John Harvey - Wasted Years

1969

Dont forget the Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. Okay? Resnick turned at the sound of Ben Rileys voice, picking out his face without difficulty, the only one among the crush of supporters hard against the fence not jeering, calling abuse. Two minutes from the end of an apparent nil-nil draw, a war of attrition played out in the no mans land of late-season mud, the ball had skidded out towards the wing and the few blades of grass remaining on the pitch. The winger, shaking off one challenge, sprinted thirty yards before cutting in. At the edge of the area, uncertain whether to pass or shoot, a defender felled him from behind, sliding in, feet up, to leave his stud marks high inside the wingers thigh. The free kick, mishit, spun off an outstretched boot and crossed the line into the net. One-nil. Fifty or so visiting fans charged their opponents end, sharpened coins bright in tight fists.

Resnick had lost his helmet in the first scuffle, something wet sticking to his hair that he hoped was spittle, nothing more. They were trying to pull the troublemakers out of the crowd, the worst of them; diving in among the flailing feet and words, punched and kicked, not caring, get your hands on one and drag him clear, show you mean business.

He had one now in a headlock, blue and white scarf, bomber jacket, jeans. Doc Martens with steel toe caps that had caught Resnicks ankle more than once.

Better be there, Charlie.

The last of the players had left the pitch, those in the crowd whod come with their kids were pushing them towards the exits. Get down here and give a hand, Resnick called above the noise. Ill be away sooner.

No chance, laughed Ben Riley. Off duty. Sides, youre doing okay. Overtime, int it? Come in handy later, buy me a pint.

The youth wriggled his head out from under Resnicks arm and ran on to the pitch. His feet had already started to slither when Resnicks tackle sent him sprawling, the pair of them headlong and thick with mud.

Right state youve got yourself in there, lad, Resnicks sergeant said to him outside the ground, vans filling up with those arrested, shuttling them to the station to be booked. Have your work cut out getting that clean. Early shift tomorrow, arent you?

Resnick walked along the riverbank towards the bridge, the football ground at his back. The last straggle of fans moved grudgingly aside to let him pass, muttering, avoiding his eyes. Oarsmen were lifting their boat from the water and carrying it towards the nearest of the two rowing clubs that stood back from the path, side by side. Later that evening the buildings would be transformed by flashing lights and speakers pushed almost to distortion. The Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. Resnick thought he might be lucky to get there at all.

Resnicks landlady had his uniform jacket off his back almost before he was through the front door. Let me have them trousers, duck, and jump into bath. Waters hot. Ill have this lot like new by morning, not to fret. Trouble at match, again, I spose. Ship lot of em off into tarmy, best thing for em. Nice bit of fish tonight, keeping warm in oven.

Resnick handed her his trousers round the bathroom door. Fifty-eight years old and with three lads of her own escaped out into the world-two down the pit, one in Australia-she lavished mushy peas, strong tea, and what passed for common sense on her lodger with steely determination. Each night for the past six months, Resnicks planned announcement of his intention to move had foundered upon the direction of her stare. Her need of him. Him and next doors cat she tempted in with scraps, the budgie molting in its parlor cage.

He finished running the cold and lowered himself into the water. There was a bruise the size and shade of a large orange on his calf, another on his upper arm; he winced as he rubbed soap across his ribs. Careful, the tips of his fingers traced a ridge of dried blood through his hair. Once his transfer to CID came through, that would see an end to all this, alternate Saturdays as punch bag and kicking pole. Object of derision and hate. Once his transfer came through he could go to Mrs Chambers, clear conscience, and explain. Find a flat on his own, somewhere he could relax, ask people back, liberate his record collection from the tea chest where it languished. How long now since he had heard Paul Gonsalves taking chorus after chorus in front of Dukes band at Newport, the slow fall of Ellas voice in Every Time We Say Goodbye?

Resnick walked along Arkwright Street, away from the city, the muffled bass patterns audible before he stepped on to the bridge. In shadows close by the river, young men made one-handed assaults upon girls clothing, metal clasps and elastic, glow of cigarettes cupped between their fingers. A Hammond organ surged as Resnick handed over his money, stepped inside. Thick with bodies, the room swam with the scent of sweat and tobacco and the possibilities of sex. The sweet odor of dope which he willed himself not to recognize. On the stage, a seven-piece band was playing Green Onions. In those days, they were always playing Green Onions.

Charlie! Here. Over here.

Ben Riley was over by the wall, one hand resting against it, arm extended past the head of a girl with mascara eyes and a plum mouth. Not a minute over seventeen.

Charlie, this is Lesley. Reckons as how shes here every week, on the bus from Ilkeston, but I told her, got to be having us on. Here that often, wedve seen her for sure. Eh, Charlie?

Ben Riley winked and Lesley glanced at Resnicks face and then away, a glass of rum and black held close against her waist.

Lesleys got a mate, havent you, Lesley? Carole. Off dancing with some bloke right now, but shell be back any minute. Ben winked again. What dyou reckon, Lesley? Think shell go for Charlie, here? Your mate, Carole?

Lesley giggled.

The band took a break.

Carole turned out to be stooped, self-consciously tall, a narrow-faced girl with fair hair and a soft voice that was lost almost as soon as it left her body.

Cant win em all, Ben Riley said, squashed up against Resnick in the crush for the bar. Maybe shes got hidden talents.

Resnick shook his head. It doesnt matter, he said. Im not interested.

Come on. Dont be such a Two pints, love, rum and black and a lager top.

You carry on, Resnick said. Ill catch up with you tomorrow.

Ben handed him one of the pints and the rum and blackcurrant. All right, you have Lesley. Well do a swop. Another couple of these and they wont notice anyhow.

Resnick sighed and pushed his way back to where the two girls were waiting. Here you go, Ben said cheerily, reinforcements.

Well have to be going soon, Lesley said. Our last bus.

No, sall right, Ben grinned. You dont have to worry about that. Well see you right.

Resnick handed over the drink and stepped away. Tomorrow then, Ben. Okay? He nodded at the girls and moved off into the crowd.

Whats up with him? he heard Lesley ask.

He was moving too fast to hear Ben Rileys reply and besides, by then the band was back on the stage.

Nursing his pint, Resnick found a space up close but out of range of the dancers-hed ducked flailing arms enough for one day as it was. The tenor player squirted out a quick spiraling phrase and set to readjusting his reed. A jazzman by nature, Resnick reckoned: given a mid-tempo blues and the chance to stretch out, he was worth careful listening. Now, though, it was a quick run through Time is Tight, a change of riff, a spotlight-Put your hands together for the fabulous -the horns hit three notes hard, and the singer launched into Tell Mama as if her life, or the next thirty minutes, depended upon it.

Ruth Strange.

Ruthie.

Resnick had seen her before, this band and that, one club or another. A small woman with a rash of auburn hair, cheekbones that threatened to pierce the skin where they touched. She wore a black sweater, sleeves pushed back to the elbow, black skirt, black tights, red high-heeled shoes. One hand gripped the mike stand when she sang, the other punched or tore or windmilled through the air. A voice that seemed to come from some other-larger, older-body altogether.