Timothy Lea - Timothy Lea's Complete Confessions

“Cromingham Crabs. Don’t worry. Nobody else has heard of them either. We only got together for the tournament.”

“My goodness, you have done well. You won’t win the final, though.”

I would like to be able to disagree with her, but I can’t.

“I shouldn’t really say that,” she goes on, “but my fiancé plays for the Shermer team.”

“Oh, really? Which one is he?”

But she doesn’t have to answer because a slightly muddied Sharp comes striding over and pats her on the cheek.

“Did you see my last try?” he begins and then notices me.

“Oh,” he says—it is really more of an ‘ugh’ than an ‘oh’, but no arrangement of letters gives quite the flavour of the original—“don’t tell me we’re going to have the pleasure of meeting in this final?”

“Depends whether you beat Old Repseans,” I say weakly.

“Oh, we did, old lad, we did.” I can see the whites of his knuckles and for a moment I think he is going to have a go at me there and then, “so you needn’t have any worries on that score. Just worry about the one in the final.”

“Oh that’s very good,” I turn to the bird, “it’s a play on words, see: ‘score’ and ‘score’!”

“Don’t clown with me, you oik,” hisses Sharp and I can see a punch-up is about 1.5 seconds away. His bird can see the same thing because she shoves a kettle into his hand and point towards the kitchen.

“Get some more hot water, Tony, there’s a love; and don’t be such a fool.” Sharp looks at the kettle, then at me, and grits his teeth.

“I’ll see you on the field,” he snarls and stalks away before I can think of anything memorable.

“Phew!” says his bird. “I’ve never seen him so worked up. What was all that about?”

“Well,” I say archly, “I don’t really know, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I work for the East Coast Driving School. I believe he works for Major’s and there’s not much love lost between the two organisations.”

“Well, I never!” she says. “So I’m talking to one of the hated rivals. I’m Valerie Minto. How do you do?”

“Timmy Lea; pleased to meet you.”

What a turn-up, this lovely bird springing from the loins of the monstrous Minto! I hardly know what to say.

“Have you seen my father?” she goes on. “He’s around here somewhere. He’s president of the club, you know.”

“Really?” I murmur in my best upper-class twit manner. So there we are, all the gang are gathered to see me make a berk of myself in the final.

“I’d better go and have a rest,” I say. “Thanks for the tea; it was delicious.”

I give her my look of gangling, unaffected innocence, which has brought a few pairs of drawers tumbling down in its time, I can tell you, and replace my cup.

“I suppose I shouldn’t wish you good luck,” she says, “but, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Another of my Outward Bound School smiles and I amble back to the changing-room where the rest of the Crabs are stretched out trying to relax. The concrete floor is now littered with mud from scores of boots and the whole scene looks like the reception area in a morgue. I pile a few jackets on top of myself and try to kip, but it is no good. My limbs are stiffening up and parts of my body I never knew I had are starting to ache. The cold crucifies and my borrowed kit is chafing my thighs. I might as well try to sleep on a bed of nails.

I am about to go back to the bar when Garth swings his legs over the side of the bench. “O.K., lads, let’s be having you. None of the Shermer mob are in here, are they? Good. Now look. They reckon they’re going to cakewalk it. They’re so relaxed they’re nearly asleep. We’ve got to get amongst them right from the first whistle and really knock them off their game. Run them ragged. Remember how we shook those R.A.F. buggers? Every time one of them gets the ball—pow!” He smashes a giant fist into the palm of his hand. “Hit him for six! And when we’ve got the ball, use it! No stupid passes. Give it to me if you can, but if you can’t see a man to pass to, die with it.”

It is all good, dynamic stuff, but when I gaze round the blokes listening, it might be Dad’s Army having a pep talk from John Wayne. Most of them look as if they will have to be carried on to the field and big fat man is still grumbling that he can’t see properly. Now, nearly half the team have trouble with their eyes.

“And remember, the final lasts for ten minutes each way, so you’ve really got to motor.”

Twenty minutes! Shermer will run up fifty points in that time and I will probably drop dead of exhaustion. Why the hell did I say I would play? I go into the bar and find the answer. Dawn is perched on a stool flashing her minge at anybody who cares to look at it and sipping Babycham like the darling of Roper’s Light Horse.

“Oh, there you are,” she squeals. “Have you been hiding from me or something? I haven’t seen you the whole afternoon.”

I mumble about having to take it easy because of the final and notice that Sharp is perched at her elbow with his back to us. He bestows a contemptuous glance and goes on talking to one of his team-mates. The whole Shermer side have changed into clean kit and are lounging about as if waiting to have a photograph taken. A glass of what looks like orange squash is resting by Sharp’s hand and a diabolical scheme begins to take shape in my sordid little mind. “Knock them off their stride,” Garth had said. None of us seems capable of doing that, but supposing I could slip Sharp a couple of Mrs. Carstairs’ sex pills. They are supposed to have a pretty shattering effect.

“A gentleman would see that my glass was empty,” whines Dawn.

“I’ll have to get some cash,” I say and streak to the changing-room.

“We’re on in two minutes,” says Garth. “Don’t get lost.”

I fumble in all my jacket pockets and at last find the phial of tablets. Back outside and I realise I have forgotten the money for Dawn’s bloody drink. More fumbling and I emerge again to find to my relief that Dawn and Sharp are still where I left them.

“Same again?” I say, snatching her glass and leaning across the bar so I am operating from behind Sharp’s back. There is a lot of activity because people are ordering up before the final and it is easy to manoeuvre the phial to the edge of Sharp’s glass without attracting attention. I look round carefully and am just about to dispense a couple of tablets when some impatient sod pushes forward, jogs my arm, and the whole bloody lot go in! They start fizzing immediately but before I can do anything, Sharp snatches up his glass and downs it in one gulp.

“Right! Forward to battle,” he says, and, slapping his mate on the back, makes for the door.

Christ, I think, what am I going to do? I may have killed the bloke. Should I tell him? What can I tell him? Perhaps an anonymous phone call to the police.

“Oh, there you are.” It is Garth by my side. “Come on, they’re waiting for us.”

My eyes follow Sharp to the door and suddenly I see him give a little skip and a jump followed by a puzzled shake of the head as if he did not quite know what had come over him. I also see Minto for the first time. He is carrying a megaphone and gives Sharp an encouraging pat on the shoulder. In reply, Sharp’s hand drops and gives Minto’s balls an almighty squeeze, which makes their owner leap about three feet in the air. This little scene is not generally noticed but I see one of the tea ladies nearly drop her plate of Spam sandwiches in amazement. Like a man in a dream, I follow Sharp out of the door and see that he now has his arm round his team-mate’s shoulder and appears to be whispering something in his ear—or is he whispering?