I
open the front door, fling my bag in the hallway and go into the
sitting-room. She's waiting there expectantly, like she always is.
“Well.
How d'ya get on?”
I
smile, savouring the moment.
“A
hat-trick Nan,” I say with a grin.
“Ooh
Tommy,” she squeals as she clasps her hands together in glee.
“I
got an assist too,” I add, eager to maximise her delight.
“An
assist?” she says, “What's an assist?”
“It's
when you set someone else up to score a goal Nan.”
“Oh
I like that,” she smiles. “Unselfish.”
But
here's the thing, I didn't get a hat-trick or anything even like one.
Instead I just wandered up and down the sideline like I do every
week. At one point I thought Dixie was beckoning for me and I set off
at a gallop towards the dug-out - but t'was one of the other lads he
was looking for. He'd never take a risk on me in a game like
tonight's; a top of the table clash against our fiercest rivals. I
usually only got a run-out if we were winning comfortably or losing
horribly, no risk situations with nothing at stake. The rest of the
lads probably wonder why I even bother turning up, and sometimes I
wonder it meself. I guess I just want to feel part of something.
You
might think that telling lies to my Nan is a bad thing, but it's not
really. All I'm doing is putting a little sunshine into her life. If
I were to tell her the truth; failing miserably in school, not many
friends, little success with the girls and a quite terrible
footballer it would crush her, and neither of us want that.
I've
been living with my Nan since I was five. I woke up one morning and
they'd all gone. My mother, her boyfriend and the new baby. I didn't
know they'd gone forever at the time so I just turned on the TV and
waited for them to come back. When it started to get dark I got the
first inkling that something might be up. So I went in next door to
Mrs McManus and asked her if she'd make me a sandwich. Next thing I
know I'm sitting by a big, lovely fire with the McManuses eating
chocolate digestives and watching Coronation Street. I wondered if I
lived with them now. But then my Nanny came and took me to her house.
Nanny
said I'd be staying with her for a few weeks while Mammy was on
holidays. Why didn't she bring me, I asked. Where's she gone? Will
she bring me back a present? I was little put out that she hadn't
brought me but sure staying at Nanny's was a holiday in itself!
Meself and me Nan got on great and she always let me stay up past my
bedtime. She had nice things to eat too, not like our house where you
were lucky if you got a mangy custard cream with your tea.
As
much as I loved it at Nanny's I still couldn't wait for my Mammy to
return. I missed my own room and my own bed, I missed all my toys and
I even missed my shitty little brother. But most of all I missed my
Mammy. She sometimes gave out to me and made me cry but I loved her.
But after two weeks had passed with no sign of her return I began to
get a little worried. I came home from school every day eagerly
expecting to find her sitting at the kitchen table with Nanny, but
she was never there. I took to gazing out the window watching out for
his
car but it never came. Eventually I stopped looking out that window,
she wasn't coming back. It was just me and my Nanny now.
“Tommy!
Tommy! Wake up! You'll be late for school!”
I
awake with a start. School. Oh no. But instead of the early morning
gloom flooding in through the curtains my room remained in pitch
darkness. I immediately look to the fluorescent alarm clock on my
bedside locker; 03:23. Fuck sake Nan.
“It's
not time for school yet Nan,” I call out, “go back to bed.”
I
listen out for a response but none arrives. All is silent for a
moment until I hear the shuffle of Nan's slippers as she crosses the
landing back to her own room. I sigh deeply and sink back in to my
pillow. My last thought before drifting back to sleep is that today
is Saturday.
Later
that morning, having had a thoroughly good lie-in, I descend the
stairs for what I hope will be my customary Saturday morning fry-up.
But instead of standing, stationed by the pan I find my Nan in the
back garden. She's on her hands and knees and is furiously digging
into the earth with a trowel. This is odd for two reasons; my Nan has
never taken the slightest interest in gardening for as long as I've
known her, and it's pissing rain upon her silky thin white hair.
“What
ya doing Nan?” I enquire.
She
looks up at me startled by my words. For a second or two there is no
hint of recognition, her face is a total blank as she struggles to
ascertain my identity. But then things click seamlessly into gear and
she's all smiles and warmth.
“Ah
Tommy my love, how was school?”
“No
school today Nan, it's Saturday.”
“Ah
of course Saturday,” she says propping herself up on one knee,
“best get your fry on.”
I
help her to her feet and we head into the kitchen together.
“What
were you doing in the garden Nan?” I ask as I dry her down with a
towel.
“Oh
your Granddad asked me to do a bit of work for him so I thought I
should get started.”
“Okay
Nan, but maybe leave it 'til a drier day eh?”
“Hmmph,”
she snorts, “you know what your Granddad is like, everything has to
be done yesterday, rain or no rain!”
I
watch her potter around the little kitchen and, not for the first
time, wonder how she'd cope if anything happened to me. My Granddad
Joe died four years ago and since then her dementia has got gradually
worse. If anyone found out she was in this state it'd be a nursing
home for her and God knows where for me. We've managed up to now, but
after her last mid-afternoon wander which concluded in a bookies
four miles from here I've been forced to lock her in when I go to
school.
I
collect her pension every Friday and I've set up direct debits for
all the bills, but I know it's only a matter of time until someone
finds out. A 15-year old boy and a senile old woman; it's a social
workers dream. I've resolved to leave school and get a job. The plan
is to earn enough money to get Nan some proper home care. But finding
work is not going to be easy. This isn't the dark ages where kids my
age are sent to work as if they're men, mores the pity. And even if I
do get a job it's unlikely I'll get one in this small village. I'll
probably have to go further afield and where will that leave her? A
nursing home that's where. And I've seen how they treat people in
those places. No way am I subjecting my Nan to that.
My
Nan might be as mad as a box of frogs but she's not stupid. If she
finds out that I'm leaving school it'll
break her heart.
But if I were to leave school for a once in a lifetime opportunity, a
shot at the big time, then she might think differently. And so it is
that after another ninety minutes spent standing in the cold I return
with some exciting news.
“I
think there might have been some scouts at the game today Nan.”
“Scouts?
Like them little boys who tie knots?”
I
suppress a giggle, “No Nan, football scouts. They're talent
spotters who travel around the country looking for young players.”
Her
eyes light up, she doesn't even need to ask the question.
“Yes
Nan, I think they were there to watch me.”
“Oh
Jesus Tommy,” is all she can muster.
“I
think some of them might have come from England.”
She
comes to me and cups my face in her hands, “If only your mother
could see you now Tommy eh? Scouts from England! My God.”
I
flinch at the mention of my mother, I don't even like to acknowledge
her existence.
“But
Nan, here's the thing....”
She
takes her hands away and looks at me earnestly. “What's the thing
Tommy, what's the thing?”
“If
these scouts think I'm good enough.....I might have to move to
England....to live.”
“To
England Tommy? To live?”
“Yes
Nan.”
The
enormity of the situation hits her and she fumbles her way to the
armchair. I sit beside her and take her hand in mine. “I'd be
earning good money Nan, enough to send some back here. I could get
you some home help.”
She
flashes me an indignant scowl, “Home help? I don't need home help,
I can perfectly manage on my own thank you very much.”
I
sigh in resignation, this isn't going to be easy. Then, as if to
underline my point, she gets up and primly announces, “Now if you
don't mind I'm off out to the pictures with that lovely boy I met
last week.” And with that she's away out the front
door to go a'courting with some distant memory from her past.
“How
old did you say you were son?”
The
foreman eyes me suspiciously, I've always been big for my age but I'm
also cursed with maddeningly
cherubic features.
“Nineteen,”
I reply in the gruffest tone I can manage.
“Hmm,”
he looks down at my application form and then back at me again. “And
if I were to ring these references they'd all verify that they
would?”
“They
would,” I nod assertively.
He
leans forward in his chair, “Listen kid, we both know you're not
nineteen, I'd give ya seventeen at best but if you're willing to work
off the books then I'm willing to take you on.”
I
flush with joy, I can hardly believe it, a job, a real job. I don't
even know what working “off the books” means but it can't be all
that different to working on the books.
“Brilliant,”
I say, “when can I start?”
He
rises from his chair and escorts me to the door, “Be here Monday
morning, seven o'clock sharp, and wear some working boots, no poxy
trainers allowed here.”
I
walk through what is soon to be my workplace and out the large
factory gates; I entered a boy but I'm leaving a man.
With
an hour to spare until my bus home I head to the library to complete
some important paperwork: a letter
certifying that the mighty
Manchester United wish to acquire my services as a professional
footballer.
I procure a PC and set about penning my masterpiece. 'Dear Mrs
Devlin, It is with great pleasure that we contact you today. We have
been watching your grandson Thomas for some time now and with your
permission we would like to make him a part of our esteemed football
club. Our scout called Thomas “one of the finest talents I've ever
seen” and the entire staff here are very excited at the prospect of
his arrival. As he is so young it is unlikely he will feature in the
first team just yet but given his abilities it surely won't be long
before he is knocking on the manager's door...'
I
pause and read back over it, I try and imagine Nan's reaction as she
fetches her jam jar glasses and slowly peruses the document. How her
eyes will slowly widen with each sentence, until, at it's completion,
she'll beam with delight and hug me 'til it hurts. Is it worth it?
You bet it is. I add the official club crest, and some other
administrative info which is sure to impress her, and I'm finished. I
collect the print-out and hurry to the bus station.
When
I arrive home I find Nan in floods of tears. She's sat on the edge of
her bed surrounded by old photos, they're littered everywhere: all
over the floor, on the bed beside her, boxes of them some unopened
others overflowing, it's a mess.
“Aw
Nan,” I say, “you been reminiscing again?”
She
looks at me, all teary and sad, “He was just a little boy, not even
four years old,” she says with a gasp. I sit down beside her, put
my arm around her shoulders and press her head to my chest. The
little boy in question is my uncle Frankie who died from polio
sometime in the 1960s, he was Nan's only other child apart from my
Mam. I've never asked her why she didn't have any more children
because I already know the answer, the trauma of Frankie's passing
sucked the life right out of her and she was neither willing nor able
to countenance the arrival of another baby. Sometimes when her
Alzheimer's is really bad she'll mistake other people's children for
Frankie and scare the life
out of both parent and child by grabbing the little mite and vowing
never to let another doctor within ten feet of her “poor Frankie.”
Her
plaintive moaning eventually dies down and I gently extricate myself
from her. “Nan? I've got some good news.”
She
gets up and take a tissue from the box on her dresser, blows her nose
and returns back to me.
“What
is it Tommy,” she says the spark returning to her eyes.
“Remember
those scouts Nan?”
“Yes,
the scouts, talent-spotters who roam the country looking for young
players.”
“That's
right Nan.”
“What
about them Tom?”
“They've
been in touch Nan,” I say as I reach for the letter in my pocket.
I've purchased an envelope in the stationery shop and even gone as
far as affixing a stamp for extra authenticity.
“Here,
read this,” I say as I pass it to her.
“Oh
God, where are my glasses,” she says as she scans the room
hopelessly, she moves to get up but I stop her short, “I have them
here Nan, they were downstairs. Now go on, read.”
She
needs no further invitation and I watch in silence as she digests
this life-affirming news. She takes an age to read it and then pauses
briefly before starting again, I sit there patiently waiting for her
response. I want to see that smile and I want to get that hug. After
several more reads and re-reads she sets the letter down among all
the photos of poor, tragic Frankie. She's crying again, but this time
the tears are different, they're tears of joy. She pulls me to her
and we cling to one another as if our lives depended on it.
I
lay flat out on my bed exhausted from the day's work. This being a
man malarkey isn't all it's cracked up to be. But it's serving it's
purpose and I can't ask for any more than that. I made nearly
five-hundred Euro this week, half of which has gone toward home help
for my Nan.
It
feels good to know I'm looking after her. All those hours spent
humping animal carcasses around the factory are worth it if it means
she's happy.
But I know something that will make her even happier; a call from her
talented grandson, all the way from Manchester. I clear my throat and
try to imagine myself in a digs amidst the shadow of Old Trafford,
instead of a dingy bedsit not forty miles from home.
“Hello
Mrs Devlin speaking”
“Howya
Nan”
“Ooh
Hellooo,” she coos, she does this every time I call her even though
she hasn't a clue it's me on the other end of the phone.
“It's
me Tommy,” there's a pause as she tries to figure out who she knows
called Tommy, “your grandson.”
“Ahh
Tommy my pet, how are you
getting on? Are they treating you well? Are you eating okay?”
“I
am Nan I'm fine,” I reply as my stomach grumbles.
“And
how's the football? Any more assists?”
I
envisage her grinning away on the other end of the phone.
“I
played my first game the other day Nan, for the youth team,” I say
as I pick at some raw meat embedded in my boot.
“And....”
“A
hat-trick Nan, a hat-trick”
Amid
the frenzied hysteria I can make out but a few words, “so proud”,
“your uncle Frankie”, “a real Devlin” and “Oh Tommy”.
Mrs
Annie Devlin sits by the fire waiting for the woman to bring in her
tea. She better make it right, she thinks, my Tommy always made it
right. The woman returns with her tea and by golly it might just be
the finest cuppa ever made, fair played to her.
In spite of herself Annie
feels her
attitude towards the home helper soften. She turns to her
conspiratorially, “See that picture on the mantle?” she says
pointing to one of her Grandson Tommy.
“This
one Mrs Devlin?” says the woman as she beckons to the smiling
youngster in the football kit.
“Yes,
that's my Grandson Tommy.”
“Aw
Mrs Devlin he looks lovely”
“He
is lovely, and you know what else?”
“Yes
Mrs Devlin?”
“He
plays for Manchester United”
“Manchester
United?”replies the woman, “Wow.”
“I
know."
“You
must be very proud of him.”
“I
am," says Annie Devlin, "more proud than you could ever imagine.”
