The Complete McAuslan (6 page)

Present in body and also in raw spirit was Lieutenant Samuels, who accosted me after the game with many a wink and leer. It seemed he had cleaned up again.

‘An’ I’ll tell you, boyo, I’ll do even better. The Artillery beat the Germans easy, so they figure to be favourites against you. But I seen your boys playin’ at half-steam today. We’ll murder ‘em.’ He nudged me. ‘Want me to get a little bet on for you, hey? Money for old rope, man.’

Knowing him, I seemed to understand Sir Henry Morgan and Lloyd George better than I had ever done.

So the tour progressed, and the Island sat up a little straighter with each game. We came away strongly against the Engineers, 6 – 0, beat the top civilian team 3 – 0, and on one of those dreadful off-days just scraped home against the Armoured Corps, 1 – 0. It was scored by McGlinchy, playing his first game and playing abysmally. Then late on he ambled on to a loose ball on the edge of the penalty circle, tossed the hair out of his eyes, flicked the ball from left foot to right to left without letting it touch the ground, and suddenly unleashed the most unholy piledriver you ever saw. It hit the underside of the bar from 25 yards out and glanced into the net with the goalkeeper standing still, and you could almost hear McGlinchy sigh as he trotted back absently to his wing, scratching his ear.

‘Wandered!’ said the corporal bitterly afterwards. ‘Away wi’ the fairies! He does that, and for the rest o’ the game he micht as well be in his bed. He’s a genius, sir, but no’ near often enough. Ye jist daurnae risk ‘im again.’

I agreed with him. So far we hadn’t lost a goal, and although I had no illusions about preserving that record, I was beginning to hope that we would get through the tour unbeaten. The Governor, whose excitement was increasing with every game, was heard to express the opinion that we were the sharpest thing in the whole Middle East; either he was getting pot-valiant or hysterical, I wasn’t sure which, but he went about bragging at dinners until his commanders got sick of him and us.

But the public liked us, and so did the Press, and when we took the Artillery to the cleaners, 3 – 2, in one of the fastest and most frantic games I have ever seen, amateur or pro., they were turning crowds away from the stadium. The Governor was like an antelope full of adrenalin, eating his handkerchief and shivering about in his seat, crying, ‘Oh, my goodness gracious me!’ and ‘Ah, hah, he has, he hasn’t, oh my God!’ and flopping back, exhausted. I was too busy to steady him; I was watching (it dawned on me) a really fine football team. They moved like a machine out there, my wiry, tireless wee keelies, and it wasn’t just their speed, their trickiness, or their accuracy; it was their cool, impregnable assurance. What gets into a man, who is nervous when a sergeant barks at him, but who, when he is put out in front of 20,000 shouting spectators, and asked to juggle an elusive leather ball, reacts with all the poise and certainty of an acrobat on a high wire?

I didn’t need to tell them they were good. They knew it, and perhaps some of them knew it too well. Following the Artillery game, two of them got picked up by the M.P.s, fighting drunk and out of bounds, and I had to pull out all the stops to save their necks. I dropped them from the next game (which we won narrowly, 4 – 3), and then came our final match, and we won it 4 – 0, and that was it. I relaxed, the Governor took to his bed for a couple of days, wheezing like a deflating balloon, Lieutenant Samuels danced on the bar at the Officers’ Club (‘Jocko, boy, you’re luv-ley, an’ all your little Scotch Pongoes are luv-ley, hoots mon, an’ I’ve won a dirty, great, big, luv-ley packet. You know what? I’ad all the ship’s funds as well as my own money on ’em for the Artillery game’) and my team took it easy at last. That is to say that during the day they punted the ball about on the practice pitch, crying ‘Way-ull’ and ‘Aw-haw-hey,’ and at night they sat in the bars, drinking beer and eyeing the talent, and keeping their bonnets over their eyes.

With the pressure off they drank more and ate more, and I was not surprised when, a few days before we were due to leave the Island, two of them came down with one of those bugs which inhabit melons in foreign parts and give you gyppy tummy, or as they call it in India, Delhi Belly. They were packed off to bed and I read the others a lecture on the perils of overindulgence. It was good, strong stuff, and so influenced me personally that I declined to join Lieutenant Samuels in the celebratory dinner which he tried to press on me at the Officers’ Club that night.

I regarded him with distaste. ‘Why aren’t you out sinking submarines or something?’

‘This is peace-time, boyo,’ said he. ‘Anyway, we’re gettin’ a refit; we’ll be yere for weeks. I can stand it, I’m tellin’ you.’ I doubted whether he could; the gin was obviously lapping against his palate and his complexion was like a desert sunrise. He insisted loudly on buying me a drink at least, and I was finishing it and trying not to listen to his gloating account of how he would spend the filthy amount of money he had won, when I was called to the ‘phone.

It was the Governor, excited but brisk. ‘MacNeill,’ he said, ‘How’s your team?’

Wondering, I said they were fine.

‘Excellent, capital. I think I can arrange another game for them, farewell appearance, y’know. That all right with you?’

I was about to mention the two men in hospital, and that we wouldn’t be at full strength, but after all, we were here to play, not to make excuses. So I said, ‘Splendid, any time’, and before I could ask about our opponents and the where and when, he had said he would ring me later and hung up.

Samuels, now fully lit, was delighted. ‘It never rains but it pours,’ he exclaimed gleefully. ‘Send it down, David. Let’s see, put a packet on your boys – who they playin’? doesn’t matter – collect on that, crikeee, Jocko, what a killin’! I’ll plank the bet first thing . . . trouble is, they’re gettin‘ to know me. Ne’mind, I’ll get my clerk to put it on, he can go in mufti.’ He crowed and rubbed his hands. ‘Luv-ley little pongoes; best cargo I ever had!’

It seemed to me he was taking a lot for granted; after all, our opponents might be somebody really good. But we’d beaten the best in the Island, so he probably couldn’t go wrong.

So I thought, until I heard from the Governor’s aide late that night. ‘Two-thirty, at the Stadium,’ he said. ‘Full uniform for you, of course, and
do
see, old man, that your Jocks are respectable. Can’t you get them to wear their hats on the
tops
of their heads? They tend rather to look like coalmen.’

‘Sure, sure. Who are we playing?’

‘Mmh? Oh, the other lot? The Fleet.’

For a moment I didn’t follow. He explained.

‘The Fleet. The Navy.
You
know, chaps in ships with blue trousers.’ He began to sing ‘Heart of Oak’.

‘But . . . but . . . but,’ I said. ‘That’s like playing the Army. I mean, there are thousands of them. They’ll be all-professional . . . they’ll murder us . . . they . . .’

‘That’s what the Admiral thought,’ said the aide, ‘but our Chief wouldn’t see it. Got rather excited actually; they’re still arguing in there; can’t you hear ‘em? Amazing,’ he went on, ‘how the Chief’s manner changes when he gets worked up about a thing like this; he sounds positively Scotch. What’s a sumph, by the way?’

I wasn’t listening any longer. I was sweating. It wasn’t panic, or the fear of defeat. After all, we had done well, and no one could expect us to hold the Navy; we would just have to put on a good show. I was just concentrating on details – get the boys to bed quickly, two men in hospital, choose the team, balance it as well as possible. I ran over the reserves: Beattie, Forbes, McGlinchy, myself . . . Lord, the Fleet! And I had 14 to choose from. Well, barring miracles, we would lose. The Governor would be in mourning; that was his hard luck, if he didn’t know better than to pit us against a side that would be half First Division pros, and possibly even an internationalist. Suddenly I felt elated. Suppose . . . oh, well, we’d give them something to remember us by.

I simply told the boys at bed-time who they were playing, and they digested it, and the corporal said:

‘Aw-haw-hey. Think they’re any good, sir?’

‘Not as good as we are.’

‘We’re the wee boys,’ said the corporal, and the wee boys cried ‘Way-ull,’ mocking themselves. They were pleased at the thought of another game, that was all. I doubt if their reaction would have been different if their opponents had been Moscow Dynamo or the Eye Infirmary.

The corporal and I pored over the team all morning; the one doubtful spot was left wing, and after much heart-searching we fixed on McGlinchy, but the corporal didn’t like it. He at least knew what we were up against ‘an’ we cannae afford a passenger. If Ah thought he’d wake up mebbe half the match, O.K., but no’ kiddin’, sir, yon yin’s no’ a’ there.’

‘He’s all we’ve got,’ I said. ‘Beattie’s a half-back, and I’m just not good enough. It’s got to be McGlinchy.’

‘Aye, weel,’ said the corporal, ‘that’s so. But by half-time I’ll bet we’re wishin’ we’d picked . . . McAuslan, even.’

In the unlikely event that we had been daft enough to do just that, we would have been disappointed. For when we embussed for the stadium McAuslan was mysteriously absent. We waited and swore, but he didn’t appear, so Beattie was detailed to run the touchline, and off we went. With any luck McAuslan had fallen in the harbour.

The dressing-room was hot and sunny under the stand as we sat around waiting. The boys chewed gum and McGlinchy played ‘wee heidies’ against the wall – nodding a ball against the partition like a boxer hitting a punch-ball. (‘Close-mooth, tanner-ba’ merchant,’ muttered the corporal.) Outside we could hear the growing rumble of the crowd, and then there was the peep of a whistle and the referee’s step in the passage, and the boys shifted and said, ‘Way-ull, way-ull,’ and boots stamped and shorts were hitched, and outside a brass band was thumping out ‘Heart of Oak’ and a great thunder of voices was rolling up as the Fleet came out, and the corporal sniffed and said:

‘Awright, fellas, let’s get stuck intae these matlows,’ and I was left alone in the dressing-room.

I went out by the street door and was walking along to the grandstand entrance when I came face to face with Samuels in the crowd that was still pouring into the ground. It was a shock: I hadn’t given him a thought since last night. Before I could say anything, he slapped me on the back, addressed me as Old Jocko, and said I was luv-ley.

‘Goin’ up to watch the slaughter?’ he shouted. He was well ginned up. ‘The massacre of the innocents, hey?’

‘I like that,’ I said. ‘You’ve won enough off them; you could at least show some sympathy.’

‘Who for?’ he guffawed. ‘The other lot?’

A horrible cold hand suddenly laid itself on the base of my spine.

‘The other lot,’ I said. ‘You know who we’re playing?’

‘Been on the ship all mornin’, checkin’ stores,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Who’s the unfortunate party?’

‘Tell me,’ I said carefully. ‘Have you put a bet on?’

‘Have I, boyo? The lot, you bet. The sub-cheese. The bundle.’

I looked at my watch. It was two minutes to kick-off.

‘Phone the bookie,’ I said. ‘Get it off. No matter what, cancel that bet.’

He didn’t seem to be receiving me. ‘The whole lot,’ he said. ‘Boyo, I cleaned out the safe. I shot the works. I’m tellin’ . . .’

‘Shut up, you Welsh oaf,’ I shouted. ‘Don’t you understand? We’re playing the Fleet, the Navy, all the great horrible battleships and aircraft carriers, millions of talented sailors. They will eat us alive. Your bet, if you let it ride, will go down the nick. Get it off.’

In all the world there is no sight so poignant as that of the confident mug when he feels the first sharp bite of the hook and realises it is going to sink inexorably home. His face went from sweating red to dry grey, and he seemed to crumple.

‘You’re drunk, boyo,’ he croaked.

‘I’m drunk? Look who’s talking. Look, Taffy, you’ll have to cancel . . .’ And just then what he had said came home to me. ‘You say you cleaned out the safe? The ship’s safe? But you’ve got two weeks of my Jocks’ pay in there . . . Oh, brother.’ I just stared at him. This was death, court-martial, ruin, and disaster. He was cooked. Unless the bet was scrubbed.

‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘I cannot do it.’ Odd, I thought, he says cannot, not can’t. ‘I didn’t place it myself, see? The clerk did. Peterson. I gave him half a dozen addresses. I dunno where he is, now.’

The crowd was moving in, the last of it. There was nothing to be done. The band had stopped. I left him standing there, like a busted flush, and climbed the stairs to the stand. Poor Samuels, I thought. Idiot, mad Samuels. Of all the . . .

The roar hit me in the face as I came out into the stand. I sat at the back of the main box; down front the Governor was starting work on his first handkerchief of the game, and beside him was a massive, grizzled hero in blue, with gold lace up to his armpits. That would be the Admiral. Their henchmen were about them, full of well-bred enthusiasm; the stadium was jammed, and every second man seemed to be a sailor. Our support was confined to a handful of khaki down below the box: our own reserves and a few associates.

‘Flee-eet!’ rolled across the brown, iron-hard pitch, and I saw the concentration of yellow shirts down near one goal: the Navy were attacking, powerful dark-blue figures with red stockings. They smacked the ball about with that tough assurance that is the mark of the professional; I saw the corporal slide in to tackle, and red stockings deftly side-stepped and swept the ball past him. The roar mounted, there was a surge in our goal-mouth, and then the ball was trickling past into the crowd. I felt slightly sick.

‘Get tore intae these people!’ came from in front of the box, to be drowned in the Navy roar. Yes, I thought, get tore in. It’s your pay and Samuels’ reputation you’re playing for. Then I thought, no, the heck with that, it’s just for yourselves, that’s all.

And they played. The hard ground and the light ball were on our side, for we were ball-players first and last; on grass the Navy would have been just too strong. They didn’t rush things; they passed with deliberation and looked for their men, unlike our team, who were used to fast, short passing controlled by some sort of telepathy. If we played at their pace we were done for, so we didn’t. The doll-like yellow figures moved and ran as though they were at practice, easy and confident.