John Harvey - Wasted Years

1969

“Don’t forget the Boat, Charlie. Half-eight, nine. Okay?” Resnick turned at the sound of Ben Riley’s 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 man’s 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 winger’s 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 Resnick’s ankle more than once.

“Better be there, Charlie.”

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

“No chance,” laughed Ben Riley. “Off duty. ‘Sides, you’re doing okay. Overtime, i’n’t it? Come in handy later, buy me a pint.”

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

“Right state you’ve got yourself in there, lad,” Resnick’s 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, aren’t 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.

Resnick’s 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. Water’s hot. I’ll have this lot like new by morning, not to fret. Trouble at match, again, I s’pose. Ship lot of ’em off into t’army, 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, Resnick’s planned announcement of his intention to move had foundered upon the direction of her stare. Her need of him. Him and next door’s 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 Duke’s band at Newport, the slow fall of Ella’s 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 she’s here every week, on the bus from Ilkeston, but I told her, got to be having us on. Here that often, we’d’ve seen her for sure. Eh, Charlie?”

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

“Lesley’s got a mate, haven’t you, Lesley? Carole. Off dancing with some bloke right now, but she’ll be back any minute.” Ben winked again. “What d’you reckon, Lesley? Think she’ll 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.

“Can’t win ’em all,” Ben Riley said, squashed up against Resnick in the crush for the bar. “Maybe she’s got hidden talents.”

Resnick shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m not interested.”

“Come on. Don’t be such a … Two pints, love, rum and black and a lager top.”

“You carry on,” Resnick said. “I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Ben handed him one of the pints and the rum and blackcurrant. “All right, you have Lesley. We’ll do a swop. Another couple of these and they won’t notice anyhow.”

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

“We’ll have to be going soon,” Lesley said. “Our last bus.”

“No, s’all right,” Ben grinned. “You don’t have to worry about that. We’ll 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.

“What’s up with him?” he heard Lesley ask.

He was moving too fast to hear Ben Riley’s 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-he’d 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.