In Pieces (22 page)

‘I'm sorry,' she snuffled. ‘It's just that I missed you.'

‘Yeah, I'm sorry too,' muttered Si. ‘You were right, I guess… Let's go to the pub, eh?'

That was how Si came to miss Jimmy's first hat-trick for Manchester United, which won a vital match and set him firmly on the path to soccer stardom and United to winning the Championship.

~

As usual, Mary woke with the birdsong. It had been a habit from childhood which she'd carried to London. At home, of course, there had been a whole orchestra to transport her from dreams to daylight, but now a solitary starling soothed her waking. She rolled over onto her back and opened her eyes.

Another day at the office. She enjoyed her job most of the time, and she knew she was good at it. The money was excellent too. But what was it all for, she wondered? In the clarity of dawn—the LCD on her radio alarm blinked 06:15—she paused to reflect on her life. A rare moment in the hurly burly of work.

Si groaned on her left. He was still fast asleep. How sweet he looked with his George Clooney hair cut and a tightly clenched fist poking over the edge of the duvet. It was strange how their relationship had developed. She'd had to make most of the running, she realised, because he was so introverted and laid back. She now knew that this was just a veneer, an act for society. After the best part of four months together—the long dark winter months when London works too hard and forgets how to enjoy itself—Mary thought that Si worried too much. He worried about his work, and he looked for meaning unnecessarily. Life was quite simple really; it didn't need angst-ridden self-examination to work out that we were all really insignificant in the great scheme of things. You just had to get on and make the best of it. For her that meant being successful in her job. For Si, she wasn't so sure. He certainly didn't seem happy in his job, but he didn't seem to know what else he
wanted to do. Sometimes, she wasn't even sure he wanted to be with her, and thought that, but for force of habit, they would have split up long ago.

But Mary was increasingly clear in her own mind what she wanted. Si drove her up the wall at times, but he was the nicest man she'd been out with. She could see a future for them, once Si got his head together. Of course, she would be wise to keep that thought to herself—she knew how terrified men were of the M word. She was young enough to wait… Time would bring its own answer.

The birdsong became more intermittent. 06:24. Did that bloody clock never stop flashing? How on earth did it keep going for so many separate little bursts of energy? Quite remarkable. But then again, she supposed it was no different from her heart, which she could feel gently pulsating, pushing the blood around her loose limbs.

Mary pulled herself together. Time to stop daydreaming and to get up. Otherwise she'd be late for work. It was all right for journalists like Si who could roll in after ten; she had to be at her desk by seven thirty. The joys of the financial world. They claimed that the pay compensated for the long hours, but if one worked out the hourly rate, it was more or less the same as less demanding and supposedly badly paid jobs. A mug's life? No, she loved it really. Perhaps it would be different if everyone didn't think she was a high-flyer? Yes, almost certainly. But, she always had the option to stop and do something else, even have a family. Get up, and stop being so predictable, ordered a little voice in her head.

Mary slid out the side of the bed and realised that she was naked. The memory of the previous night made her spine tingle, and she smirked as she fumbled for her towelling bathrobe. It was cold and she shivered. She stole a glance at her sleeping lover before heading for the bathroom.

The bedroom door shut and Si rolled over to a more comfortable position. He found the warm spot which still smelt of Mary and snuggled down into the dent in the mattress, pulling the duvet around his shoulders.

‘Wake up, dozy, I'm off.'

‘Wha… What's going on?' Si poked his head out. ‘It's early, why are you waking me up?'

‘I thought you might like a cup of tea?'

Si groaned.

‘I'll put it here, okay. Just on the floor. Don't leave it too long, or it'll go cold.'

Si mumbled insincere gratitude.

‘See you tonight, okay? Give me a ring later.' Mary leaned over the bed, feeling stiff in her high-buttoned white blouse and tight suit. She kissed Si on the cheek, which was the only bit of his body exposed. ‘Bye. Love you,' she whispered.

‘Yeah… Bye,' he slurred.

Mary picked up her briefcase and closed the door softly behind her. Si rolled over, tucked his head under his arm and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

~

It was just after four and the kids were about to return from school. Greta had gone to fetch them. The Sleeper sat in the armchair in his room and looked out the window. He loved the view of tall Victorian buildings shaded by Arcadian streets. So peaceful, in stark contrast to his inner turmoil. A warm breeze shivered the tops of the poplar trees and he remembered how his ma used to sigh when things were really bad back home. Then, as usual, his thoughts turned to Greta.

The first time they'd made love was like nothing he'd ever known. It was like going to heaven. Blinding light, a feeling of weightlessness and an incredible warmth. They didn't make it upstairs; just did it on the couch where they were. He didn't really have much to do in the event. Greta did most of the work. He was impressed that she seemed to know what she was doing. He'd been concerned because it was his first time and he didn't want to tell her. He'd had a protected upbringing, and his ma wouldn't let him go out with girls like some of his friends did. So he'd never had the chance. Anyway, he thought, he was glad he hadn't. It made doing it with Greta all the more special.

‘Thank you, Baa,' she said afterwards.

‘Thank you? Why are you thanking me? I should be thanking you.'

‘No, you're the one who's being lovely. Did anyone ever tell you what a lovely kid you are?'

‘I'm not really a kid. After all, I'm twenty now.'

‘No, you're not a kid…Did anyone?'

‘Anyone what?'

‘Tell you how lovely you are?' Greta rolled off his chest and propped herself up on her elbow. He tried not to stare at the swing of her breasts.

‘No. I don't think they did.'

‘Well, they should have.' She leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. ‘You are quite lovely.'

He looked into her emerald eyes and realised with a shock that he was in love. Foolishly and head over heels in love. This was another novel experience. It was slightly confusing. He realised that he had to be a bit careful.

During the training before he left Ireland, they'd told him, ‘Don't get tangled up in personal relationships. You're there to do a job; never forget it.' The job. This was clearly what they'd been thinking of when they said that. He hadn't paid much attention then, but now the meaning of those words became clear. To be honest he felt pretty confused. His life before Greta seemed almost to belong to a different person.

‘Why so down? Didn't you enjoy it?'

‘Yeah, like nothing before.'

‘Good.' Greta looked relieved. ‘If you're a good boy I might let you do it again later…'

The reflection in his bedroom window grinned impishly back. He supposed he must have been a good boy.

~

Despite his winning goal against Southampton in the sixth round of the FA Cup, Jimmy hardly dared hope start the match against Chelsea. It was the semi-final and victory would guarantee United a place at Wembley. But injuries still troubled several of the team's regular strikers, and Jimmy thought he had a good chance of being picked to sit on the bench; that could lead to another chance to show his talents, if the manager decided to make a substitution.

Then, at the end of midweek training, Alex Ferguson called him over and told him that he would be in the team from the start of the match. Jimmy was ecstatic.

‘Great… That's really great… Thanks,' was all he could say.

Ferguson just looked at him steadily and nodded, the hint of a smile playing at the edge of his dour mouth. ‘Don't thank me… Thank th'self,' he said. ‘You're doon' well, Jimmy. Just do well on Sunday too, okay?' He patted Jimmy on the shoulder and walked away.

When he got back to his hotel room, Jimmy began to realise what his selection really meant. This was it, the big chance. The whole footballing world would be watching the FA Cup semi-final. If he did well, he'd be catapulted to stardom. If he failed he might not get another chance to play in the first team for a long time.

The intense fear which overcame him drove away sleep, and desperate to off-load some of the excitement and terror, he picked up the phone. There was no one in Manchester to whom he could talk. So he rang Si.

‘Hello,' groaned a voice after half a dozen rings.

‘Hi, Si? It's Jimmy… How are you?'

‘Jimmy you git, it's three o'clock in the morning. What the hell are you doing ringing me, eh?'

‘Yeah, sorry about the time…' In the background Jimmy could here a woman's voice complaining.

‘Yeah, I hope you are. I've got to go to work tomorrow.'

‘Oh, right. Yeah, sorry. I just thought I'd give you a ring.'

‘Listen,' muttered Si sleepily, ‘If you've just rung for a chat, could we do this in the morning? And then I'll kick your butt when I next see you.'

‘No, nothing special. Sorry mate, we'll talk tomorrow. By the way, who've you got with you?'

‘None of your business.'

‘It's not Mary, then?'

‘Course it's bloody Mary… Ow! No, I didn't mean it like that, I was just saying to Jimmy… Oh never mind.' Si's voice boomed louder as he stopped talking to Mary and spoke into the receiver again. ‘Now look what you've done. You've woken her up and got me into trouble into the bargain.'

Jimmy laughed. ‘You see, you are glad I rang you.'

‘No, I'm not. Honest, Jimmy. Not a bit glad. Hey, are you drunk? Bet you are. As a skunk, no doubt. I thought professional footballers were meant to be sober during the season.'

‘Course I'm bloody sober. No, what I was phoning about… It's important, Si.'

Si's curiosity began to conquer sleep. ‘Go on, I'm listening.'

‘Right, well the Boss, he's picked me for Sunday. The Chelsea match.'

‘What? On the bench?'

‘No, you prat. Playing from the start. Centre forward. What do you think about that, eh?'

Si sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp. Sleep fell from him like a shroud and he was oblivious to groans from the slumbering form beside him. Strands of Mary's hair splayed out over the crisp white pillow like the Medusa's serpentine locks. ‘Wow… Now that
is
news. Well done… Bloody well done…'

‘That's more like it. You'll be there, I hope? And bring Mary. It's about time you introduced me.'

‘Yeah, sure. If you get us tickets. Of course we'll be there. Jimmy, that's great, really great.'

‘Yeah, I know. Those were my very words when the Boss told me.'

‘Poetry, man, sweet poetry.' And at that moment this seemed the most apposite form of words available to celebrate the event. ‘Great. Really great.'

~

They were walking through Soho looking for clothes. Ricky wanted a pair of crocodile skin winklepickers.

‘What d'you want them for?' Si asked incredulously.

‘Well, I've always wanted a pair, and now that I'm going to play in this band I need to sharpen up my image. Know what I mean?' Ricky had announced that he would be joining an R and B group. Singing, he claimed. It was the first Si had heard of Ricky doing something about his musical ambitions.

‘Yeah, ever since I was a kid. I used to play the guitar but really my talent lies in singing, fronting the band.'

‘Right.'

‘And Ricky R—that's going to be my stage name—well, he'll need a cool pair of shoes.'

‘I suppose he will. What's the R stand for?'

‘Dunno. Doesn't need to stand for anything. Just sounds cool.'

Apparently the band had already been going for a year, but apart from a few gigs they hadn't got anywhere. But then they hadn't been fronted by Ricky before.

‘So when's the first gig?'

‘Not sure, man. But there are rehearsals this week and next and then I guess we'll be ready to go on the road.'

‘Really? Where you going? On the road like?'

‘Probably Kilburn.'

Si raised an eyebrow but managed not to laugh.

‘Okay, it's not far, but best to start in London and then work out to the provinces. On the road's an expression, that's all. It's all about rock ‘n' roll living, man. Get hip… Get cool…' Ricky swung a high five in his direction.

Si pretended not to notice. He didn't like to admit it, but he was slightly envious of his friend's newfound sense of purpose.

‘Okay… So what's the band called?'

‘At the moment they're called The Moguls, but I think that's dumb. When I asked why, none of the guys could tell me. Sounds like a mixture of Hollywood and the Swiss Alps…'

Si laughed involuntarily. ‘Suppose so.'

‘And I've got a plan to turn this band around. Really make it something. Could be hot shit if we do some practice. The drummer's good and the bassist's not bad. But the keyboard player makes Ray Manzarek look disabled, and the lead guitar must be Eric Clapton's younger brother. With me at the front geeing the whole act up… Man, we'll be unstoppable.'

Listening to him, Si almost believed it.

‘Shit, there they are.'

‘Who?' Si looked around, half-expecting to see Ricky's band.

‘Not who, what. My shoes. Check those mothers out.'