Through the Storm (23 page)

She began to remove her clothes and sighed with relief when she peeled off the rubber corselette that had been digging into the top of her legs all day. She only wore it nowadays for special occasions. There were dents in her skin that felt red raw. She rubbed them, wincing painfully, and reached quickly under the pillow for her thick winceyette nightdress. There was no
heating
in the bedroom and it was freezing. Shivering, she took a final look at Penny as she put on her dressing gown and slippers.

‘If only I could have another baby!’ she said aloud. She went downstairs, removed the fireguard and knelt in front of the fire, stretching out her hands to warm them. She’d never blamed Arthur, not even in her mind, but if it hadn’t been for him she might have had half a dozen children by now, like Sheila Reilly.

‘Please God, don’t let it be too late!’

Jessica stood up, feeling warmer. She noticed in the mirror that her hair was still pinned up and removed the combs and clips to let it down. It fell onto her shoulders in waves. She was still a good-looking woman. From time to time, Rita brought one of her ‘friends’ into the workshop, and Jessica was conscious of the way they looked her up and down appreciatively. What a pity she couldn’t be like Rita and make love with any man who happened to be around! But Jessica knew there was only one man she wanted to father a second child.

Sighing, she took the kettle into the kitchen and filled it up with water. She was dying for a cup of tea. She’d just put the kettle on the hob when there was a knock on the front door and she went to answer it.

The moonlight fell like fine liquid on the street outside, illuminating everything with an unnatural, vivid clarity. Jack Doyle was standing there holding something in his hand. Perhaps it was because she was still a little drunk, but his entire body seemed to be surrounded by a narrow line of light, like a halo.

‘I was helping our Sheila tidy up a bit, and we found this behind a chair in the parlour.’

Jessica regarded him wordlessly.

‘It’s your handbag,’ he explained with a touch of impatience. ‘Sheila thought you might be worried you’d lost it.’

‘My handbag?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re drunk, too,’ he said disgustedly. ‘Our Sheila doesn’t know which way she’s going.’

‘Give it to me.’

Jessica took a step back when he handed her the bag. Before he could remove his hand, she caught it in her own. He looked at her, wide-eyed and slightly shocked.

‘
No, Jess!
’

Jessica didn’t answer, but began to tug him ever so gently into the house. She suspected there was nothing between him and Kate Thomas, but meeting Kate had made her realise she had to be quick, just in case …

‘Oh, no, Jess,’ Jack groaned.

Jessica placed the hand she had imprisoned on her hip and felt it rest there, comfortably, warmly. She reached for his other hand and when it was safely where it should be, her arms crept round his neck and she pulled his head down until their lips met.

‘Yes, Jack,’ she whispered after one long intoxicating kiss. He was in the hallway by now. He kicked the door shut with his heel.

Oh, yes, yes, yes!

It was more like a carnival than a football match. Christmas was only five days away, the schools had broken up the day before and everyone was in the very best of spirits. Compared with the numbers present at a league game, the crowd was sparse, the Everton ground nowhere near full to capacity, but in fact there were more than a thousand people there, at least three-quarters of them boys from local schools. For some reason, many brought Union Jacks to wave. Several also brought ARP rattles which they whirled around with a tremendous clatter whenever it looked as if there might be a goal. Every able-bodied person from Pearl Street had come, and Brenda Mahon had been busy knitting blue and white striped scarves.

Sheila Reilly felt slightly overawed. She’d scarcely taken any notice of Dominic each time he’d come home and announced his team had won, and not only that, it was he who’d scored most of the goals. Yet over the last fortnight all sorts of people, including many she didn’t even know, had approached her in the street and congratulated her on having given birth to such a fine footballing son!

‘You must be very proud,’ they said.

‘Oh, yes, I am,’ Sheila assured them, wishing Cal were home. Cal would have understood, offered encouragement, spurred Dominic on, instead of ignoring him as she had done – not that he needed much encouragement, the swollen-headed little bugger. He’d been unbearable for weeks.

The other finalists were Wilson Carlyon, a private school from Ormskirk. Their red and white kits were brand new. They fitted well, having obviously been bought in different sizes for each individual player, and had the position number sewn on the back. St Joan of Arc’s kits were all the same size and fitted where they touched, if they fitted at all. A piece of paper was attached to each lad’s back with several safety pins indicating the position he was to play.

‘I wish I’d known, Sheil,’ Brenda said when the teams ran onto the pitch. ‘I would have sewn on proper numbers for them. Why do they need numbers, anyroad?’

‘I dunno,’ replied Sheila. ‘Perhaps it’s in case one of ’em gets lost.’

Wilson Carlyon were slightly older, slightly bigger and better nourished than the opposition. They were also very good. When the whistle blew for kick-off, they stormed as one man into the other half and scored a goal in the first minute.

Dominic Reilly’s brain clicked into action. He felt annoyed that he’d been taken so much by surprise. He’d already managed to identify their best player, a knobbly lad on the left wing, a good head taller than himself, with wavy hair like a girl’s. From then on, he stayed glued to his side. The trouble was, the knobbly lad had recognised Dominic as his equal and stayed glued to him. Dominic could get nowhere near the other goal with the ball. The play was lively, but neither team had much opportunity to score.

Just before half-time, Dominic saw an opening. Their side were taking a corner at the Wilson Carlyon end. Dominic rubbed his eyes, pretending to be temporarily distracted, and the knobbly lad relaxed. The ball came towards them and Dominic leapt forward and caught it between his feet. He dribbled it skilfully in and out of the players surrounding the goal, and suddenly, there he
was
, just him and the goalie facing each other. He drew back his foot, ready to thud the ball in low, when suddenly he felt his other foot being kicked from under him and he landed face down in the mud.

‘FOUL!’ screamed the crowd.

‘Foul!’ screamed Jimmy Quigley from the touchline.

Sister Gabriel did a maniacal Irish jig beside him. ‘Foul!’ she screeched.

But the referee had been looking the other way, and blew the whistle for half-time.

‘Never mind, boy, you did your best,’ Sister Gabriel said sympathetically when they were in the changing room. She was cleaning Dominic’s grazed and bruised ankle with cotton wool.

‘No he didn’t, none of ’em did.’ Jimmy Quigley regarded the eleven boys with utter contempt. ‘You were dead lousy, all of you, Dominic in particular. You deserve to be one down. You deserve to lose. You’ll all go home with your tails between your legs if you don’t do better in the second half.’

Sister Gabriel looked dismayed. ‘Now, now, Mr Quigley. There’s no need to speak to the boys like that.’

‘Yes there is. They played like little fairies when they should have played like men. Are you actually going to let this lot beat you?’ He glared at the team. Apart from Dominic, they all regarded him fearfully. ‘A private school, a shower of poncy little gits who think themselves too good to go to an ordinary school like you do?’

‘Please, Mr Quigley!’

‘I bet most of ’em still suck from their mammies’ titties.’

‘
Mr Quigley!
’ Sister Gabriel crossed herself.

‘So,’ snarled Jimmy, ‘what are you going to play like in the second half?’

‘Men,’ the boys quavered. Dominic curled his lip and said nothing.

‘Right, then. Have you had your lemonade?’

‘Yes Mr Quigley.’

‘Off you go, then, and I want to see some proper football in the second half.’

‘Yes Mr Quigley.’

‘How’s your ankle?’ asked Jimmy in a normal voice as Dominic ran past.

‘Not so bad.’

Jimmy had never committed a foul during his brief career as a footballer, nor had one done to him, but there came a time, and now was it, when such gentlemanly and sportsmanlike behaviour had to be put aside. As the Bible said, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ or something like that. From the side of his mouth, he hissed, ‘If you can give that effing left-winger a taste of his own medicine, don’t hesitate.’

‘I won’t,’ vowed Dominic.

The players assembled on the field, the crowd cheered, the whistle blew and Dominic immediately captured the ball. He heeled it gently behind to his left-back, and the Wilson Carlyon players poured onto St Joan of Arc’s half of the field. The knobbly lad seemed unsure whether to chase the ball or Dominic.

‘
Give us it back!
’ Dominic yelled.

The half-back was running around in circles with the ball. He looked only too relieved to be rid of it, and it landed with a thump at Dominic’s feet. Apart from the goalkeeper, there were just two defenders left in the opposition’s half. Dominic passed them easily. He knew, he just
knew
he was going to score. It was inevitable, it was an utter certainty. The goalie faced him for a second time, hopping nervously from one foot to the other. He dodged to the left when it looked as if the ball was coming that way. Dominic slammed the ball low into the right side of the net.

One all.

From then on, the knobbly lad never let Dominic get more than a couple of feet away. He was always there, nudging him, poking him, pushing him, knocking him and stamping on his feet. He even managed a few sly kicks on the already damaged ankle. ‘He’s not covering me,’ thought Dominic in a rage, ‘he’s battering me. He’s worse than a bloody German.’

The second half took on the pattern of the first, with neither team able to get close to the other’s goal. If it was still a draw when the final whistle blew, the teams would have to play extra time.

Dominic felt as if he could play all day, but he knew most of his team would be exhausted by now. Not every mam fed their kids with plates of scouse and steamed puddings the way his did. Some kids were lucky if they saw a hot meal once a week. He had to get another goal before the whistle went. He had to win. He was determined to win, not just for himself, but for his mam and dad and Mr Quigley, for Pearl Street, St Joan of Arc’s. For Bootle.

But how was he to get near that goal?

The ball was being knocked about in a desultory fashion mid-field. Dominic signalled to his inside left to let him have it. The knobbly lad immediately jabbed him aside with a vicious thrust of his elbow and went for the ball. For the first time, Dominic deliberately jabbed him back.

‘Stay away from me,’ he threatened, ‘or I’ll gouge your eyes out!’

The knobbly lad fell back, startled. Dominic scooped the ball between his feet and began to run with it towards the Wilson Carlyon goal. He had the same feeling as before. He was going to score, he knew it.

‘Come on, lad,’ a thousand voices yelled.

He reached the penalty area. The goalie was poised like a gorilla in the goal. Dominic had drawn back his right foot, knowing there was nothing that could stop
him
now, the goalie was wasting his time, when a leg appeared from nowhere and kicked the ball offside.

Dominic, his wits all about him, and remembering the goal he should have scored in the first half, flung himself over the outstretched leg, and began to roll on the ground, groaning in agony.

‘FOUL!’

‘Dominic! Are you hurt bad, luv?’ Sheila called plaintively. ‘I’d best go and see to him,’ she said to Brenda.

‘I wouldn’t if I were you, Sheil. He’d never forgive you if you did.’

Jimmy Quigley was already kneeling beside the injured player. ‘You okay, lad?’ he whispered.

Dominic groaned dramatically. ‘I’ve never felt better.’

‘Just look at this ankle!’ Jimmy said angrily when the referee came up. ‘It’s a miracle it’s not broken.’ Dominic gave another agonised groan.

The whistle sounded and there was a cheer from the crowd. ‘What’s happened?’ muttered Dominic.

‘We’ve got a penalty. Are you up to taking it?’

‘Just try and stop me, Mr Quigley.’

It was obvious to all that Dominic was in great agony as he slowly and painfully got to his feet. The ball had already been placed invitingly in front of the goal. He limped towards it, remembering to grimace from time to time. The crowd fell silent, but as far as Dominic was concerned the crowd and the other players no longer existed. All that remained in the entire world were himself, the leather football at his feet, and the goalie in the net in front of him.

Dominic just knew he was going to score.

It seemed a bit anti-climactic to catch a tram back to Bootle after all the excitement. The gold-plated cup, which had been presented to Dominic, the team
captain
, by the Lord Mayor of Liverpool to wild cheers from the crowd, would be displayed in the window of a shop in Marsh Lane over Christmas, a symbol of Bootle’s pride.

Sheila Reilly sat on the top deck of the tram watching her eldest son. He was kneeling backwards on the front seat, facing an adoring audience of schoolmates and neighbours. There was no sign of Jimmy Quigley, who was equally fond of the limelight, and Sheila noticed him a few seats behind sitting beside that horrible Theresa girl who’d been two years ahead of her at school and had the reputation of being a bully.

‘Any minute now, someone’s going to touch our Dominic’s hem or kiss his feet and expect a miracle,’ she thought to herself. She felt a little scared, as if she’d lost him, as if he no longer belonged just to her, but to all these other people. He didn’t seem like
her
Dominic any more, but someone else much grander, a stranger who’d never need his mam again.