Ken McClure - The Anvil

There was a carnival atmosphere in the lounge, full of optimism and anticipation, amplified by booze and encouraged by camaraderie. MacFarlane brought over three large brandies from the bar and said, ‘Might as well enter into the spirit of things eh?’

MacLean swallowed a comment about the hour before it reached his lips and chased it down with brandy. Willie was right, he decided. There would be little enough time for relaxation when they arrived in Spain and who was he to lecture men like MacFarlane and Leavey when they were risking their lives for a child they’d never even met.

They were joined by MacFarlane’s contact. He was a big cheerful man with shoulders like an ox and a grinning red face. He shook hands with Leavey and MacLean, asking them how they had managed to get time off work.

‘We’re on the rigs too,’ said Leavey. ‘Like Willie.’

‘Works out handy sometimes,’ said the red-faced man. ‘I’m burying my mother-in-law. Come to think of it, it’s the third time since Rangers got into Europe!’ He pulled out a wad of tickets and documents from an inside pocket and asked MacFarlane, ‘Who am I doing business with?’

MacFarlane nodded towards MacLean who said, ‘How much do we owe you?’

The red-faced man pointed to the slip of paper on top of the wad and held by an elastic band. MacLean paid him in cash and the big man got up, saying, ‘I’d best be getting back to the lads. If I don’t see you guys later, enjoy the game.’ He clapped MacFarlane on the shoulder.

‘Cheers Rab,’ said MacFarlane.

‘Nae problem,’ said the big man.

MacLean detected an air of apprehension behind the company smiles of the stewardesses as they filed past them to board the aircraft. One of them had held her smile too long and the corner of her mouth was starting to twitch in protest. It seemed to MacLean that they had little to worry about because good humour was still the order of the day.

The subdued boarding music of Mozart had little success against sporadic outbreaks of club songs. Several probed the air until one caught the mood of the moment and an impromptu male voice choir filled the plane. MacLean noticed that one of the men across the aisle from him had gone very pale; he recognised the symptoms as fear of flying. Unfortunately for him his companions had caught on too and were making the man’s life a misery. Several cracks on the wing were ‘discovered’ not to mention ‘bits’ on the runway.

The cabin went quiet for take-off but noise and banter resumed as soon as the warning lights were extinguished. Periodic announcements from the Captain regarding speed and current position provided fuel for the wags until, as they crossed the northern coast of Spain, the soothing tones of the captain gave way to an ill-at-ease Glasgow voice. The supporters’ club secretary had an announcement to make. He began by blowing into the microphone. This was rewarded by loud cheers from the cabin. As an encore, counting from one to three proved equally popular.

‘As secretary of this here supporters club…’ Loud boos.

‘I feel it’s incumbent on me…’ Loud cheers.

‘A fiver each way on incumbent!’ yelled a man from the back to loud laughter.

‘… tae warn yoose people aboot behaviour in Spain, or Espana as our Spanish friends call it. In particular, I feel I should reiterate

…’

More loud cheers.

‘I’m goin’ for a double wi’ incumbent and reiterate!’ yelled the man at the back.

‘… the request of our club chairman that the Spanish Police…’

Very loud boos.

‘… should be treated with all due courtesy and consideration. The club will not countenance…’

‘Ah think you’ve got a promisin’ treble there Jimmy!’ called out a man at the front.

‘This guy’s magic!’ replied the voice from the back.

‘… any repeat of last time.’

The aircraft landed at Valencia in brilliant sunshine and the sound of the engines gave way to the banging of overhead lockers and people stretching their limbs as they stood up.

‘I need tae go,’ said a man across the gangway.

‘You’re too late,’ said his companion.’

‘What d’you mean, too late?’ asked the man indignantly.

‘You canny go while the plane’s standin’ still,’ explained his friend. ‘The next wan’ll skid on the runway.’

Everyone laughed except the man with the problem.

MacLean was relieved to find the Spanish officials as reluctant to prolong their acquaintance with football supporters as their Scottish counterparts. He could see that the passport controller was merely waving through the stream of paperwork that was waved at him.

MacLean and Leavey emerged together from the terminal building to find a warm breeze ruffling the fronds of the date palms lining the perimeter road.

‘So far so good,’ said Leavey. ‘What now?’

‘We travel with the rest into the city and then melt away,’ said MacLean. ‘Have you seen Willie?’

Leavey shook his head and said, ‘He’ll be talking to somebody.’

MacFarlane emerged from the building, deep in argument about the relative merits of several football players. He saw Leavey and MacLean waiting for him and broke away to join them. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I got carried away.’

‘No problem,’ said MacLean. ‘The more we fit in the better. We’d best get on the bus.’

The buses taking them to the centre of Valencia were met by loud cheers from other supporters who were already there and mingling round the main square. It seemed as if the town centre had been taken over entirely by Scots wearing red, white and blue. MacLean, Leavey and MacFarlane joined their compatriots but, while stories of adventures en route were being exchanged, MacLean and Leavey were looking for signs of officialdom.

There was a strong police presence in the vicinity but, for the moment, it was maintaining a low profile. Jeeps and vans were parked up side streets; their sunglassed occupants keeping watch like guards over a chain gang in a spaghetti western. Leavey and MacLean noticed that most of the shops were closed. ‘Siesta time,’ said MacLean.

‘With no hope of being able to hire a car for the next two hours MacLean and the others went to eat. They found a small pavement cafe, which seemed less favoured by their compatriots and sat down under the welcome shade of an umbrella to order tortillas and ice-cold beer. Time passed slowly in the heat of a Spanish afternoon, especially when the initial laboured exchange of views over the outcome of the match with the owner of the cafe petered out through a lack of verbs on both sides. Nouns and hand signals could only take you so far.

After a particularly long silence MacFarlane said, ‘I feel as if I’m waiting for a train.’

‘The one bringing the bad guy back to town,’ smiled MacLean.

‘They’re starting to open,’ said Leavey, nodding across the street to a trader who was removing the shutters from his window.

‘Let’s make a move,’ said MacLean. He settled the bill with the owner who smiled and said that he hoped they would enjoy the match whatever the result.

They started to drift away from the centre with the intention of getting rid of their scarves and paraphernalia. At first they ambled along slowly but as soon as they had turned off into a side street they quickened their pace. They had gone about two kilometres when a police car drew up behind them. Two policemen got out and slammed the doors in unison. Neither looked friendly.

‘Where you go?’ asked one.

Just taking a look around,’ said Leavey evenly.

‘No look around. You go back this way,’ said the policeman, pointing towards the centre.

‘Och, we’re not doing any harm, man,’ said MacFarlane with a smile that wasn’t returned.