Mike Gayle - My Legendary Girlfriend

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank: for their help, Philippa Pride and all at Hodder, Jane Bradish Ellames and Emlyn Rees and all at Curtis Brown; for their encouragement, Joe and Evelyn Gayle, Andy Gayle, Phil Gayle, Jackie Behan, the Richards clan, Cath McDonnell, Charlotte and John, Liane Hentscher, Emma and Darren, Lisa Howe, John O'Reilly, Pip, Ben, Rodney Beckford, Nikki Bayley and the Four Winds regulars; and for their inspiration, Mr. T, Dave Gedge, Kevin Smith, Mark Salzman, Xena, Richard Roundtree, Clive James, Oxfam and anyone who ever asked Mike.

6:05 P.M.

Mr. Kelly, which football team do you support?

As I strolled along the edge of the pitch clutching a football underneath each arm, I considered fourteen-year-old Martin Acker and his question carefully. He had been the last of my pupils to leave the pitch and I knew for a fact that he'd lingered with the specific intention of asking me his question, because amongst other things, not only was he genuinely inquisitive as to where my footballing allegiances lay, he also had no friends and had selected me as his companion on that long and lonely walk back to the changing rooms. He was quite literally covered head to foot in Wood Green Comprehensive School football pitch mud, which was a remarkable achievement for someone who hadn't touched the ball all evening. Of his footballing prowess, there was little doubt in my mind that he was the worst player I'd ever witnessed. He knew it, and he knew that I knew it, and yet I didn't have the heart to drop him from the team, because what he lacked in skill, he more than made up for in enthusiasm. This was of great encouragement to me, proving that for some, the futility of an occupation was not in itself a reason to give up.

While Martin was hopeless at playing football but excelled in its trivia, I, on the other hand, could neither play, teach nor fake an interest in this most tedious of distractions. Owing to PE staff shortages and the need to impress my superiors, the mob of fourteen-year-olds that made up the eighth graders' B-team was entirely my responsibility. The headmaster, Mr. Tucker, had been much impressed when I volunteered for the task, but the truth was less than altruistic: it was either football or the school drama club. The thought of spending two dinnertimes per week, aiding and abetting the kids to butcher My Fair Lady, this term's production, made football the less depressing option, but only marginally so. I was an English teachercreated to read books, drink cups of sugary tea and popularize sarcasm as a higher form of wit. I was not designed to run about in shorts on freezing cold autumnal evenings.

I peered down at Martin, just as he was looking up to see if I'd forgotten his question.

Manchester United, I lied.

Oh, sir, everyone supports Man U.

They do?

Yes, sir.

Who do you support?

Wimbledon, sir.

Why?

I don't know, sir.

And that was that. We continued our walk in silence, even failing to disturb the large number of urban seagulls gathered, wading and pecking in the mud, by the corner post. I had the feeling Martin wanted to engage me in more football talk but couldn't think of anything else to ask.

Martin's fellow teammates were bellowing and screaming so loudly that I was alert to their mayhem before I even reached the changing room doors. Inside, chaos reignedKevin Rossiter was hanging upside down by his legs from a hot-water pipe that spanned the room; Colin Christie was snapping his towel on James Lee's bare buttocks; and Julie Whitcomb, oblivious to the events going on around her, was tucked in a corner of the changing room engrossed in Wuthering Heights, one of the set texts I was teaching my eighth-grade class this term.

Are you planning to get changed? I asked sardonically.

Julie withdrew her amply freckled nose from the novel, squinting as she raised her head to meet my gaze. The look of bewilderment on her face revealed that she had failed to understand the question.

These are changing rooms, Julie, I stated firmly, shaking my head in disbelief. Boys' changing rooms, to be exact. As you are neither a boy nor getting changed may I suggest that you leave?

I would, Mr. Kelly, but I can't, she explained. You see, I'm waiting for my boyfriend.

I was intrigued. Who's your boyfriend?

Clive O'Rourke, sir.

I nodded my head. I hadn't the faintest clue who Clive O'Rourke was.

Is he an eighth grader, Julie?

No, sir, he's in tenth grade.

Julie, I said, trying to break the bad news to her gently, tenth graders don't have football practice today.

Don't they, sir? But Clive said to meet him here after football practice and not to move until he came to get me.

She dropped her book into her rucksack and slowly picked up her jacket, as though her thought processes were draining her of power, like a computer trying to run too many programs at once.

How long have you been going out with Clive? I asked casually.

She examined the worn soles of her scuffed Nike sneakers intently before answering. Since dinnertime, sir, she confessed quietly. I asked him out while he was in the dinner queue buying pizza, beans and chips in the canteen.

Hearing this tale of devotion which included remembering details of a beloved's lunch was genuinely moving. My eyes flitted down to my watch. It was quarter past six. School had finished nearly three hours ago.

I'm afraid you've been the victim of a practical joke, I said, spelling it out in case the penny hadn't dropped. Somehow I don't think Clive's going to turn up.

She turned her head toward me briefly before examining her sneakers once again. It was clear she was more heartbroken than embarrassed, her eyes squinting, desperately trying to hold back the tears, and her lips pressed tightly together, attempting to lock in the sobs trying to escape. Eventually, she allowed herself the luxury of a carefully controlled sigh, rose and picked up her bag.

Are you going to be all right? I asked, even though it was obvious that she wasn't.

With tears already forming in her eyes she said, Yes, sir, I'll be all right.

I watched her all the way to the changing room doors, by which time her grief was audible. Some teachers might have thought no more of her, but not I. Her image remained in my head for some time because in the few brief moments we'd shared, I had realized that Julie Whitcomb was closer in kind to myself than anyone I'd ever met. She was one of usone who interpreted every failure, whether small or large, as the out-working of Fate's personal vendetta. Clive O'Rourke's name would never be forgotten, it would be permanently etched on her brain just as my ex-girlfriend's was on mine. And at some point in her future, most likely after completing her journey through the education system right up to degree level, she'd realize that a life pining after the Clive O'Rourkes of this world had made her bitter and twisted enough to join the teaching profession.

The sound of a small boy emitting a noise roughly approximating Whhhhhhhoooooooorrrrrraaaaaaahhhh!!! signaled that Kevin Rossiter had changed adrenaline sports and was now racing around the far changing room, naked but for his underpants on his head. I couldn't begin to fathom his motivation for such a stunt, let alone find the required energy to tell him off this close to the weekend, and so, sighing heavily, I slipped unnoticed into the PE department's tiny office, closing the door behind me.