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May 29th ‘85.
The phone is ringing. Footsteps on the stairs. Mum whispering. Silence. Footsteps on the stairs. My bedroom door opening and Mum’s on top of me, tears on her face and in her curls and on me. Holding me too tight.
[private]When I catch my breath, I ask “What was the score?” She pulls back, looks at me, looks at Kenny Dalglish above my bed, the scarves and the rosettes, all red.
“Dad’s safe. The rest doesn’t matter.”
*
February 17th ‘87.
It’s cold by the Cutty Sark, the wind finding ways through my duffel-coat. Mum is fiddling with the camera, trying to get a photo. She likes to do this. My Dad always asks why she can’t just remember things. As he’s not here yet, I make the familiar observation in his place.
“Because I want a photo.”
“It’s cold.”
“And? Look, just stand still and try to smile for once.”
“Why should I? It’s …”
And suddenly I’m rising through the air, a hand under each armpit. My legs draped over my father’s shoulders.
“Are you gonna stop making your mam’s life a misery and smile? Eh, monkey boy?”
Of course, now I’m beaming.
“Give us the pamphlets Paul.”
Reluctantly my father hands her the red and yellow leaflets emblazoned with “DEIRDRE WOOD FOR MP”. As Mum turns to put them in her bag, he slaps a sticker with the same message on my lapel, giving me a confidential smile.
The photo taken, we head back north of the Thames, Dad handing out leaflets as we go.
“Vote for Deirdre Wood”
“Vote for Deirdre Wood”
“Vote for Deirdre Wood”
And then.
“Piss off.”
Two young men, just out of boyhood, in front of us now, all denim and snarls.
Down from my dad’s shoulders and into my Mum’s arms.
Her hurrying me away. My father standing his ground.
“You shouldn’t talk like that, son.”
“I’m not your son.”
An echoing melee of arms and feet and just Dad standing. Looking down at the two. Head bowed as if ashamed, but his eyes shining.
Deirdre Wood lost the election. But Dad won the fight. Red for Liverpool FC, red for Labour. Scouse.
*
April 5th 1987.
Tying my laces again and again. Just my Stan Smiths, not football boots, but all the pre-match rituals are in place. Because today I’m not playing, I’m watching. The Mighty Reds. London born, but no question who my team was going to be. Dad’s team. Dad’s city. Liverpool. A good breakfast. Mum lays out the Full English for “her two men”. I’m wearing the Crown Paints sponsored shirt. The one we won the double in. Jacket on, hat on, scarf on.
Dad stops me in the front hall. Takes the hat off, the scarf off. Zips up my jacket so the shirt’s covered up.
“Going to a game son. You and I both know who you’re cheering for, don’t we?”
And we’re off. Walk to the station. Dad’s telling me about Jimmy Case, Kevin Keegan and John Toshack. The sun’s shining. British Rail. Battersea Power Station arcing off to the right. Ray Clemence, Emlyn Hughes and Steve Heighway. Down into the Underground and the singing’s echoing through the tunnels. Dad’s asking about school. He asks about History. I talk about my friends. They all support West Ham, Spurs and today’s opponents: Arsenal. Ours, ours for the asking, ours for the taking.
Into the carriage. Canals of spilt beer run parallel between the slats on the floor. Two stops and we’re moving back into the carriage corner with the discarded beer-cans at our feet. A wave of men. Filling the train with noise, smell and red and white. Scarves on wrists, shirts out, hands clapping, confident in numbers. Arsenal.
Dad looks down smiling, sees my face, winks and puts a hand on my shoulder.
Every handle is in motion now, batted in time against the side of the train, the springs flying back and forth:
And it’s Super Gunners,
Super Arsenal FC,
We’ll play the world over,
And champions we’ll be!!
Beer sprayed further down the carriage, people getting off, getting away. I look up. Dad still wears his serene smile.
Next stop, a boy gets on with his father. He’s got the scarf, the sweatbands and the bobble hat. All red. His tight shiny Liverpool shirt is oozed over the rolls of his jumper; warm and red without losing one or the other.
It’s gone quiet in the carriage. The father, quiet too, taking up exactly the space a man needs with his son close. No more, but certainly no less. Casually holding on to a sprung handle; he knows the Tube because he’s looking calmly at his son, which shows he doesn’t need to check the map for the route to Wembley.
And then it starts. All the men are singing. I know the song, hear it on TV and when Uncle Pat is here at Christmas. This time the words are different.
Sign on,
Sign on,
With a pen in your hand,
Cos you’ll never get,
A job,
A job,
You’ll neeeevuh get a job.
The boy’s face is flushed. They’re too close to him. My face is flushed too, but no-one’s looking at me. They’re close. No-one’s moved but they’re closer. One man, just one, kneels down amid the beer streams and the fag-ends. Looking quizzically at the surprise and confusion painted on the boy’s face. Then up at the lad’s father, then back to him.
Dad’s stopped smiling.
The man’s now eye to eye with the boy, but still no closer and I realise he’s waiting for the singers to stop. Then loudly but slowly, with a coaxing smile as one song stops, he starts singing:
You are a scouser,
A dirty scouser,
You’re only happy on giro day,
Your dad’s been stealing,
Your mum’s drug-dealing,
So please don’t take my hub-caps away … away!
Now they’re all singing, it’s rolling up and down the carriage like an echo but echoes get quieter and this doesn’t.
The boy looks up at his father. Without a word or comment, the father’s hand curves on the boy’s shoulder, gently arcing him round and away because we’ve pulled in to another station.
The doors open, the boy’s feet are on neutral ground, provoking a fusillade of hand-wanking and swear-words from inside the train. The boy stays looking through the window as the door closes, looking straight through the crowd at my Dad. Still looking as the train pulls out of the station.
My Dad looks away first. His hand tight on my shoulder. His eyes on the floor.
Arsenal won two-one.[/private]
David Mildon is an actor and playwright, with an MA in Playwriting from the Boston Writers’ Program. A screen adaptation of his short story “Worm’s Feast” is due to be filmed for the NFTS this autumn. Ironically, he’s an Everton fan.
Illustration by Louie Stowell: https://loustow.wordpress.com/
Very nice and handy if you should ever have to man a crows nest! Thank you ;).