LITMIR.BIZ

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the ball and races the length of the field with Garth just failing to stop him getting over in the corner. The kick fails but we are now 13–8 down.

      As we trudge back to the centre line, morale is at truss height and even Garth is silent. The Shermer supporters are on top of the world and I feel mentally and physically knackered. I really believed we had a chance and now my dream is punctured like a french letter with ‘Made in Hong Kong’ stamped on it.

      But I reckon without the crafty Celtic cunning of Garth. Seeing the opposition bunched protectively around Sharp, he taps the ball over the ten-yard line, sprints after it, sweeps it up and is striding away for the line with the nearest Shermer man ten yards away. He scores untouched and the score is 13–11. We kick the goal and it is 13-all.

      Our mood is now transformed and straight from their kick-off big fat man catches the ball and charges forward as if nothing on God’s earth is going to stop him. In fact, three Shermer players stop him very comprehensively in the first four yards, and he goes down twitching and groaning. The referee blows up and the crowd surges forward to inspect the damage.

      Luckily for us, Sharp is equal to the situation.

      “Give him the kiss of life,” he shouts and promptly starts to pull down the victim’s shorts.

      “Not there, you fool,” cries one of his team-mates, aghast. “On the mouth.”

      He must have wished he had not said it because Sharp needs no further encouragement before subjecting Fatso to the kind of kiss that would clear all the blocked-up sinks in a toffee factory. A cry of horror goes up from the crowd and strong men turn away in disgust. Willing arms haul Sharp from his prey and the referee’s finger points rigidly towards the touchline.

      “I’m sending you off for ungentlemanly conduct,” he says sternly, his lower lip trembling. You feel that the total horror of the situation is almost unhinging him. Sharp’s hand immediately shoots out and dives down the front of the official’s shorts.

      “Give us a gobble,” he says.

      Shermer try to rally after Sharp’s departure, but it is obvious that their hearts are no longer in the game. Not many teams can have lost a player for attempted buggery with a member of the opposition, and for a side showing all the symptoms of being gentlemen the load is too much to bear. Seconds before the desperately relieved referee blows his whistle for full-time Garth takes advantage of a moment of indecision in their defence and snatches up a loose ball to plunge over and score.

      WE HAVE WON!!!

      We hug each other and try to carry Garth back to the clubhouse, but we are too fagged out and he slides down into the mud with us giggling weakly. What a performance, we tell each other. By God, but we were magnificent! Mrs. Minto turns up from watching the Sunday afternoon T.V. movie to present the cup and prizes, and starts saying what a wonderful tournament it has been until somebody whispers to her to belt up. We have our photograph taken by Gruntsomb of The Echo—who else?—and a jug of beer is produced by Crippsy, who has turned up to see the final.

      It is the first of many and by the time I have had a quick dip in the cold bath full of the mud left by the other fifteen teams, I hardly know what way round my trousers go.

      We blunder out into the bar, expecting to find it jumping, but the place is strangely empty and most of the people there are members of the guest teams.

      “Where is everybody?” I ask nobody in particular.

      “They’ve gone home,” says a voice at my elbow. “They’re not very used to losing—not like that, anyway. Well done! My good luck must have worked for you.”

      It is Valerie, who has been clearing away the tea things. Seeing her reminds me of Dawn, but to my relief she seems to have pissed off.

      “Yes, we were a bit lucky,” I say modestly. “Er—how is Tony? I haven’t seen him since the game.”

      “Neither have I, and I don’t particularly want to. I think they took him home.”

      “How are you getting home?”

      “I’ll ring for a taxi.”

      “No need to do that. I’ll take you.”

      “Are you sure it’s all right?”

      “I’m not drunk.”

      She blushes. “No, I didn’t mean that. Don’t you want to stay and celebrate with your friends?”

      A few moments ago I would have said yes, but now, seeing her has brought home to me the whole point of getting drunk.

      “No, I’ve had enough. Are you ready to go?”

      She nods her head. “I’ll just get my coat and lock up the kitchen.”

      Somehow I know it’s on. I don’t know how—I just know. It’s been one of my days. It’s The Day. My jacket pocket bulges with a pewter tankard inscribed ‘Shermer Seven-a-Side Tournament Winners 1971’ and I have this gorgeous little bird to escort home—or somewhere. She reappears by my side, looking sweet and pretty, and I tell her so.

      “Where’s your car?”

      “It’s over on the other side of the car park. It’s one of the opposition’s, you know. I hope you don’t mind.”

      “Not as long as it’s got an engine in it.”

      I say goodbye to Garth and the rest of the Crabs, who are now too drunk to take in anything except more liquor, and we go outside. The puddles glint in the frosty moonlight and I steer her round them to where I can see the familiar outline of the Morris. There are a number of cars left but only mine has steamed-up windows. I notice the fact casually and it is only when I bend down to open the door that I realise why. Two completely naked bodies can be seen entwined across the back seat and the sole of a foot is clearly visible against one of the windows. It is moving as if gingerly probing the glass to see if it is real.

      I recognise Dawn first because her smudged, sweaty face is gazing up with unseeing, half-closed eyes. The man is Valerie’s property and she is quick to speak his name. “Tony,” she cries out despairingly. “Oh, no!” She turns and starts running through the puddles. I could go after her but I don’t think there is anything for me there now, and, anyway, the night air is beginning to make me feel sick.

      I could start making a scene about Tony and Dawn, but I don’t fancy her above waist level and I feel I owe Mr. Sharp a favour after all he has been through on my behalf. You can’t go on holding a grudge for ever, can you?

      I leave the foot tapping rhythmically against the car window and make my way back to the bar to continue celebrating.

       CHAPTER TEN

      The next morning the Harlem Globetrotters are bouncing a concrete basketball round the inside of my nut and my tongue feels like the mat the All-Nippon Sumo Championships have been wrestled on. Added to that it is Monday, and only a berk of the first water would bother to show up at work. Nevertheless, I push my face round the door of the E.C.D.S. mainly because I want everybody to say flattering things about my performance in the sevens.

      Sadly, the subject is hardly mentioned—certainly not by Dawn, who does not put in an appearance all day—and when Cronky arrives it is to brief us all on our part in the approaching Cromingham Carnival.

      This riot of colour and spectacle occurs every year and is supposed to coincide with the arrival of spring—or April 1st, as it is known in the absence of any dependable signal from the weather.

      It appears that all the local tradesmen take part in a procession of floats through the centre of the town and that it has been decided that the Major School of Motoring and ourselves will each contribute one vehicle with an instructor sitting beside his latest pupil to pass the test. Miss Frankcom is due to take hers again for the umpteenth time and Cronky is obsessed with the idea that, if she passes,

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