Love-40 (11 page)

‘C'mon, girl.'

After ten metres the struggle was becoming a mammoth one.

After twenty, it was almost impossible. Hester (or maybe all goats? Michael wondered) did not like being taken out on her leash. Probably thought he was treating her like a damn dog.

After thirty metres, Michael was about to give up. Hester, the placid goat, had become a goat from hell, one minute refusing to move, the next charging this way and that, irrespective of path, direction or river. Michael's palms were sore, he was beginning to sweat and he had the uncomfortable feeling – remembering the expression on her face – that Suzi had known how it would be.

‘Enough.' He decided to let Hester off the leash. She'd probably stand quietly, munching, give him the chance of a sit down. And Suzi would never know he'd not made it further than fifty metres …

He untied her. Hester promptly charged off down the path.

Michael stared at her retreating back. ‘Er … Hester!' And with rising panic, ‘Hester!' at full volume. But Hester was now out of sight.

‘Shit.' Michael followed her, further down the path and then into the woodland beyond. ‘Hester!' No sign. No sound. Only the gulls screeching in the near distance and the soft rush of the river, now just out of sight. The path grew more muddy as he hit the shade of the trees, made his way over the skeletal roots of beech and yew.

‘Hester!'

For fifteen minutes he trailed the woodland path, shouting at Hester, swearing at Hester, pleading with Hester, and then imagining what Suzi would say. Christ! What would Suzi say?

*   *   *

‘C'mon, Gazza!' Liam tore a hand through his hair. ‘Switch that thing off!' Liam hated mobile phones. He despaired of the way they'd become indispensable, infiltrated themselves into everyday existence. He hated people talking into them with self-important voices. And he worried that today's youth spent most of its time punching out meaningless text messages or with the things permanently glued to their ears. God alone knew what damage they were doing to themselves and this fragile environment.

Meanwhile, fourteen-year-old Gareth Brown was haring to the net of the tennis court, all wild ginger hair and heavy black-framed glasses, making for his over-sized hooded sports jacket, casually thrown on the support post ten minutes ago. ‘Might be important,' he gasped theatrically, as the third rendition of ‘Old Macdonald had a farm', began.

Liam looked up at the grey sky and then into the middle distance that was Pridehaven. All he needed now was for the heavens to open, and they'd be off. Commitment wasn't big around here. ‘Carry on, the rest of you,' he called to the others. ‘Service practice.' There was a collective groan.

Gazza had thrown out half the contents of his jacket pockets, located the mobile, but seemed too out of breath to speak into the thing.

That didn't bode too well as far as his fitness was concerned. Liam eyed the black and silver pack of ten cheap brand cigarettes, assorted disposable lighters, packet of Rizlas with cardboard strips torn off, all lying on the asphalt, and sighed. Why was he bothering? He was trying to train a load of kids whose idea of sport was sitting around getting stoned. Gazza and the other twelve- to fourteen-year-olds plucked from the youth club might know what to do on a football pitch, but tennis was another ball game – literally. Maybe Erica Raddle was right. Maybe tennis was a class thing. Maybe this lot didn't care about the youth club they went to, the ethos of CG's, even the bloody view. Maybe he should just give up and let them do what they liked with the place.

‘How's it hanging, babe?' Gareth managed to ask whoever was on the other end of the line. He glanced across at Liam. ‘Can't stop. Gotta skedaddle. I'm in training.'

Well, that was something, Liam supposed, ducking as another ball flew purposefully in his direction. The lad sounded keen. And he had to admit there'd been no shortage of volunteers from the youth club when he'd told them about the tennis tournament. ‘Those fat old tarts don't stand a chance,' and, ‘yeah, let's show 'em a thing or two' had been the gist.

‘It's cool,' Gazza was saying now, as he shoved lighters, fags and the rest back inside his jacket pocket. ‘Take a trip. See ya later.' Liam raised his eyes heavenwards.

On court – fearful of the fate of the more delicate grass, Liam had taken them on to the hard courts instead – the others were still pounding the balls every which way, focusing on power at the cost of accuracy, in order to defeat the enemy. Liam had begun to wonder if he was that enemy, considering the number of tennis balls he'd had to avoid so far.

‘Crap serve,' yelled Steven Hunt, also known as Stunt, not because he was vertically challenged (though he was) or because of his name, but because he regularly walked the plank across the River Pride down by the harbour. ‘Out by a bloody mile.'

‘Just long,' Liam confirmed to Tiger Rogers, the server in question, tall and skinny and with the strangest service toss – more like a muscle spasm – that Liam had ever witnessed. It had started to drizzle with rain. So far the boys didn't appear to have noticed, but Liam knew it wouldn't be long.

‘Yeah, bloody long way out,' said Stunt.

‘Watch it.'

‘Watch what? Your fat arse?'

‘Here it comes. Number two.'

‘Second serve.' Liam waited, close to despair. Perhaps this time, he'd taken on too much.

Tiger tossed the ball with a jerk of one bony wrist, sidestepped to the left, swung his body round and whacked it.

It shot past Steven Hunt, whether by luck or judgement, perfectly placed in the far corner of the service court.

Everyone stopped and stared – no one more surprised than Tiger himself. Except perhaps Liam.

‘Bloody ace,' said Gazza.

He wasn't joking. Shit, Liam thought. He had their support. And they were trying their best. How could he even think about giving up now?

*   *   *

Michael spotted two women approaching from the other direction. Maybe they'd seen her? ‘Hester!' he called weakly.

‘Lost your dog?' The first woman clucked with sympathy. ‘I had one like that once,' she confided. ‘Never came when called. I had to bring a whole bag of dog biscuits to get him to come back to me.'

‘What does she look like?' the other woman asked more helpfully.

‘This tall.' Michael held up his hand. ‘Coarse white coat.'

‘Breed?'

‘Goat.'

‘Pardon?' The second woman, dressed in tweed jacket and brogues, took a step back.

‘She's a goat. A pet goat.' What the hell was so strange about that?

‘I haven't seen any goats,' said the first woman doubtfully, as woman number two took her arm and pulled her away.

It was beginning to rain. Michael walked on, rehearsing what he would say to Suzi.
She tore the leash out of my hand … I chased after her – for miles … She charged off, I hung on, she dragged me along the ground … I tried to stop her. What could I do?
Somehow, whatever he said, he didn't think Suzi would understand.

*   *   *

The light was getting dim by the time Liam and his six volunteers trooped back into the clubhouse. Liam half-wished CG's already boasted a restaurant, though not at the expense of the games room – he'd stand this lot a meal for what they'd achieved today. They might be rough but they were certainly ready, and a couple of them had showed real promise. Surprisingly – for the lifestyle they led wouldn't have suggested it – they had stamina, whilst years of messing around with a football in the park had given them bodily co-ordination and a good eye for the ball. Best of all, they wanted it.

The clubhouse was full of the usual cross-section of people. Liam nodded to Simon and Diana, frowned as he clocked Nick Rossi in the far corner of the conservatory, talking to Estelle. Her flame-red hair was a halo around her pale face, she was smiling and leaning slightly over the glass-topped table, towards Rossi, as if she couldn't quite hear or believe what he was saying. It was probably bullshit. But what bothered Liam the most was that neither was dressed for playing tennis. Rossi was in close-fitting designer jeans and one of his poncy sweaters and Estelle wore a long and close-fitting midnight-blue skirt and a silk top Liam had bought her on holiday in France last year.

For Christ's sake! Did the woman have no feelings? And if they weren't playing tennis … Liam strode up to the bar to buy drinks for the lads … then what the bloody hell were they here for?

‘Will there be girls at the tournament then?' Gazza asked Liam as Liam handed him his coke. He eyed it dubiously – probably considering a quick top-up from the miniature tucked in his pocket, Liam thought.

‘One-track mind,' jeered Stunt. ‘Who'd be interested in you?'

Gareth peered back at him through his thick black-framed glasses. ‘If there's girls on the other side, we need some too.' He spoke very slowly. ‘Nerd brain.'

‘Look who's –'

‘Excellent point,' chimed in Liam, to whom trading insults signified a loss of team spirit. He turned his back on Estelle and Rossi without acknowledging them. What did he care? ‘D'you know any girls who can play?' This was tricky. Far too many girls, in his experience, didn't take up sport until they wanted to lose weight or keep fit – and that often didn't happen till they were nearly forty.

‘Diane Parker's a rocket,' said Tiger.

‘Yeah, but does she play tennis?'

‘She does it against the school wall.'

This time it was a chorus. ‘Yeah, but does she play tennis?'

Liam waited for the laughter to die down. ‘Ask her, will you?' He addressed this to Gareth. He was the natural leader – if anyone could sort it, Gazza could. ‘And if she wants to play, get her to bring a friend or two.'

‘Consider it done.'

At this point, Erica Raddle bustled into the clubhouse, doing a double-take and shooting Liam a look along the lines of – these rough specimens belong in the youth club if you please. She pointed to the door that led through to the other side of the bar and the social room. From here, Liam could see a load of kids clustered round the pool table, and another four pounding the table football machine.

And the toffee-nosed old cow wanted to take it all away from them. Liam pulled a face at her back as she peered over Deirdre's shoulder and started pontificating. Chairperson? You'd think she owned the place. Deirdre, he could see, was busily putting gold-coloured leaflets into envelopes. Deirdre was always busily doing something.

‘We'll be next door,' Gazza said to Liam. ‘Same time next week with girls?'

‘And plenty of practice in between,' Liam confirmed. Because God, if they were going to beat what the tennis club had to offer, they'd have to go some, however much they wanted it.

As the kids dispersed, he looked over towards Estelle's table. It was empty. No Rossi. No Estelle. They must have made a pretty rapid departure once his back was turned.

Liam left his beer untouched on the counter and hot-footed it out of there. As he passed Deirdre and Erica he caught a snatch of conversation.

‘I'd like to lose the “chestnut”,' Erica was saying. ‘Grove Lodge has a far more appropriate ring to it.'

Liam turned to stare at them, but they ignored him.

‘Grove Lodge Tennis Club,' echoed Deirdre. ‘What a marvellous idea.'

*   *   *

Michael turned to trudge wearily back to the cottage. It was getting dark. He'd never find her now.

At first he thought he was imagining the bleating behind him – the imagination could play such cruel tricks. Then he heard it again and spun round.

‘Hester!' He tried to grab her collar but she dodged, apparently content – now that he was travelling in a homeward direction – to trot along next to him.

When they got to the garden gate, she submitted to the leash, and he tied her up, the relief so overwhelming he almost kissed her.

Instead, he knelt down in front of her. ‘I take you out,' he said, wagging an admonitory finger, ‘and this is how you repay me.'

Hester bent her head back, Michael relented and chucked her under the chin and the next thing he knew was contact, a blast of pain, a sensation of spinning and the awareness that he'd been somersaulted backwards on to the lawn behind.

‘Christ!' Michael glared at her, but Hester merely continued munching the lawn.

He staggered inside, clutching his head.

‘You were a long time.' Suzi was in the kitchen. And eyeing him strangely. Her eyes were all kind of squinty and her mouth screwed up – almost as if she were trying not to laugh, or cry. ‘Are you OK?' she added.

Michael let go of his head. ‘Yeah, I gave her a good runaround.'

‘Did you let her off the leash?' Suzi poured some wine into two glasses.

‘Hmm? Yeah, mmm.' He took the glass she offered him and downed it in one.

Suzi was watching him closely. ‘I bet you were dead worried when she didn't come back,' she said after a moment.

‘What?' Had she seen them? No, impossible. Michael thought fast. ‘No, I knew she wouldn't go far.' He tried to sound as if he knew what he was talking about. He hated Suzi thinking that he was a bungling idiot.

‘Because of the herding instinct?' Suzi asked.

‘The herding instinct. Yeah, right.' What the bloody hell was that when it was at home?

Suzi began chopping onions. ‘Goats do like to go their own way,' she said. The knife sliced into the white flesh. ‘And you are the herd, of course.'

‘Of course,' Michael echoed. Chop, chop, went the knife. Oh, so he was the herd, he should have realised that.

‘The herd often splits into smaller groups,' Suzi was saying. ‘But when you turn around, back they come with you.' She swept the onion to one side of the chopping board with the knife.