Big and Clever (5 page)

“Who knows? They're fourth at the moment. Only two points off the top.” He pauses, scratching his nose. “Tell you what,” he says eventually, “why don't you two come down this Saturday?”

Bingo. I silently congratulate myself, then I look across at Raks. He's nodding. We were supposed to be going fishing, but we can do that any old time. I turn back to Ryan.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah. I think we might just do that.”

As the 84 bus pulls into bay seventeen at Letchford bus station, I check my watch. Just gone quarter past one. We're supposed to be meeting Ryan at half past at the Café Rialt in the Ainsdale Centre, and that's right across town, so we need to get a move on.

Raks has been listening to music on his mobile phone. He's in a little world of his own, slumped against the window.

“Earth calling Rakesh Patel,” I say, leaning in close to his ear.

Raks shakes his head and pulls his earplugs out.

“We're here,” I tell him. “An hour and three quarters to kick-off.”

“Shit,” he says. “I've got butterflies, man. I don't know why.”

I nod.

“Yeah. I know what you mean.” I've got butterflies too, a little tingle that's been building and building since Thursday break time. I could hardly sleep last night.

We both stand up and Raks smoothes down the front of his new replica shirt. Orange with black piping and the logo and slogan of our sponsors, Letchford Borough Council.
Working For You
. He told his mum and dad on Thursday evening that we were going to the match this weekend. By the time he got home from college last night they'd got him all kitted out. If I want a shirt it's going to take me at least three weeks of paper round money, possibly two if I get a lot of leaflets to deliver. Whatever, I'm going to have to earn the money myself. There's no point in asking my dad.

It's chilly outside. Raks never seems to feel the cold. He's strolling along with his coat undone, but I'm shivering. I zip my jacket right up until just the top of my orange and black Letchford scarf is visible under my chin. It's the first time I've worn the scarf in years, and it's quite a strange feeling. My mum knitted it for me. Winding it round my neck this morning brought back a lot of memories.

Halfway up Church Lane we pass a newsagents. There's a notice in the window.
Letchford Town Official Matchday Magazine On Sale Here Price £2
.

“Hang on a minute,” I say.

Inside the shop, the programmes are stacked up on a shelf by the door. Picking one off the top of the pile I take it across and put it down by the till. Leroy Lewton's grinning from the front cover, eyebrows notched, diamond ear studs gleaming. The middle aged Asian bloke behind the counter glances up. He's been looking at the ads at the back of
The Daily Sport
.
Genuine Hard Core Porn Direct To Your Mobile
.

“Anything else, chief?” he says.

I shake my head and pay my two quid.

Carrying on up Church Lane, I start leafing through the magazine, scanning for relevant statistics. Inside the front cover there's a section called
Roll Of Honour
. It's pretty brief.
Founded 1904. Elected To The Football League 1909. Football League Division Four Runners Up 1986. Freight Rover Trophy Southern Area Finalists 1990
. It's not exactly Manchester United.

Raks nudges me in the ribs.

“It's a bit late in the day to start swotting up,” he says, pointing at my programme.

I shrug.

“I'm just trying to gen up on a few facts and figures so I don't feel like such an amateur.” He's right though. I'm not going to become the Letchford Town
Mastermind
overnight. I close the programme, fold it in half and shove it in the back pocket of my jeans.

We head into the precinct. The whole place has gone downhill the last couple of years. The big M&S was the first to go, and then just about everyone else followed. All that's left are charity shops, Every thing's a Pound places, Iceland, and a Wilko's that's so big I swear the far end's in another time zone. Today there's a market in the pedestrianised area between the shops. Fishmongers, a few people selling fresh produce and stall after stall of fake branded goods and bric-a-brac. Everywhere you look there are pensioners picking up second hand clothes, rubbing them for a moment or two, then putting them back down again.

We go under the archway and through the sliding doors into the Ainsdale Centre. It's nice and warm inside and not too crowded. In the background, music is playing. It's a pan-pipe version of
Angels
.

We head up the escalators to the first floor. Outside Kwik Kash three ferrety-moustached lads in shell-suits and Burberry caps are huddled together taking it in turns to peer into the ALDI carrier bag one of them is holding. We carry on past Malc's Menswear making for the Café Rialt up at the far end. Everyone in Letchford calls it the Café Rialt, but it's the Café Rialto really. It's just that the O on the neon sign in the window gave up the ghost years ago.

“What time is it?” Raks asks.

“Half past.” My butterflies are going into overdrive.

We're coming to the end of the walkway now, fifteen yards from the café and closing. As I push the door a bell rings. It's quite dark inside. The air smells of strong coffee and burning bacon. Westlife are on the radio. There aren't many customers for a Saturday, just a few old blokes and a couple of women with buggies disappearing under piles of shopping bags. Ryan's nowhere to be seen.

“He's stood us up,” Raks says.

I shake my head.

“He'll be here.” I'm trying to sound confident.

The next time I check my watch it's nearly quarter to two. I've got myself a can of Coke and a cream doughnut and Raks has got a can, a doughnut and a plate of chips and beans, and we're sitting down in the corner by the window. The Letchford programme in my pocket is digging into my back so I pull it out and put it on the table. The table-top is brown Formica. It looks like it was last given a wipe down in about 1980.

“Still no sign of Ryan,” Raks says, making a start on his chips.

“Yeah. What do you reckon? Finish this lot, then have a wander around outside, see if we can see him anywhere?”

Raks nods. He shovels another forkful into his mouth.

“So what did your old man say when you told him we were going to the match this afternoon?”

I sniff.

“Nothing much. Just to keep out of trouble. Your mum and dad OK about it?”

He nods again.

Another couple of minutes pass. Raks is getting more and more twitchy. He's finished his chips and beans and he's drumming his fingers on the table edge.

“Is Ryan supposed to be coming here on his own or will he have other people with him?” he asks.

“He'll be on his own,” I say.

“How do you know that?”

“Because here he is now.” I point over Raks's shoulder to where Ryan's heading down past Argos.

The door opens and Ryan comes in, nodding and raising his thumb in our direction. He gets himself a can of Red Bull and a bag of crisps and then he comes over to our table, pulling out the chair next to Raks.

“Sorry I'm late lads,” he says. “Got a bit delayed. Unforeseen circumstances.” He sits down and unzips his jacket. He's wearing an Adidas top again, but it's a green one with yellow stripes this time.

“No worries,” I tell him.

Ripping open his crisps, Ryan looks first at me, and then at Raks. He shakes his head.

“Raks mate,” he says. “You need to get that coat done up. The shirt's a bit too much. You look like a Satsuma. You've got to show your allegiance but don't go over the top. Tom's got it about right. Just a bit of scarf showing.”

Raks looks slightly hurt, but he does what Ryan says. I make a mental note not to waste my money on a Letchford shirt. I'm just congratulating myself on instinctively knowing what's expected of a new recruit to the Letchford Town ranks when Ryan catches sight of the programme next to my can of Coke. He laughs.

“I never bother with these any more. Is there anything worth reading in it these days?” He picks it up and flicks through from the back, shaking his head at the league table. “This is the bit I always like,” he says as he gets near to the front. “
The Roll Of Honour.
Promotion and Freight Rover Area Finalists. Roman Abramovich eat your heart out.”

I smile.

“Yeah, I was looking at that earlier on. It must have been good in the late eighties, early nineties.”

Ryan looks wistful.

“Glory days,” he says. “Since we got relegated in 1991 we've just been treading water. I'd have loved to have been there when we were on the way up.”

Raks makes a start on his doughnut.

“Wasn't there quite a lot of trouble back then though?” he asks. “Letchford Town were known for having a hardcore of pretty mental fans weren't they?”

Ryan nods.

“The LLF. The Letchford Lunatic Fringe. The top firm outside the top two divisions.”

I laugh.

“That doesn't sound like much to shout about.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Ryan says. “They put some big teams to flight. Then there was The Battle Of Southlands in May 1992. The Mackworth lot came over to try and take over the LLF's manor. Dozens of arrests, riot vans, the works. It's gone down in history, that one.”

“I've heard about that,” Raks says. But it's all died down now, hasn't it, all the fighting and stuff?”

Ryan shrugs, takes a swig of Red Bull then locks his fingers behind his neck, rolling his head from side to side.

“Mmmm,” he says.

Raks hasn't finished with the questions.

“You've got a season ticket, then, Ryan?”

“That's right.” Ryan pulls a plastic wallet out of his inside pocket, running his thumb through the vouchers inside.

“Whereabouts in the ground are you then? Sitting or standing?”

Ryan raises his eyebrows.

“Standing, mate. North Stand Spion Kop.” He scratches his nose. “So where were you when you went?”

Raks's eyes roll up as he scans his memory banks.

“I think it was the East Stand,” he says eventually.

Ryan laughs.

“The
Letchford Argus
Family Stand, they call that nowadays. It's a sad place. Full of bloody kids. Facepaint and flags and Jester hats.” He shakes his head.

Raks looks crestfallen.

“My dad wasn't really up for standing.”

Ryan laughs again, but this time he's not taking the piss.

“Don't worry about it. It's better than the Main Stand with the camel-hair coat fraternity. Tartan Thermos flasks and Tupperware boxes of egg sandwiches all round. Polite applause and no swearing.”

“So how do we get in this afternoon?” I ask, looking to change the subject. Me and my dad used to sit in the Main Stand. “Can we pay on the turnstiles?”

Ryan nods.

“Yeah,” he says. He puffs out his cheeks and checks his mobile. “Anyway, we'd better think about setting off for the ground. It's getting on for ten past two.”

We head for the door. Down by the ground floor exits an old bloke is playing Elvis songs on a Hammond organ. He's left the piano case open in front of him, with a piece of card propped inside it.
All Donations Gratefully Received
. He's got about seventy pence so far.

Back outside it seems to have got even colder. We cut through the car park, then we head across the main road and down one of the side streets.

“How long's it going to take us?” Raks asks.

“Not long,” Ryan replies. “Fifteen, twenty minutes, something like that. Once we get to the Industrial Estate we're halfway there.”

We carry on walking. As we get closer to the ground, the other football punters are getting easier to spot. It's mainly blokes in white trainers and slightly-too-short stone-washed jeans, replica shirts sticking out underneath the back of black or blue bomber jackets, but there are families too, all heading in the same direction. I feel a little twinge of excitement.

We're coming to a junction now. On the left there's a row of shops, the Ayia Napa Fish Bar, Balti Towers Indian Takeaway, Gladiator Cabs and a dodgy looking pub called The Shakespeare, and on the right there's a patch of open ground. Back in the late eighties, when Letchford Town looked like they were going somewhere, the patch of land was set aside for a new, twenty-two thousand all-seater state of the art stadium. They got the planning permission and even started digging the foundations, but then the sponsors pulled the plug. Now all that's left is a big brown hole in the ground, filled with water. We stand and stare for a few seconds, then keep on going, crossing over and heading into the Letchford Industrial Estate.

The Industrial Estate's a ghost town. Since the bottom dropped out of the lino market, most of the factories have been empty. One of the units on the right hand side has been burnt out and now the metal roof joists are hanging down like thick strings of black elastic. Further up on the left, surrounded by a muddy wasteland, I can see Morrells, where my dad used to work. The big digital clock by the gates still says
17:00
. That was when my dad used to clock off. It's like time has stood still since the afternoon the place shut down.

Ryan nudges me, then taps Raks on the elbow.

“Check it out,” he says, pointing along the line of pylons marching beside the road.

A few hundred yards ahead, silhouetted against the grey sky, is the Southlands Stadium. It's just as I remember it. Four ramshackle stands, each one a different shape, like a Meccano kit with a few pieces missing. I get another little tingle of excitement. Checking my watch I see it's nearly half past two. The pavements on both sides of the road are packed with people now, and the air is filled with the smell of hot dogs and burgers from the portakabin by the crossroads. Next to the burger van there's a bloke selling non-official merchandise. Scarves, flags and T-shirts showing a skinhead with his trousers down, crapping on a Mackworth top.
Letchford Town Shit On The Mackworth
it says underneath.