The Road to Lisbon (13 page)

“What are you on about? We’re in France – we’ll no get stopped.”

“It doesn’t m-m-matter. It’s the principle. It wasn’t Iggy’s car to t-t-take.”

“Come on to grips. This is our big chance, our only chance.”

“No Tim. He thinks he can just help h-h-himself, and damn the consequences for other folk. I’m no h-h-having it.”

I sigh and study the horizon for an answer.

“Mark, usually I’d agree with you, but can you no make an exception? Look, you’re against this because you’re a religious man – right?”

“R-r-right.”

“Well don’t ye see what this is ya madman? It’s Providence! It must be – for Rocky to scud the Imp and for Iggy just to happen along right away, by sheer chance –
it’s too much of a coincidence. All five of us were
meant
to see this gemme!”

“B-b-but it’s wrong.”

“It’s the lesser of two evils. The bloke will get over us borrowing his motor. We’ll no get over missing the final.”

He folds his arms.

“An evil means can n-n-never justify the end. I’m telling you now Tim, there’s no way I’m getting into that s-s-stolen motor.”

I glare at him, my patience wearing thin. He chooses
now,
he chooses
this
instance to make a stand.

“Alright. Suit yourself.” I turn to bark out orders to the others. “Rocky! Eddie! Iggy! Delphine! Let’s get a move on – Mark’s staying here.”

“What for?” asks Eddie.

“Fuck knows. So he can act like Ben Gunn and beg for a bit of cheese.”

“It’s because that’s a hooky m-m-motor,” shouts Mark.

“Aye, that’s right, it’s because that’s a hooky motor,” I confirm. “And it’s gonnae remain a hooky motor. So let’s follow our individual
consciences and say no more about it.”

“But Tim – ”

“What Iggy? If Mark wants to make a stand then fuck him.”

“Haud the bus Tim!”

“And you can shut your face too Rocky, don’t fucking start me after your performance today. Look, I’m no missing this gemme because of any stubborn holier-than-thou bastard and
I’m fucked if I’m gonnae feel guilty for it. Now get in the fucking car.”

They obey, and the four French girls board the 2CV after a brief, hushed conference with Iggy. Delphine seems taken aback by my aggressiveness but I can’t do anything about that right now.
Mark starts to look uncomfortable, rising slightly as we tumble into the Zodiac. Even Rocky goes quietly. No wisecracks or threats and he has the good grace to leave the front passenger seat for
me. Just as well. I am in command for now.

The interior is plush and cool compared with the Imp. Iggy starts the engine. Then he waits, reluctant to leave his pal.

“What are you waiting for? Drive!”

We move off slowly, in awkward silence, Rocky and Eddie gazing behind them at the retreating figure of Mark, set black and featureless against the sunlight, forlorn and probably already
half-filled with regret. The 2CV follows us. A mile down the road I am confident we are out of sight.

“Pull in.”

“What?”

“Pull in. Here. In this lay-by.”

Iggy obeys and the French girls pull in behind us. I light myself a cigarette. I close my eyes and slump down in my seat with a sigh.

“What are we doing Tim?”

“We’re gonnae wait here for a wee bit.”

“What?”

“Mark painted himself into a corner. Let’s give him some time to swallow his pride.”

I feel Delphine’s hand on my shoulder. She gives it a little squeeze.

A quarter of an hour later. I can imagine Mark’s thoughts.

He sees a car emerge at the brow of the incline, its outline distorted as the chrome flickers with light. Is it the Zodiac? Yes. I think so. Is it? Yes, yes it is!

It nears, passes him, then slows down and swings round 180 degrees. It draws up alongside him. The rear door opens. No further invitation is offered but he rises, shouldering his haversack. He
walks to the car and gets in.

Tring Tring. The Jimmy Johnstone hotline. That’s what the wife calls it. Any hour of the night. I usually catch it by the second or third ring, in an
attempt not to wake the family. Sometimes I make it, sometimes I don’t. Many a peaceful slumber broken by the little red-haired terror. “He’s up to his tricks again,” they
tell me . . . my spies. I have spies everywhere. Every pub he has ever supped in. And even ones he hasn’t got to yet. An army of informants. Sometimes I go straight round. Overcoat pulled
over the pyjamas, driving to some backstreet boozer in my slippers. Sometimes I wait till morning. Wait till I see him traipsing in. Still fou’ o the drink. “Work the wee man’s
arse off,” I tell Neilly. And Neilly does. Neilly cracks the whip like never before. I watch him closely. The deathly pallor. Then the pinkish hue returning to the cheeks. Then the ruddy
glow. Jimmy never shirks. Never cuts corners. Jimmy works like a beast. The excesses of the previous night oozing from every pore. I watch as he ducks behind an advertising hoarding and empties the
contents of his stomach onto the cinder. Then, he is back into it, barely missing a beat. By the end of the session he is the same old Jimmy. I watch as he impishly nutmegs Bertie Auld.
“You’re dead, wee man,” Bertie shouts, as Jimmy skips away from him with the grace of a ballet dancer and the deftness of a pickpocket. But Bertie has more chance of catching the
bubonic plague than he does of snaring Jimmy. No-one catches Jimmy. Not until after dark. Not until the drinks start to flow and my phone starts to ring. Tring Tring. “Hello, Jimmy Johnstone
hotline.”

Forty miles on we pull in at a rest spot, which has parking spaces and some picnic tables.

Outside I am hit by a sensation of déjà vu as I survey the surroundings. We get the tanner ball out and start kicking it around. Rocky encourages a few French lads to join in, then
dazzles them with his skill, reminds me why he had trials for Clyde and St Mirren. Me – I couldn’t kick my own arse.

“Check it out,” he boasts as he skips past two tackles and chips the ball into the imaginary net. “Worthy of Boaby Murdoch himself!”

I notice Delphine ambling away. I decide to join her.

The grassland we stand on is threadbare and dusty. A farmer is burning a wood fire nearby. The land is flat, then rising slightly towards a bank of tall pines with ragged foliage which stand
majestic against the electric-blue sky. In the middle distance are golden crops. A chalk wagon path lined with cypress trees leads to a thicket of conifers on the horizon. We stroll for a little
while.

“I’ve seen this place before.”

“You have been to France?”

“No.”

“It could be a van Gogh . . .”

“No.”

“Somewhere like it? Back home?”

“No. I think it was in my dreams. I had a vision of it. I knew I was going to come here.”

I breathe in deep satisfaction.

“That smell of wood smoke. It’s wonderful. It takes me back to a lost time. Childhood holidays down the west coast. Fairlie, Rothesay, Millport. Happy days. Da would always bring a
kettle and a frying pan and we’d cook sausages on the beach.”

I sigh unconsciously.

She smiles sympathetically. “You are close to him?”

“He’s the finest man I know. Although God knows I’ve put him through the wringer often enough, what with my running with the gangs and all.”

I wipe a tear; the wood smoke has got in my eye.

“You know, he fought at Passchendaele. In 1917. He was shot twice and then, when he went back to the front line he was almost killed by a shell. The shrapnel has troubled him ever since. I
think he was haunted by all that, the hell of the place, the guys he saw killed. Yet he came back, made a life for himself, a family. Never complained. Now he’s laid low by . . . I
don’t even know what.”

“Are you in mourning for your father?”

“How can I mourn him if he isn’t dead? He’s ill, but not terminal. He’ll be with us for years yet, God willing.”

“Well that’s good to hear. But what I mean is that deep down the idea of his permanence is dead. So you mourn for him now, hoping to prepare yourself, hoping to soften the blow when
the day comes. I know; I did it with my mother.”

“Did it work?”

“Actually it did a little bit. But my mother was a wonderful woman, so in a way it would ill befit her to ever stop mourning.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She had beautiful hair. She was very kind. She loved flowers. She was a terrible cook. She was extremely gentle. There was a lot to love, even though she had a lot of . . . problems. She
was a fine person. And your father is a fine person too. I can tell because he has such a fine son.”

I want to change the subject.

“I find that so fascinating, how a perfume can do that, transport you back in time, so vividly. Like that wood smoke.”

“Have you read any of Marcel Proust? France’s greatest writer –
a mon avis
.”

“He was the guy that wrote the longest-ever novel?”

“Yes -
À la recherche du temps perdu
. In it he describes what happened to him after drinking a little tea in which he had soaked a piece of cake. Immediately he experienced
something akin to time travel, as he revisited a childhood scene. Not just the way it smelled, but the sounds and sights of the place too, and the way he felt. Proust was interested in the
involuntary memory, and how it was like a window to the past. He said that things long since past live on like souls, until one day they are resurrected by a tiny droplet of their essence as smell
or taste, provoking your unconscious memory.”

“That’s fascinating. It’s just good to know that someone else has had such thoughts. That’s what art and literature are about: connecting with other people, making
abstract ideas tangible. That’s what I want to achieve.”

“Who inspires you?”

“Mostly just plates I’ve seen in books,” I murmur in reply.

“Who?”

“Rembrandt, Rubens, Caravaggio, El Greco, Ribera . . . all I need to do now is see a few of their paintings in the flesh!”

Suddenly she reaches over and kisses me.

“What was that for?”

“You deserve to be inspired. I find you a most fascinating person.”

Gently, I stroke her face. We kiss for a long time.

The end, when it came, crept over me like a lengthening shadow. The darkness began to descend on August 31st 1955, when I injured my ankle in a tackle with
Rangers forward Billy Simpson. The pain cut through me like a knife. The dampness of the sponge seeped through my socks and onto my skin. The pain only got worse. I hobbled around for a bit, before
limping off. I knew it was bad. Months passed, winter arrived. I sat in the stand, huddled inside my coat. ‘Keep the joint moving’ they said. So I did, gently rotating my ankle. The
pain gradually lessened, though never left me completely. Would it ever be the same again? It was not a question I was prepared to entertain. I had to get back, feel the jersey on my skin once
again. I made my return against Partick Thistle on December 17th. It felt great. We won 5-1 and I was back where I belonged. The adrenalin coursed through me as I left the pitch but, in the
dressing room, a brutal truth awaited. I peeled off my sock to reveal a swollen ankle. Fuck. As I stepped into the shower, I felt a sharp pain that chilled me. Would it ever be the same again? As
the months passed, I settled into a familiar pattern: play one game, miss three or four. Even when I did play, I felt the difference. To spectators it was barely noticeable, but to me, it was
spirit-crushing – tackles that I previously would have won I arrived moments too late, players I would have swatted aside suddenly stole a half-yard on me. I clung on.

Then the end came. We travelled to Northern Ireland to play Coleraine in a friendly in 1956. A ball was launched towards the penalty box and I rose to meet it. As I landed, my leg
gave way and I crumpled to the turf. The pain took my breath away, tears welled up in my eyes, random thoughts flashed through my mind. Jean. The kids. The mines. The blackness. The darkness. As I
hobbled off, I looked back at the spot where I had landed. It had been a long journey. Now, on a humble patch of grass in Northern Ireland, it was all over.

From adversity springs hope.

“Jock, we want you to take charge of the reserve side,” said Bob Kelly. I did not hesitate.

“You have a deal.”

I felt the excitement rising. I knew that I would never kick another ball competitively again, but this was the next best thing. This was my first foot on the coaching ladder. This
was what I had been preparing for my entire career, even if I didn’t fully realise it. For years, I had scrutinised coaches and managers, noting down everything, coaching drills,
man-management techniques, tactics. My jottings became a bulging scrapbook. I soon had to buy another. Diagrams, random thoughts, anything that entered my head made its way into the scrapbook. I
kept it in the drawer of the bedside table. Every night, before I switched the light off, I would scribble down my thoughts for the day. Some people collect stamps. I became a football obsessive,
soaking in every detail like a sponge. But what were they but words on a page? Just big ideas . . .

Occasionally, I would flick through my jottings and wonder why I bothered. Where was it all leading? As I gripped Bob Kelly’s hand that summer’s day in 1957, my mind
drifted to those scrapbooks, nestled in the drawer. Words on a page. Not any more. Suddenly, they were my coaching bible. The words could be made flesh.

The reserves. The second string. The stiffs. An elephant’s graveyard. Not on my watch. This was competitive football and I wanted to win every match. I wanted young,
enthusiastic, talented players who I could mould, who would listen intently to everything I told them . . . who wanted to win as much as I did. I looked around the dressing room with growing
excitement. Billy McNeill, a tall, fresh-faced centre-half who was simply unbeatable in the air. Paddy Crerand, a tigerish midfield general whose authority disguised his tender years. Bobby
Murdoch, a young midfielder with the ability to pass any opposition to death. John Clark, who I made my first-ever signing, a quick, aggressive, thoughtful player with a great reading of the game.
I could do something with these boys. I could make them mine. As a recently retired senior player, they looked on me with a mixture of awe and respect. I got in amongst them, got the tracksuit on,
tried out new training drills, taught them positional play, got to know their characters. I wanted to work on specifics, build on players’ strengths, work tirelessly on their weaknesses. I
set up low benches around the park and got Crerand and Murdoch to hit long passes and get the ball underneath them.