‘I’m not leaving you,’ I say. ‘I’m your manager.’
Matt gives me a sad smile. Then his face goes serious and determined again.
‘Not any more,’ he says quietly. ‘You’re fired.’
‘Mrs Jarvis,’ I say, as soon as Matt and Uncle Cliff have left for training. ‘Is there somewhere near here to have a fun kick-around?’
Mrs Jarvis wipes her hands on a tea towel and looks at me.
‘A fun kick-around?’ she says. ‘Those boys at the academy wouldn’t know a fun kick-around if it was going on in their own undies. For most of those lads, football has been the deadly serious centre of their universe since they were four.’
‘I don’t mean at the academy,’ I say. ‘I mean somewhere else. A council estate, say.’
Mrs Jarvis looks at me thoughtfully.
‘I hope Matt knows how lucky he is to have you as his manager,’ she says.
‘I’m not his manager any more,’ I say. ‘Just his sister.’
Mrs Jarvis nods slowly.
I wish she’d answer my question. I’m feeling so guilty about what I’m planning to do I just want to get on and do it. Mum and Dad are really excited and proud about what’s happening to Matt, and I hate spoiling it for them.
But I have to.
‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘You’re not going to rest until you find football being played as football should be played, so Matt can rediscover the joyful spirit of the beautiful game.’
I look at her.
‘And then when he remembers what he’s lost,’ says Mrs Jarvis, ‘maybe he’ll have another think about whether he wants to be here.’
She’s incredible. I haven’t said anything about this. Perhaps the younger sisters of other academy trainees have tried to save their brothers’ gentle loving hearts too.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m not giving up, and all the rest of what you just said.’
‘In which case,’ says Mrs Jarvis, reaching for her coat, ‘I’d better show you where the council estate is.’
The council estate isn’t far.
As me and Mrs Jarvis walk into it, I look around, a bit fascinated.
I’ve never seen anywhere like it. There are heaps and heaps of houses, all the same and all with sort of grey pebbles stuck to them.
In the middle of the houses is a patch of waste ground almost exactly the same size as our pitch at home.
Perfect.
‘I’ll leave you here while I do some shopping,’ says Mrs Jarvis.
I stare at her, surprised.
‘You’ll be better off exploring on your own,’ she says. ‘Sometimes grown-ups get in the way.’
I nod gratefully. I really hope Mum gets to meet Mrs Jarvis one day. You can learn really important things from wise landladies.
‘Have fun,’ says Mrs Jarvis, tucking my scarf into my ski parka and giving me a smile.
She heads off.
The waste ground is deserted. The local kids must still be in school.
Doesn’t matter. I can see a lot of soccer is played here because there are two goals made from old plastic buckets and most of the grass is gone.
I walk slowly towards the middle of the pitch, imagining all the fun that happens here. And, even better, imagining Matt in the thick of it.
‘Who are you?’ growls a voice.
I turn round, startled.
Glaring at me is a girl with tangled blonde hair and pimples and a windcheater that says Detroit Wrecking Crew. And a very big handbag. She looks a bit like one of the apprentice hairdressers at Curl Up And Dye in our main street. But younger and much tougher.
I tell her who I am. Not the ex-manager part, just my name.
‘Why aren’t you at school?’ she says, stepping closer. Which makes her look even tougher and scarier.
I explain that where I come from, we’re still on school holidays.
‘What?’ she says, staring at my tartan skirt. ‘Scotland?’
‘Australia,’ I say.
I try to be friendly. And brave. If I can get out of this without being bashed up, it’ll be a good example for Mum and Dad of how they don’t have to be so anxious about me because I can look after myself.
‘Why aren’t you at school?’ I ask the girl in a friendly way.
She scowls.
‘School is a fascist repressive regime with no respect for human dignity,’ she says. ‘Or body piercing.’
I nod. I’ve heard some schools are like that.
‘I’m visiting England with my brother,’ I say. ‘He’s looking for a kick-around. Can I bring him here?’
The girl thinks about this.
I don’t tell her I’m hoping Matt will have so much fun here he’ll remember what soccer should be like and forget about big wallets and chandeliers in the bathroom and come home with me. I don’t want to put her off. It’s a big responsibility, helping to save a complete stranger’s gentle heart.
Plus this whole thing’s a risk anyway if the other kids are as tough as her. But as Dad said once when he moved a dog kennel with the dog still in it, what’s life without a risk or two? Though that was before.
‘Is your brother good-looking?’ says the girl.
I think for a moment. He could be, but he’s my brother, so I don’t really know.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Probably.’
The girl laughs and her whole face changes. It’s like Mum says. Half the time what’s on the outside doesn’t tell you what’s on the inside. For example at work she makes leather iPad holders that look like books.
‘Massive,’ says the girl. ‘Drag him along.’
I ask her if Matt should bring a ball, and she makes a joke that in my opinion is more suited to the Horns And Tail Hotel. But she’s Matt’s age, so that’s probably normal. I don’t mind anyway because she’s friendly now and she tells me her name is Lola.
Lola warns me that people have to be careful playing soccer here because years ago a whole lot of stolen car parts were buried in this waste ground and sometimes they poke up through the dirt. I tell her we’re used to being careful because at home we have wombats.
She laughs again.
I’m starting to like her. She’s tough and kind, which is what I hope to be one day.
Lola opens her handbag and takes out a soccer ball.
‘Go in goal,’ she says.
I explain I don’t play, and why.
‘Asthma doesn’t stop you being a goalie,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Anyway, it’ll get better as soon as you give up smoking.’
I have a go in goal.
I’m a bit nervous, but I soon get the hang of it. Lola does gentle kicks at first, then undoes the zip on her jeans so she can do harder ones.
It’s heaps of fun. And it turns out I’m quite good at saves. Probably because I’ve had so much experience trying to save Matt.
By the time me and Lola say goodbye, I’m really looking forward to Matt meeting her.
She’s exactly what I need to help me get him back to Australia.
‘Far out,’ says Uncle Cliff when I tell him about Lola and the council estate kick-around. ‘Wait till Matt hears about this.’
‘Let’s not tell him,’ I say. ‘Let’s make it a surprise. On our way to training tonight.’
Today is one of the days the under-fifteens go to their normal schools, so there’s an extra training session later. Matt’s come home for an afternoon break. He’s upstairs with Uncle Cliff’s computer. I think he’s checking the prices of indoor waterfalls.
I hope I’m right about the surprise. I hope Matt will enjoy it more that way.
At first everything goes well. Matt is in the back of the car with me, reading a soccer strategy book he borrowed from Mrs Jarvis, so he doesn’t even notice we’re going to training a different way.
As we get close to the waste ground, we start to hear a sound that makes me tingle with excitement.
Kids having fun playing soccer
.
Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis give each other a smile.
The sound is making me feel a bit homesick, but that doesn’t matter. The timing is perfect. Matt looks up from his book just as we turn a corner, and there they are, about ten kids passing and tackling and shooting with big grins on their faces.
Matt stares.
I’m pleased to see Lola is playing. And by the looks of it, she’s not bad. Though she’d probably be even better if she put her handbag down.
‘Fancy a kick-around?’ says Uncle Cliff to Matt. ‘We’ve got time.’
Matt doesn’t have to say anything. I can see from his face the answer is Judas H yes.
Then his face changes.
‘Nah,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s OK.’
He goes back to his book. I can’t believe it. I look at Uncle Cliff. He can’t believe it either.
‘They’re friendlier than they look, Matt,’ says Mrs Jarvis.
‘Come on, Matty,’ says Uncle Cliff.
Matt gives us all a glare. Like we’ve been doing bad things behind his back.
‘We just wanted to give you a happy surprise,’ I say.
Matt doesn’t say anything.
He definitely doesn’t look happy.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’ says Uncle Cliff.
‘When you train with a top club,’ says Matt, ‘they don’t want you playing football anywhere else.’
‘They don’t have to know,’ says Mrs Jarvis. ‘There’d be no harm done.’
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ I say.
Matt slams the book shut. I’m startled. You don’t often see Matt angry.
‘Don’t you get it?’ he says. ‘I haven’t got time for kid’s stuff any more. I’m trying to be a Premier League footballer. I’ve got one chance in a thousand. I haven’t got time to muck around.’
Me and Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis don’t know what to say.
But I understand. It must be terrible to feel that much pressure all the time. I’m lucky. I’ve got asthma. I have to take a break sometimes, just to start breathing again.
As we drive away, I see Matt glance one more time at the kids playing.
His face doesn’t change. But because I’m his sister I can tell how much, deep down, he wants to be with them.
Which is why I’m going to do everything I can to get him onto that waste ground.
So he remembers what fun’s like.
And how much of it we have at home.
At the training centre, Uncle Cliff and Mrs Jarvis go off to get a hot drink.
I watch Matt train.
So do the trainers and coaches. They’re nodding and looking pleased. Matt is doing lots of skill.
The trainers might be pleased, but I’m not.
I can see how unhappy Matt is underneath the brilliance. I know exactly what he needs. And it’s not a training session with a bunch of misery-guts who’ll stretch your shirt or purposely splash mud on your shorts if they think it’ll get them chosen for the first team before you.
Mum and Dad would probably think I’m being unfair, but they’re not seeing what goes on here.
The person who looks most unhappy tonight is Ayo. I can see it even more clearly now the boys have split into two teams for a training match.
Matt plays brilliantly.
Two goals and no one can stop him.
Ayo isn’t so good.
He doesn’t just look unhappy, he looks angry. He’s on the same team as Matt, which is just as well because he’s being very rough with the other side.
Doing kicks carelessly.
Not caring who he bashes into.
Dad once worked with a bloke who thought if a doorway wasn’t wide enough for a wardrobe, you could widen it.
Ayo is like that tonight.
At first the trainers don’t seem to mind, but when Ayo lashes out with his elbow and leaves a boy lying down holding his ear and moaning that Ayo’s broken it, they do mind.
They send Ayo off.
The other boys look a bit stunned. I don’t think that happens much in training matches.
I watch Ayo leave the pitch. I feel sorry for him. I reckon he’s like Matt. A good person who’s under too much pressure.
I want to say something sympathetic to him, but he’s walking very fast and his face is very angry. He’s hurried past me by the time I realise he has tears on his face.
‘Ayo,’ I say.
I almost go after him. But then I see Mr Nkrumo walking over to meet him. A person should be allowed to have private time with their professional advisor. That’s what I always used to feel if somebody tried to interrupt when I was talking about something important with Matt.
I hope Mr Nkrumo understands what Ayo is going through and gives him some sympathy or at least a hot drink.
The training match starts up again.
You’d think after somebody is sent off for violence, everyone else would keep a lid on things.
They don’t.
If anything, they’re playing grumpier and tougher than before. It’s like they don’t want to be left looking weak compared to Ayo.
Matt included.
I can hardly watch.
Matt slides into a tackle and the boy with the ball does half a somersault and hits the ground head first. I’m horrified. Matt never does sliding tackles from behind.
Or he didn’t before he came here.
Matt needs the council estate urgently. And I reckon Ayo does too.
Hang on.
Of course.
Why didn’t I think of that before?
If Ayo was playing with the estate kids, Matt might feel better about doing it himself. For a start, he wouldn’t be the only one breaking the rules.
I look around to see if Ayo is still here.
He’s over by the minibus, talking to Mr Nkrumo.
I start to hurry over to them, then stop.
It’s probably best if Mr Nkrumo doesn’t know about this. I think Mr Nkrumo takes rules a bit seriously. I need to have a chat with Ayo when he’s on his own.
I know the best place to do that, and I don’t hesitate. I head straight into the boys’ changing room.
Hiding here in Ayo’s locker probably isn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.
I did it in case training finishes and the rest of the boys come into the changing room before Ayo does. That way at least I’ll be hidden and I can have a chat with Ayo through the door.
That’s if I’m not unconscious.
It’s not Ayo’s fault. Everyone’s locker probably smells like this. It’s natural with all the sweaty socks and pongy deodorants that get stored in them.
I concentrate on keeping my breathing good.
Mum and Dad, I wish you could see this. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Even in tricky and slightly smelly situations I can look after myself.
What’s that sound?
It’s soccer studs clacking on the floor.
That’s a relief. Ayo must have finished his chat with Mr Nkrumo and come in here to get changed early so he doesn’t have face the other boys after being sent off.
I’ll just gently open the locker door so I don’t startle him too much, and we can have a little chat.
Except the locker door won’t open.
There’s no handle this side. When it swung shut behind me I didn’t notice that. I can’t believe it. What idiot would design a locker with a door that can’t be opened from the inside?
OK, Mum and Dad, if you were here now you’d be seeing that even when situations get slightly trickier, I still don’t panic. Even though there’s just a chance Ayo got into the minibus with Mr Nkrumo to get changed at home and it’s somebody else who’s come into the changing room and they’ve got earphones in and won’t hear me and I could be discovered next week as a skeleton.
I’m still not panicking. Not totally.
Someone pulls the door open.
Relax Mum and Dad, it is Ayo.
Eeuw. Why would a pers
on take all their clothes off before they open their locker?
‘Sorry,’ I say.
‘Arghhh,’ yells Ayo.
He grabs his soccer shirt and wraps it round his waist.
I’m not too shocked. You’re not when you’ve had older brothers and parents who are too busy for weeks on end to fix the lock on the bathroom door.
‘What you doing?’ Ayo yells at me.
‘I just wanted a chat,’ I say, stepping out of the locker.
‘I know you,’ says Ayo. ‘You’re Matt’s sister. You a maniac or what, girl?’
I’m tempted to point out that he’s the one who’s just been sent off for unruly behaviour. But I don’t. Instead I ask him if he remembers how much fun soccer used to be when he was a kid.
Ayo stares at me like I’m talking another language.
‘You know,’ I say. ‘Kick-arounds in the street or next to the cattle yard or in the supermarket carpark.’
‘No supermarket,’ says Ayo. ‘Not in my village. I’m West Africa, not West Bromwich.’
I ask him if his village is affected by wombats.
He says no over his shoulder as he puts his shorts on. Then he starts to relax as we talk about how wildlife can make soccer even more interesting.
‘Do you miss it?’ I say. ‘Where you grew up?’
Ayo thinks. And nods a bit unhappily.
I tell him about the council estate.
‘It’s kind of like a village,’ I say. ‘No elephants, not that I know about. But fun.’
‘Matt,’ says Ayo. ‘He playing there too?’
‘That’s the plan,’ I say.
‘Against the rules, though,’ says Ayo.
‘That’s why you mustn’t tell Mr Nkrumo,’ I say. ‘Come over to Mrs Jarvis’s and we’ll take you.’
Ayo thinks about this. I can see he likes the idea of doing something without Mr Nkrumo breathing down his neck.
‘Maybe,’ he says. He grins. ‘Alright, it’s a plan.’
Brilliant.
I give him a high handshake.
Then not so brilliant.
All the other boys come in.
It’s a bit chaotic for a while, but you’d be pleased to see, Mum and Dad, that I handle it pretty well. I apologise to them all, and warn them about the lack of handles on the inside of their locker doors.