Gareth Roberts - Whatever Happened to Billy Parks

‘Matt Busby was at the game last night,’ I added. ‘I scored a goal.’

She turned towards me now, her eyes dark-red and lined, her mouth trembling.

‘Manchester?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I gushed, trying to express the brilliance of my news in that single word. ‘Manchester United.’

‘But, Billy,’ she said, her voice fragile and tiny, ‘Manchester’s so far away. I mean, couldn’t you play with one of the local clubs? Your cousin has been playing at Barking.’

‘Barking!’ I said. ‘But this is Manchester United .’

‘Yes, but Manchester is in the north,’ she said, tears pricking her eyes. ‘It’s so far away. It’s not for you, Billy.’

She started to cry.

Why? Why was she crying? Why wasn’t she happy for me? For us?

I didn’t bloody understand.

‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ I said. ‘I mean, they’re a really big club, they’re Manchester United, and if I got an apprenticeship, I’d be on good money and everything. I’ve heard the apprentices get four pound a week.’

My words vanished in the air between us. Still she said nothing, she just stood silently by the sink holding a plate and a faded blue and white tea-towel.

‘I’d be back all the time,’ I said. ‘Manchester’s not far away.’

She turned away from me and went back to the washing up.

I sighed.

I got up and walked out of the kitchen. I had injured her. We had injured each other. But I was undeterred. As far as I was concerned, I was going to Manchester.

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