Extra Time (13 page)

‘I reckon I'm right,' says Uncle Cliff at training. ‘Matt's a new bloke after that kick-around on the estate last night.'

Mrs Jarvis gives him a look.

‘I don't think he is, Cliff,' she says. ‘It takes between two and seventeen years for the cells in the human body to be renewed, not one night.'

Uncle Cliff gazes at her adoringly.

I gaze at Matt miserably.

The council estate kick-around didn't work. Matt hasn't gone back to his old self. He's still grim-faced and training hard like he wants to be the one. Still holding and turning and elbowing as much as the others.

He told me he enjoyed the kick-around, but he can't do it again because it'll make him soft.

‘Go, Matty,' yells Uncle Cliff as Matt does a sliding tackle into somebody from behind.

I don't think Matt's even noticed that Ayo isn't at training today.

‘Aussie leg pins,' says Uncle Cliff as Matt scrambles to his feet. ‘Best in the world.'

‘Oh dear,' says Mrs Jarvis, squinting at something.

She takes my arm and points at Mr Nkrumo's minibus driving past.

I catch a glimpse of Ayo in the back, eyes down, face miserable.

‘Ayo,' I call.

But he doesn't hear me, and the bus zooms towards the exit gate.

‘I've got a bad feeling about this,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘I think it's time I had another chat with Mr Merchant.'

Uncle Cliff isn't listening to her.

‘Don't look,' he says, wincing. ‘Matt just elbowed somebody in that really sensitive spot just inside the penalty area.'

Too late.

I saw it.

This is a tragedy.

And I don't know what to do.

Something's happening that's as unexpected as the chilli in Mrs Jarvis's cheese and chilli omelette.

The others are so busy they haven't seen it yet.

Mrs Jarvis is busy cooking Uncle Cliff an extra treat because he ate all his omelette. It's a kipper, which is a kind of smoked fish with a flat face. Uncle Cliff is busy gazing at Mrs Jarvis like he is the kipper.

Matt is busy flipping an egg between his feet.

I'm busy gazing out the window wondering how I can get Matt back onto the estate for another chance at happiness.

Which is how come I see it.

‘Oh,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Look at that.'

At first I think she's seen it as well. The big black car pulling up outside the house. But she's talking about something else. The beads of chilli sweat running down the side of Uncle Cliff's face.

‘It's very black,' says Mrs Jarvis.

‘I think it's a Bentley,' says Matt, who's just seen the car.

‘I'm talking about Cliff's perspiration,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘Do you dye your hair, Cliff?'

‘Not dye exactly,' says Uncle Cliff, mopping his face. ‘The box says it's colour enhancement.'

‘Look,' I say urgently, pointing out the window.

Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis look.

A uniformed driver is getting out of the big black car and coming to the house.

We hurry to the front door.

‘Good morning,' says the driver. ‘Mr Jean-Pierre Michel would like to see Miss Sutherland in his office as soon as possible.'

We stare at him.

I realise Miss Sutherland is me.

‘Have I got time to finish my kipper?' says Uncle Cliff.

We're all in the car in about ten minutes. The driver says he doesn't know what it's about.

‘I just drive,' he says. ‘And sometimes pick up Mr Michel's duck sandwiches.'

‘Maybe the club wants you to be a mascot again,' says Uncle Cliff to me.

Mrs Jarvis gives him a look.

I don't say what I hope it's about. How I hope the staff at the academy have noticed Matt doesn't seem very happy. And how Jean-Pierre Michel is wondering if there's anything he can do to help.

‘Yes,' I'll say. ‘There is something actually.' Then I'll ask him to please book us some plane tickets home
immediatement
, which is French for pronto.

We arrive at the stadium.

Jean-Pierre Michel's secretary meets us and takes us to Mr Michel's office.

‘Just the young lady,' she says. ‘The rest of you please wait here.'

While Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis and Matt sit in the outer office next to a cardboard cut-out of Gazz, the secretary takes me into the inner office.

‘Hello, Bridie,' says Jean-Pierre Michel, standing up and brushing crumbs off his suit. ‘Thanks for coming. Would you like a croissant or a brioche?'

I think that's food. I explain to him we've just had chilli omelette.

Jean-Pierre Michel asks me to sit down. Then he tells me that last night the club played Ajax in the European Champions League and won four–nil. Which is the first match they've won in five weeks.

I'm not sure what to say.

It's good and everything, but he didn't have to bring me here to tell me that. I would have heard it on the news.

‘Best of all,' says Jean-Pierre Michel, ‘we had a hat-trick. A wonderful return to form by a player who's been seriously off-form for several months. A player who, the evening before, visited you and your brother. I think you know who I mean.'

I'm still not sure what to say.

Mr Michel must have found out about Gazz playing with the estate kids. Are me and Matt and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis in trouble? Is Jean-Pierre Michel cross that his forty-three-million-pound player could have fallen into a car-part hole?

He doesn't look cross.

While I'm feeling confused, Mr Michel comes round from behind his desk and sits in a chair next to mine.

‘The first time you were in this office,' he says, ‘you told me about fun.'

I remember. He wasn't that impressed.

‘Tell me again,' he says. ‘Tell me about fun. Because last night I saw that a certain player was having a lot of fun.'

‘Well,' I say, and I take a deep breath and tell him about the council estate game, and the friendliness of it, and the no violence, and how much laughing there is, and how big Lola's handbag is, and how much better people play when they're happy.

‘And,' I say, ‘if your stadium lights ever pack up, I'd use Lamborghinis.'

Jean-Pierre Michel nods thoughtfully.

‘Of course,' he says, almost to himself. ‘That's where Gazz started out. Fun kick-arounds on a council estate.'

‘Everybody starts with fun kick-arounds,' I say. ‘Every soccer star in the world was a kid once. Having fun. That's why they want to do it as a job.'

Jean-Pierre Michel thinks about this.

‘What about the ten million pounds a year?' he says.

‘That's good too,' I say. ‘But not if you're so worried and miserable that you can't even enjoy a simple waterfall.'

We talk lots more.

When we say goodbye, Mr Michel gives me a look. It's a very different look to the one he gave me last time I was in his office.

‘Thank you,' he says.

I go into the outer office. Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis and Matt all jump up anxiously.

‘What happened?' says Uncle Cliff. ‘Is everything OK?'

I grin at them all, specially Matt, because I think this is going to be very OK for him.

‘Everything's fine,' I say. ‘Mr Michel has given me a job at the academy.'

‘A job?' says Mum, when we skype them with the news.

‘It's more of a consultancy,' says Uncle Cliff.

‘It's a thousand pounds a week,' says Matt.

Mum and Dad look stunned.

‘Not a week,' I say. ‘Mr Michel gave me a thousand pounds for reminding him about something.'

‘What?' says Dad.

‘How soccer stars were all kids once,' I say. ‘And how if they remember that, they'll have more fun playing top-level professional football in the first part of the twenty-first century. And they'll probably score more goals.'

‘That sounds reasonable,' says Mum.

‘Mr Michel wants all his players to remember it,' I say. ‘He's told them if they don't, he'll sell them.'

‘Thanks to your daughter,' says Mrs Jarvis, joining in, ‘the club's decided to try a different way of doing things. It's Judas H amazing.'

Mrs Jarvis is right, it is.

When we get to training, all the goalposts and nets have been taken down. Six-a-side games are being played all over the training pitches with piles of tracksuit tops as goalposts and academy kids all mixed up together with first-team players and everyone laughing and doing skill and accepting a hand up if they fall over.

OK, not quite everyone. A few people look a bit confused but not many.

Mr Merchant is the only one who looks totally unhappy.

‘Hello, Neal,' says Mrs Jarvis. ‘You still haven't got back to me about Ayo.'

I look around and realise Ayo isn't here.

Mr Merchant, who was glaring at me, glares at Mrs Jarvis instead.

‘I suggest you go to the horse's mouth,' he says. ‘Mr Nkrumo will tell you about Ayodele Awolopo.'

He walks off.

Mrs Jarvis watches him go for a moment. I think she might be considering a sliding tackle from behind.

But instead she turns to me and Uncle Cliff.

‘I'm going to find Mr Nkrumo,' she says. ‘See you later.'

I'm worried about Ayo too, but I wish Mrs Jarvis could stay for a while. It's so great, watching Matt and Gazz playing together again. And is that . . . yes, it's Jean-Pierre Michel playing with them in a very flashy tracksuit.

‘Rock 'n' roll,' says Uncle Cliff, gazing around. ‘This is like six-a-side Woodstock.'

I don't actually know what Woodstock is, but I do know Matt's got a big grin on his face, even though he just missed an overhead kick.

Everyone's got big grins on their faces.

This probably won't stop them busting a gut to be the one, or to win the league, but in future they might be a bit nicer about it. And their hearts might not end up so hard and unhappy.

Matt's included.

Everyone takes a short break for drinks and leg massages.

After a bit, Matt comes over to me and Uncle Cliff. I've never seen him so excited and happy.

‘Guess what Mr Michel just told me,' he says.

‘He's got tickets for the Stones concert next week in Paris?' says Uncle Cliff.

‘He's putting me in the first team on Saturday,' says Matt.

We stare at Matt, gobsmacked.

‘The first team?' I say.

The first first team?' says Uncle Cliff.

‘Against Chelsea,' says Matt.

‘You're sure you haven't got that wrong,' says Uncle Cliff. ‘You're sure you're not a bit dazed after that overhead kick.'

Matt shakes his head.

He does look a little bit dazed, but not from the overhead kick. We all probably look a bit dazed.

Jean-Pierre Michel comes over and puts his hand on Matt's shoulder.

‘When Matt runs out into the stadium on Saturday,' he says, ‘it will remind the rest of the team of their own childhoods. Of why they play this game. And of course it will be very good publicity for the club. The youngest player ever in the Premier League. On Saturday, Matt will be the most famous boy in the world.'

‘Judas H,' says Uncle Cliff.

Matt gives me a grin.

I give him one back.

And I make a decision. I'm going to send my thousand pounds to Mum and Dad. So they can buy some warm clothes. For when they come to England.