and arching her body as she got up to go back behind the desk, as if she'd like nothing better than to get out to the outdoor stores and roll around on top of the nets with him before they untangled them for the kids.

Rob took that as leave to go. In fact, as he got up, Daniel Bell, the new Deputy who she'd brought with her and Rob had never spoken to, knocked and popped his head around the door.

Bye, thanks, Rob said, kicking himself again for his own obsequiousness, his weakness.

As he left, he remembered that he hadn't even asked about the reading scheme, or mentioned Andre. He turned to go back and saw the Head through the half-open door blowing out her cheeks and nodding in his direction, thinking he'd gone, looking at her grinning Deputy. Rob had only ever seen that expression in school on teachers'
faces, they must've been taught it at college or something. A kind of one-eyebrow-raised sneer that was followed by a roll of the eyes and then a smile as if something was incredibly ironic. They also used it when the kids he worked with turned up late to lessons wearing a tracksuit because no one had washed their uniform or when taking big gold jewellery off surly teenage girls found wandering the corridors.