An Awfully Big Adventure - Beryl Bainbridge [62]
The following day he bought her a bunch of violets and dropped them on her lap as she sat in the prompt corner. She turned on him and hissed that Bunny was watching. When he came off stage the violets had been kicked into the wings, stamped on by Tiger Lily’s Redskins.
He couldn’t make her out, or himself for that matter. What had started as an unimportant if rather shameful seduction had become something altogether more painful. He had lost his heart and was in danger of losing his head.
The football ground was at the back of a churchyard in the suburbs. There was a ramshackle club-house with its roof falling in and a rickety stand which rocked in the wind. Already fifty or more spectators, mostly old men and young lads, stood on the touchline stamping their feet to keep warm.
Shortly three carloads of young women arrived, followed by the limousine carrying Long John Silver. The girls tumbled out and began to teeter up the path towards the field. There was a glitter of frost on the patchy grass and a cold white sun high above the poplar trees beyond the boundary wall of the cemetery. Unsuitably dressed and squealing in the nippy air, the girls ran round like chickens before fleeing back to the cars. The comedian waited were he was, swigging from his hip flask.
When the coach arrived it took some time to organise the teams. Having inspected the club-house Bunny pronounced it unsafe. Even the wooden steps leading up to the door were rotten.
‘Back, back,’ he cried, as the pirates ran towards him.
‘Think of your ankles, boys,’ shouted the stage-manager of the Empire Theatre, standing his ground and shooing them away.
The girls, coaxed from the cars and persuaded to sit on the bottom row of the stand, were heaped with the players’ coats and scarves and warned not to fidget. The stand swayed alarmingly under their weight and one or two screamed nervously.
Vernon was bewildered at first. The teams weren’t even dressed properly. Many of the players refused to get into shorts, and the Empire goalie wore cricket pads over striped long-johns. The celebrated comedian had a cigar clamped in his mouth. His chauffeur kept pace with him on the sideline, carrying a flask which glinted in the chilly sunlight. It was obvious it wasn’t going to be a serious game.
Vernon regretted giving Harcourt the cold shoulder; he would have been someone to laugh with. He recognised no one apart from Stella and Potter. Stella stood in the middle of the field talking to the only chap properly attired in shorts and jersey. He had his hand on her arm and was evidently asking her to do something. Whatever it was, she wasn’t amenable. Vernon was ashamed of her. She wore a naval greatcoat with brass buttons and some sort of goggles on her head. The coat was far too large for her and trailed the ground as she stalked off; she didn’t bother to hitch it up.
Just before the whistle blew Vernon thought she had seen him; at any rate she was looking in his direction. He half raised his arm to draw her attention, and thought better of it. There was no rush. She’d probably join him later. If he was careful she might even allow him to travel back with her on the coach.
Meredith acted as referee. Stella was disappointed he wouldn’t be taking a more active part. She knew little about football, but it was immediately obvious even to her that Geoffrey and O’Hara were superior to the rest of the field. On the coach Geoffrey had stared morosely out of the window; now he stormed along the wing with ferocious determination. Within the first minute he scored a goal, and another a quarter of an hour later. He didn’t seem particularly pleased with himself even though he was patted enthusiastically on the back by the rest of his team and applauded by the spectators.
Much of the game took place in mid-field, or in front of the Treasure Island goal, and Meredith had his back to Stella most of the time. She had gone to stand at the cemetery