Trader Jack -The Story of Jack Miner (The Story of Jack Miner Series) (6 page)

In the distance I could hear a crowd cheering. We walked towards the noise. By the time we arrived at Lord's Cricket Ground, the crowd was coming through the gates. I still had this crazy idea. Would meet Mike Swann and find out where Sandy was staying.

There was a long queue at one of the gates. Play was finished for the day and it was puzzling why people were queuing.

'What's the score,' I asked a guy at the end of the queue. He looked about forty. He was unshaven and his black denim jacket was faded and torn.

'Don't understand,' he said in a thick foreign accent. 'We come clean ground.'

I went up to an official who was wearing a fluorescent yellow jacket.

'Can I have a job?'

'Stand in the queue, it's five pounds an hour.'

Most of the cleaners seemed to be from Africa and Eastern Europe. Few were speaking English. There were about eighty of us, waiting. Spectators were still coming out of the ground. They hardly gave us a glance. When they did, they quickly turned their eyes away. I was one of the invisible people, the people who clean the streets and public toilets. The people who aren't people.

I was near the back of the queue and was glad that they chose me. Others who came later were rejected. Eventually the line began moving. Security officials searched our bags and bodies. They then passed us black bags, divided us into groups and sent us to different stands. I asked an official if I could tie up Jazz inside the ground. Luckily he agreed.

Dad was keen on cricket and we often watched games together on TV. Football was my favourite sport, but in the summer I played and watched cricket. It was strange being at Lord's for the first time alongside immigrants and asylum seekers who didn't have a clue about the game. Lord's is the Mecca of cricket. The ground is more than a hundred years old. When England plays Australia, Lord's is bursting with almost 30,000 spectators. Cricketers in England, Australia, India, Pakistan, South Africa, West Indies, Sri Lanka and New Zealand dream of playing at Lord's. Dad once tried to explain cricket to an American. He couldn't work out why a Test Match went on for five days and that sometimes it ended in a draw. Recently they introduced Twenty/20 cricket, a fast, compressed version of the game that finishes in three hours with a result. They are going to stage games in the US hoping that cricket will catch on there, but it can't compete with baseball.

For us cleaners it was just work. Picking up rubbish and empty bottles on a stand named after Dennis Compton, a famous cricketer. Directly above the stand was a white building that looked like a rectangular space ship. This was the centre for TV, radio commentators and the press. Through the darkish windows, a few reporters were typing their stories on laptops.

Across the green field, directly opposite my stand, I spotted the famous Lord's Pavilion, a Victorian building more than a hundred years old. Above the Pavilion in the players' dressing rooms and balconies were the English and Australian teams. I attempted to climb over the fence and run across the field to the dressing rooms to find Mike Swann, but a security guard stopped me. That stymied my chances of making contact with Sandy's cousin; made me feel gloomy. No chance of seeing her again.

The scoreboard in the corner of the ground showed that Australia was almost two hundred runs ahead of England. Our side was likely to lose. It was a hot day and the crowd had drunk a lot. We worked silently along the rows of seats throwing empty bottles and cans into recycling bags and rubbish into others. I found some wrapped sandwiches that hadn't been touched and put them in a supermarket bag. That would be supper.

We finished just after 8.30pm, but since it was only weeks after midsummer, the light was only then beginning to fade. They paid me ten pounds. That would keep me going for a while.

*   *   *

After resting in a small park near Lord's, we walked down St John's Wood High Street, where there were fancy shops and restaurants. Further on, the streets were wide and the houses large.

It was then that I saw her. She was sitting in the garden of a pub on the corner of the road. Sandy, my Sandy. She wore a silky blue top and her brown shiny hair was in a high ponytail. She was sitting alone at a table drinking a beer. Jazz pulled the lead and rushed towards her. Before we could get near, a guy came out of the pub with a packet of peanuts. He was much bigger than me and at least two years older. Seriously good looking. I watched them as he put his hand on her shoulder. She looked up and kissed him. It wasn't just the kiss that got to me. It was the length of time. The way she held his hand.

I was at the entrance of the garden and was about to walk away, when she noticed me. I felt myself blushing.

'Jack . . . Jack Miner. What are you doing here?'

I noticed her puzzled expression as she looked at me. Unshaven, sweaty, dirty.

'I had to do some bu . . . business here,' I stuttered.

I could see that they didn't believe me.

'Are you OK?' she asked. 'Why don't you sit down?'

She stroked Jazz who was panting and wagging his tail madly.

'I think he's thirsty.'

There was a bowl of water nearby. I picked it up and put it in front of the dog. He gulped it down.

'Sit down,' Sandy's friend said. 'Want a beer?'

'Half a pint of lager,' I mumbled, thinking that I might as well have a drink. I was trapped.

'Jack Miner . . . Friend from Yorkshire,' said Sandy introducing us. 'Peter Taylor.'

Taylor shook my sweaty hand firmly and went inside to get the drink. Through the open door, I saw him take some ice, rub his hands and wipe them with a paper napkin.

'Are you sure that you're OK, Jack?' asked Sandy. 'You don't look it.'

'I'm fine. Lots of things have happened. I'll sort it out,' I said.

She told me that she was staying with her uncle in Hampstead. That Taylor had taken her to Lord's. They were going to a party. Before I could ask her for her address, he was back with the beer.

Taylor touched her hand. I was pleased when she withdrew it. He glared at me.

'How long are you staying in London?' he asked.

'Not sure, I'll know next week.'

'When do you go back to school?' he asked, patronisingly.

'Not sure I'm going back. Thinking of starting a business,' I countered. 'My Dad left me some shares. I'm selling them.'

'Maybe I can help. My father works for an investment bank,' said Taylor with a disbelieving sneer.

'No thanks, I've got a broker.'

He didn't bother asking any more questions. We finished our drinks and walked into the street.

Sandy touched my elbow: 'Need a lift anywhere, Jack?'

'I'm going to Hampstead,' I said hoping they were on their way to the West End. I felt so small and upset that I wanted to get away from them.

'Off to the concert at Kenwood?'

'Yes,' I lied, not knowing what she was talking about.

'Our party's in Highgate. We can drop him there, can't we Peter?' she said.

'You can walk from there to Kenwood,' said Taylor unenthusiastically. 'What about your dog?'

'He'll be OK. I'll put him on my lap.'

Taylor's open Golf convertible was parked near the pub. I climbed into the back, with Jazz next to me. He drove through side streets to avoid the traffic and eventually reached Highgate Village. At the top of the hill, the car was caught in a traffic jam and became almost stationary.

'Kenwood's down there,' said Taylor, pointing towards the bottom of the hill. 'On the way to Hampstead. About half a mile.'

'Thanks. It would be good to see you, Sandy? Where did you say you were staying?'

'I told you. With my Uncle. I'm going back in a few days,' she replied impatiently.

She scribbled down an address on a piece of paper, allowing Taylor to glance at it. It was Perth, Australia. Obviously she didn't want to see me again.

Jazz jumped out of the car and we started walking towards Kenwood. I was feeling low. By some miracle I had found Sandy, but had cocked up. I kicked a stone in front of me. Had felt like an idiot in front of her boyfriend. Despite what happened in Bridlington, she wasn't interested. I was a loser. Worse still, she was probably sorry for me.

Jazz became excited when he spotted woodland on the left. The evening was beginning to close in. We turned into a narrow gate and heard music. It was Dixieland Jazz and had to be the Kenwood concert. A narrow path through a small wood ended up in a field. In the distance there were lots of parked cars. It was now quite dark, but the moon had risen, helping me to stumble along a pathway towards the music.

A crowd of people were in front of Kenwood, a huge stately home. In the distance, down a hill, was a white stage. I tried to get closer to the performers, but there was a fence surrounding the concert area and plenty of guards. Friends and families were sitting on the grass, eating and listening to the music, within and outside the enclosure. The band was playing furiously and some people were dancing. We sat down next to a family who were sitting on blankets and watching from outside the fenced concert area. The kids were keen on Jazz, my Jazz. They gave him some scraps, pulled him up by his paws and danced with him. The family gave me some chocolate cake and I felt much better. We stayed there for a while and I began thinking of Dad. He would have loved the concert. I began to feel depressed again as I watched people enjoying themselves. All I had was Jazz, an old watch, a book and a few pounds. I didn't think about any of the positives. The money I would get from selling the shares. What I could do with it. That money was abstract. Not the here and now.

The concert ended with an amazing firework display. Rockets soared into the sky and burst into multicoloured patterns. When it was all over, the audience rolled up their blankets and ground sheets and packed up their rubbish. Shadowy figures wound their way home in the moonlight. Jazz and I forced our way against the tide of people coming out of the concert area. We slipped inside. The audience had cleared most of the rubbish and the cleaners were placing the remainder into large black bags and huge bins. I asked for a job, but the cleaner who was in charge, just patted Jazz and shook his head. The leftovers from the food and drink stalls went to the staff or were sold at very cheap prices.

I managed to get a large bottle of coke, a packet of crisps and some chicken and bacon sandwiches for a pound. Jazz managed to find some cold meat, some bread and other scraps of food. Luckily someone had left a blanket. Closer to the pond that overlooked the empty stage, I found a ground sheet. We left the concert area and joined some people who were walking in the darkness up an avenue lined with trees. A road to the right led to a clearing. Helped by moonlight I walked to some thick trees, laid down the groundsheet, covered Jazz and myself with the blanket and fell asleep.

*   *   *

I woke up suddenly. Jazz was snarling. A black retriever was sniffing us. It was a bright summer morning. The place was full of dog walkers and joggers. I was starving and gobbled up the crisps and shared the sandwiches with Jazz. Afterwards, I covered the blanket in the groundsheet and hid them in the bushes. Then we wandered down a winding hill until we came to some ponds. We walked past the first pond with swans and ducks. Fishermen were trying their luck, but it didn't seem as if they had caught anything. We ambled on until we came across a second pond, fairly close to the first. Men were diving off the steps of a wooden platform into the brown water and several were sunbathing on a large raft in the middle of the water.

I tied Jazz to the fence and tread the narrow path that led to a changing room without a roof. A few men were sunbathing naked and some were changing for their morning swim or having a shower. At last I could have my first proper wash in two days. The water was ice cold, but it felt good.

Breakfast, a walk and shower had stopped me thinking about myself. But as we continued our walk, I thought of Sandy and the gloom came back. I was a complete and utter failure. People walked past us, but I didn't even notice them. I was clean, but still felt uncomfortable in my smelly clothes.

A cafeteria, near some tennis courts and a children's playground with large carved wooden animals, wasn't open. So we kept on going, southwards, out of the Heath, towards Central London. After aimlessly crossing a few streets I came across a market with lots of stalls and customers. A T-shirt and two pairs of boxers cost £4.80, leaving £4.20. Every penny had to be counted. That's how tight it was. I bought a couple of dog biscuits for Jazz in a pet shop on the corner of the road.

For some reason I was mesmerised by the goldfish and the tropical fish swimming in the glass tank. Up and down, backwards and forwards in their small aquarium. I must have been there for ages until a shop assistant shouted: 'Either buy some fish or leave. You can't hang around here.'

I looked at her blankly, ran out and shuffled through the market feeling depressed and lonely. My life was awful.

Even if I was going to get £10,000 for my shares, Baton would probably find me, take the money and leave me with nothing. I was so down, that I forgot that Jazz was walking alongside me. Didn't even notice him foul the pavement. Dad had taught me to pick it up, but this time I couldn't be bothered.

It was late morning. I was getting hungry again and bought a loaf of bread and some milk at a small supermarket. There were some newspapers there. The
Sunday Telegraph's
front page headline was: 'Russian Banker found hanging from Charing Cross Bridge.' It was getting hot, but I went cold. I picked up the newspaper and quickly read the story.

The article said that in the early hours of Saturday morning, the police had found a body dangling over the Thames. He was Boris Yapolovitch, chief executive of Moscow Narodsky, a Russian bank. It had collapsed with estimated losses of at least £4 billion. I read further and shivered. The story continued that a witness had reported the hanging, but had disappeared. The police were searching for a boy who was about sixteen or seventeen. They were investigating whether Yapolovitch had committed suicide.