There's Only One Danny Garvey, page 6
Libby gives up after an hour. She goes to her bed at the rear of the room. Asks me to stay until morning and then let myself out, and that she’ll maybe see me later.
I stay and watch until a shuffling, shambling, shaking Muhammad Ali lights the flame inside a cauldron that looks like a giant McDonald’s French fries’ carton. It’s emotional and pitiful and gaudy and tasteless. I switch it off, and lay down on her sofa, listening to her shallow breathing with unexpected tears in my eyes.
I can’t maintain stubborn resentment. Not towards Libby, Higgy. Not even toward Raymond. It’s too exhausting. Even when things were at their worst with my brother, I remained intent on pleasing him. He has a hypnotic effect on people. Like an Ayrshire Rasputin weaving a charismatic spell on those he comes into contact with.
—He wasn’t in a good place after visiting his mam. I think the shock of seeing her so dependent on others has affected him more than he thought it would. My house must be suffocating him. I’ve got to get him out of here. Need to fill the spaces between training and games with something that occupies his mind, or he’ll sink back into the depths. He must be fearing what people think of him now. That they’ll remember the highs of that cup semi-final, and then the crushing defeat in the final after he’d left. Back then there were some who blamed him. It was a long time ago, but he’ll have to face them sooner rather than later.
‘Fancy a pint, son? C’mon … it’ll do ye good.’
Higgy knows I don’t drink. Not with the pills. But I fetch a jacket. He’s probably right. I can’t get Libby out of my head, so I need a distraction, and there’s also the expectation that I make myself visible. The football club revolves around The King’s Arms, its unofficial sponsor. It’s a fortnight since I officially became the team’s manager, and Higgy claims the regulars are interested in hearing my plans for the season. Or at least the first quarter of it. He suspects that’s when the interest level will drop off.
The ten-minute walk features a few respectful nods and one ‘aw’right Danny?’ from a lad I’m sure I was in the Boys Brigade with but whose name I can’t recall.
Higgy is swelled. Chest out with pride. As if he’s the little Dutch boy who saved Haarlem by putting his finger in the dyke. He walks purposefully, striding into the pub first. He holds the door open for me. I half expect a showbiz announcement from him: An’ now, ladies an’ ennulmen, boys an’ girls, all the way from Arbroath … it’s the one, the only … DANNY GARVEY!
There are five people inside the pub. Including us. And a heavily moustachioed barman who resembles Live Aid-era Freddie Mercury. No-one looks up. No-one cares.
‘Still early,’ says Higgy. He must feel the need to temper my disappointment. I’m not disappointed. I’m fucking relieved.
‘A pint ae lager, Alf,’ he orders. He looks at me.
‘A Coke please, mate,’ I say, and then: ‘Draught’s fine,’ when asked to pick between that or a bottle.
‘This is Danny. Danny Garvey,’ says Higgy to Alf, but loudly enough for the others to hear. I imagine it’s how Higgy would introduce a mail-order bride he’d recently purchased.
‘That right?’ Alf observes. It impresses me that he couldn’t give a fuck. I think he and I will get on fine.
We sit in a corner, under a television. Another couple of Higgy’s fictional acquaintances, Kevin and Sally Webster, are having a heated argument that goes over our heads.
Half an hour passes; half an hour where Higgy does little other than scribble tactical ideas on Post-it Notes while nursing his pint. I visit the wall-mounted jukebox three times. Predictably, it’s a bland, chart-based collection dominated by Celine Dion, Mariah Carey and George Michael. I spot ‘Wonderwall’ and punch the code, but I’m too late to notice it’s the lounge-lizard version by The Mike Flowers Pops. I hope the two barflys and Alf won’t associate me with it.
‘Live Forever’ restores some credibility. In my head at least, since no-one else is even listening. Ironically, ‘It’s a Shame about Ray’ by The Lemonheads is the best of the rest.
‘Got a couple ae boys interested,’ says Higgy. ‘Heard it fae an auld contact.’
‘Aye?’ I reply. My voice makes me sound more interested than I am.
‘Suggested they come down on Thursday. That aw’right, son?’
‘Why no’?’ I say to him.
Higgy smiles contentedly. The deal struck with the club has Higgy as my unofficial assistant. He doesn’t have a desk or an official title, and he’s not getting a new carpet, but he’s been smiling contentedly ever since. His position validated and any expenditure that I approve will get remunerated.
He’s the soul of this club. He’s been on the sub-committee since the early seventies. If you asked him to paint the walls of every fucking surface around the pitch with a toothbrush, he’d do it without hesitation. He deserves this boost. It will almost certainly be the last season he’ll get something in return for his unflinching commitment.
‘How’s it goin’, Higster?’ says a young man, holding the door open for five others of varying ages as they enter. I look at all of them and they stare at me. There’s no mutual recognition until the last man glances over.
‘Fuck me!’ he says. ‘Danny fucken Garvey. That really you?’ The voice hasn’t changed much. A wee bit deeper. A bit more of a gravelly edge to it.
‘How ye, Dennis?’ I ask. We sat together in third-year English.
‘Better for seein’ you, ya cunt!’ he says. ‘Boys … this is the legendary Danny Garvey. Whit a fucken prospect he wis, man,’ he proclaims, as if I wasn’t there. ‘Greatest goal ah’ve ever seen at the Bridge. Against the Talbot. Ayrshire Cup semi-final. This yin beats three … like the cunts had their feet cased in concrete … easy as that.’ Dennis swivels his hips. The boys nod approvingly. ‘Runs in on the keeper,’ he says, his voice quieter now. ‘Then does he no’ just fucken dink it ower him?’
‘That right, son,’ says the oldest. ‘Ma brother wis at that game. Talked about that goal for weeks after. Wis that you, right enough?’
‘Aye,’ I say.
‘Back tae see yer ma?’ Dennis asks.
‘Naw,’ says Higgy, on my behalf. ‘Well, aye … but Danny here’s the new gaffer at the Bridge. Ah’m his number two.’
‘Fuck sake! Gen?’
‘Aye,’ I say, beginning to feel that I could make it through the rest of the evening with this one word.
‘Jesus,’ says a second man. ‘Talk about a dead end, son,’ he sniggers. He is crag-faced and has curly, knotted shoulder-length hair that looks like the shredded tape from an unwound C90.
‘Aye,’ I repeat, warming to the challenge. I’m varying the tone at least.
—These men. I know them all. Knew their dads and their uncles. I also know Rocco Quinn, the big, dark-haired one at the back. I wish I didn’t.
They pull their seats closer and sit around our tiny table like it was an impromptu press conference. One refuses the seat brought over for him.
‘Ye’se aw comin’ a week on Saturday?’ Higgy asks them. ‘First game ae the season.’
They look relieved. As if he’d been talking about a party invite and they’d had to think fast.
‘Doubt it,’ says the one who looks like Plug from The Bash Street Kids. ‘Ah’ve got the bairns on a Saturday. Lets Effie go tae the bingo, an’ that.’ He speaks with a right-sided drawl that indicates a mild stroke is still having an effect.
‘Bring them,’ says Higgy, hopefully. ‘In for nothin’.’
‘Should fucken hope so, after that bloody disgrace ae last year,’ says C90-head.
‘You Ray Garvey’s brother?’ I was wondering how long it would be before this would be asked. It comes from the only man who was yet to speak. The one who has been staring at me since my name was uttered. The one man still standing. The one with heavily tattooed sallow skin. Hair dripping wet, although it hasn’t rained for days. A chin that has almost certainly taken a fair few bare-knuckled jabs in its time.
‘Aye,’ I say. Brevity still seems appropriate given the edge behind the query.
‘Cunt owes me,’ he says.
A silence follows, and seems to take root and immediately grow out of control.
—Rocco Quinn is one to be avoided. Maybe if Raymond had avoided him, he’d be here. Drinking with us.
Eventually … ‘So, where ye been hidin’ out, Dan?’ asks Dennis.
‘He wis up in Arbroath,’ says Higgy.
‘You his fucken translator then?’ says my brother’s creditor. ‘Cunt no’ speak for hi’self?’
The game ends. Four–nil to me. ‘Coachin’ the youth team up there,’ I say. Straight to Dennis, no-one else.
‘Aye?’ he says. Four–one. A late away goal against the run of play. Final whistle.
‘After the Dons finished, ah went tae Arbroath. Played on for a wee bit, but the injury wis too bad. Did the badges at Largs wi’ Roxburgh’s class. Started coachin’ the youths…’ I look down, uncomfortable at my own candour.
‘…an’ took them tae the final ae the Scottish.’ By the looks on their faces, they regard Higgy’s interruptions with the same contempt as an early ringing of the last-orders bell.
‘An’ now ah’m here,’ I say. I curse myself for not lacing the words with more dripping irony.
Dennis’s comrades get up. They head to the pool table. The lingering stares gradually diminish. Higgy goes for a piss.
‘Ne’er mind Rocco,’ Dennis leans in to whisper. ‘He’s like that wi’ everybody. A good cunt though.’
I’ve forgotten how every male in Ayrshire is a cunt. It’s the delivered grade of good or badness that defines your relationship with other male cunts.
‘Ye’ll need tae come round tae the house for one ae our parties,’ says Dennis. ‘Catch up proper an’ that.’
‘Okay,’ I say, hoping it’s an offer he’ll forget.
‘Meet the wife, like,’ he adds. ‘She’ll have mind ae ye tae, sure.’
I know before he utters it.
‘Alison. Alison Currie, she was then,’ he says. ‘Remember her?’
Warm sunlight flits across my face and wakes me. The broken slats in Higgy’s dusty blinds grant it entry. I look at the clock. 5.15 am. At least I’ve slept a bit. At the worst of the bad times, I’d have had four hours of watching the clock lumber towards this point in the day. I get up, get dressed and head out for a run. As part of the negotiating stance, I have acceded to the committee and registered myself with the SFA as a player. I have no intention of ever pulling on the strip, however much they want me to. But if I expect the team to work harder over a season, I should lead by example.
A milk float drifts slowly through the low-lying mist that covers much of the village. It is awkwardly pulling a barrow with newspapers in it, and has a small ginger cat for a passenger. Other than one dog enthusiastically shagging another, it’s the only sign of activity I witness. With Sparklehorse in my ears, it’s like the unsettling opening scene of a David Lynch movie. I imagine the boring surface normality concealing a dark, frightening underbelly.
I always enjoyed early-morning training. Especially when doing it alone to build up stamina after the injury. The privacy of the music. The clarity of thought that the early-morning air seems to bring. Before the rest of humanity rise and pollute it.
I run for an hour. I surprise myself at how easy it feels, although I haven’t really pushed it. The peripheral routes around this place are predominantly flat. Despite Libby’s ghostly presence regularly invading my thoughts, I’m starting to warm to this peculiar position I’ve found myself in. This may change after I’ve been to see Raymond for the first time in over ten years. This is his third spell inside, but Raymond will agree with Libby’s implication that we’re all to blame for his current stint in Barlinnie.
Higgy is up when I get back. Just. His yawning, crumpled face resembles a grey sock puppet on the arm of someone suffering a seizure.
‘Ye been out?’ he asks.
‘Ye just watched me come in,’ I reply.
‘Ach. Aye,’ he says, wiping the sleep from his eyes.
‘Just get yer tea an’ then we’re goin’ up tae The Barn.’
‘Aye, aw’right.’ He yawns again. ‘Ah’ll see ye there, son. Ah’ve got somethin’ tae dae first.’
It’s the first proper day of full training. A Sunday, normally the loneliest day of the week in football, although the satellite telly companies are doing their level best to fix that. I’ve made it a Sunday to ensure as many as possible are available. We have a squad of sixteen at present. Only Davie Russell – a fireman – is unavailable today due to his shift patterns. This will be a problem throughout the season. Auchinleck Talbot or Glenafton may be able to exert greater influence over players’ employers, but Barshaw Bridge are now only one rung above amateur-league status.
I have the clubhouse keys. No-one else is due at the ground for another hour. The church bell rings in the distance. Insistent and annoying. I’m in the office. I close the window and put a cassette in the tape recorder I’ve brought with me from Arbroath. It was a gift from the youth team at the end of last season, after the cup final win at Hampden.
I press ‘play’. Sonic Youth’s ‘Teenage Riot’ comes on, and I make a note on the pad about using it to test the PA system, if we still have one.
The list of tasks is growing:
Fix the leaks in the flat roof above the Committee Room
Get the changing-room toilet drains unblocked
Buy a typewriter
Speak to a printer about the programmes
Get around local businesses looking for additional sponsorship or donations
Contact Kilmarnock FC or Ayr United. Ask if they have any second-hand training kits. Or young professional players to loan out for the experience
Get boards up around the perimeter fencing to stop people watching without paying
Get the fucking grass cut to a length where it might be possible to play proper football on it
Talk to whoever does the food and hot drinks on a match day
Get some coverage in the local media
There are numerous others circulating in my brain. I’m taking it seriously. I’m not sure I know why. But it is occupying me. It’ll pass the season, and then I can take it from there.
Higgy appears. Someone is with him. Higgy has been out and about, scouting. Job Centres. The sports centres. Waste ground where bored teenagers are kicking a ball around for something to do.
—Danny’s a good coach, with good ideas about how the game should be played. Easy to impose that on youngsters; the ones still desperate to impress, and with a wee bit of the fear in them. But he’ll struggle to discipline the older ones; the veterans that know it all and couldn’t change their ways even if they believed the new man was right. Some square pegs need to fit into round holes. We don’t have the time to reshape them. They’ll need to be battered in with a big fucking mallet.
‘Danny, this is Harry Doyle. Thought he could mibbe help us.’ Harry’s a stout fella. Far too old, even for this level, although advancing age didn’t hold Stanley Matthews back.
Higgy has an eye for a player, I’ll give him that. And I need to hope he can still see. But on this evidence his judgement may be in question.
‘Harry’s ex-army. Played in goal for Whitburn before signing up.’ The penny drops. I get the inference immediately: I’m likely to be too soft. Especially on the older players. Higgy has obviously given this a lot of thought. I’ve underestimated him.
‘Hullo Harry.’
‘Mr Garvey,’ says Harry, with a nod that’s just a few degrees short of a royal bow.
‘Danny, mate. Just call me Danny.’
‘Right … boss,’ he replies. Harry’s demeanour implies a lifetime of following orders. No questions asked. Just point him in the direction of the man you want killed. Maybe he could really help me.
I hear the players start to drift in to the far changing room. It’s just after 11.00 am. Several will be late. The new Barshaw Bridge FC management team wanders through. Most don’t even notice us coming in. I listen to various conversations happening simultaneously. Almost all are about football. One, developing quietly in the corner, isn’t. It concludes in a punch-line involving the Pope.
The speed of the turn from light, topical observation to sharp sectarian aggression isn’t totally surprising. I recall it from my own time here. A dressing room is Lord of the Flies with bigger lads. The tension. The pressure to integrate. The low-grade bullying of those who don’t. It is always there, mostly under the surface, but it doesn’t take much for the volcano to erupt. Gilhooly pushes Buchan. He stumbles backwards and turns an ankle on a stray boot that’s been concealed under the training tops. My two centre backs – Buchan and Gilhooly – at each other’s throats, needing to be pulled apart by younger teammates. It doesn’t bode well. All eventually return to their seats. Tensions simmer. Buchan groans and flexes his foot.
‘Mornin’,’ I say, quietly. As if the fracas hadn’t been witnessed.
No-one answers. A door opens behind me. Finnegan squeezes past us. He’s more than half an hour late. The squad snigger as he sits down an’ whispers, ‘What’ve ah missed?’ to Jaz Sinclair seated to his left.
Before I can speak again, Harry Doyle strolls slowly into the middle of the small room. He stands on the bibs. I look down, noticing shiny steel-toe-capped boots under his joggy bottoms. He edges closer to Finnegan.
‘Hey, you … is it still March?’ he asks innocently.
Finnegan looks around; a child being singled out for an inevitable belting by an assistant head teacher. ‘Eh?’ He laughs, hoping not to lose face.
‘Did the clocks go forward last night, an’ we aw just missed it?’
It dawns on Finnegan. ‘Who are you, mister?’ he inquires.
‘Ah’m Doyle,’ he says calmly, holding out a hand.
Finnegan laughs again. Looks around for a reaction before he takes it. I watch Harry’s forearm expand. The tattoos on it appear to come to life. Rather than an introductory handshake, his goalkeeping shovel tightens and the grip crushes. The ink darkens. The lion roars. Higgy whispers to me that he met Harry at the nursing home their mothers reside in. He was tearing strips off an orderly.
