It started with an injury: Rob had been taken off for an operation on his elbow and was out of commission for six weeks and I was captain in his absence, with all that the captaincy implied. It wasn’t, to tell the truth, that big a deal: I’d done it before, although not for more than a few days at a time. Rob and Piet and I discussed it before he went to hospital.
“I’ll keep clear of the dressing room completely. I’m to be allowed my lower body work after a week and I’ll need a specific programme once I’m allowed to move the arm, so I’ll be about in the gym and so on, but I’ll not come downstairs. You’re in charge, you’ll do better if I’m not there.”
That was true, we all knew it. Rob had been captain. . . three seasons? Four? And we knew that once his plaster came off, he would be again. If he turned up in the dressing room, the guys would look to him for final instructions, not me.
“Thanks, mate. Is there anything I need to know before you go?”
There was, of course. Loads of stuff. Enough to make me roll my eyes. Bloody paperwork. . . I hate it. I’ve got an office, God help me; Rob and I have adjoining rooms with a connecting door.
“Look, I’ll leave the filing cabinet key in the desk in case you need any of the stuff.”
I must have looked surprised, because he grinned at me. “What, you thought I would be back to do my admin? Think on. You’re captain, I’m on sick leave. You’re in charge. And it’s my right elbow: I’ll not be fit to sign anything, so obviously. . .”
So obviously Phil would have to do it. And work with Piet on the game plans (well, that wasn’t much of a hardship, I was usually involved). And take responsibility for team discipline and keep an eye on the squad and. . .
Oh, I grumbled, but actually, I enjoyed it, although some at least of my enjoyment was that of a grandparent with a new baby: the knowledge that presently, when I was bored, somebody would take it back. I enjoyed it all the way to the midweek match.
It was a good match and we won it by a tidy margin; it was obvious by half time that we were going to, and Piet took the opportunity to give some of the small fry a run out, and some of the old hacks an easy ride. There had been half a dozen of the juniors promoted to our dressing room, and they needed to be broken in gently. I don’t count as a hack yet; I played both halves, so I was there right in the middle of it. That left it – entirely to me.
And to be frank, I didn’t know what to do, not at first. I’d got the glimmering of an idea when I came off the pitch though, and it had firmed up into a definite plan by the time I was showered and Piet was doing his review. He’d been generally pleased with everybody; there were some minor grumbles, but nothing serious. He wound up and turned to me.
“Mr Cartwright? Is there anything more?”
“The line-outs were much better, I thought. Not perfect but a huge improvement on last time. No, Coach, nothing more, thanks.”
And the question of whether I should have said something at that point? No, I still think not. I waited. I waited until half the squad had moved on, and then I went looking for Marco Schioccola – I don’t swear I’ve got that spelling right, the guys call him Chocolate. He was high on excitement and adrenaline, joking with another of the juniors; I waited until he looked my way, and then I jerked my head at him. I don’t know what he thought; but he came promptly enough, with the thrill of his first senior match still clustering round him.
“Upstairs, my office, five minutes.”
The smile went a little fixed. “Ah, right. . . is something. . .”
I gave him a Look. I’m not good at them, but he must have seen something, because his smile vanished and he swallowed. I went upstairs without looking to see what he was doing; he followed me within the five minutes I’d specified.
“Shut the door.”
He’s a nice looking boy and pleasant with it. I didn’t know him well, although he’d done fetch-and-carry work for me a couple of times, and of course he’d driven me to the hospital when I broke my fingers. Typical Latin type, physically, although his accent is pure south London and as far as I know he’s never been nearer Italy than Pizza Hut.
“How do you think you played, first time out?”
He relaxed, obviously thinking this was to be another debriefing session.
“Better than I thought I might. I was really nervous, you know? I can do better than that, I know I can, if I just get a chance. I know there aren’t any places going begging, if I want to stay with the Firsts I’ve got to work, but I can do it. . .” He saw my expression and ground uncertainly to a halt.
“You think the way you played would be acceptable to the Firsts here?”
His jaw set as he realised that I knew.
“You think that would be acceptable to Mr de Vries?”
He must have known it wouldn’t.
“It was an accident,” he offered rather tentatively.
“It bloody wasn’t!” I exploded. “It was a deliberate attempt to foul your opposite number in the ruck. Don’t even think about lying to me about it: I was there with you and I saw you. You tried to put your knee in his face and the only thing that stopped you was that I saw you and I realised what you meant to do. It wasn’t their prop who put you on the floor, it was me, and you can be bloody grateful for it, because if the ref had picked up what you were doing you’d have been off, and if Mr de Vries had seen you, you’d have been going back to the Seconds so fast you’d have left stud marks all down the corridor. Jesus, if you’d got him on the bridge of the nose you could have killed him! By the grace of God nobody saw you but me. Let’s get some things clear, mister. You’re not playing football here. We don’t foul and then whine to the ref that we didn’t do it. We don’t dive,” and there was some contempt in my voice. “We play hard, I’m not denying it. It’s a dirty, bloody game. I know perfectly well that there’s been fouling and stamping and gouging and all the rest going on out of the ref’s sight ever since the game was invented. Of course I know: I’ve worn the marks of it often enough. Some clubs are rougher than others – but at this club we don’t do that; we’re better than that and we know we are, and we’re proud of it. The Gryphons play hard but we play clean and our reputation speaks for itself, and as long as I’ve got any influence here that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“I was just. . . it was only. . .” He sounded imploring and I cut him off.
“You were just cheating. No!” as he tried to speak again. “A deliberate foul is cheating. Trying to gain an advantage by breaking the rules without getting caught is cheating, there’s no other name for it and there’s no place for it at this club, and if you don’t get that, then you’d better find yourself another club or another sport. Am I making myself understood?”
He nodded, white-faced. I had more to say and I said it; I said it for several minutes. I told him exactly where he got off; I spelt out for him what Piet would have said if he’d seen it, I speculated in a vague doom-ridden manner about what the likes of James Hamilton would think. By the time I had finished, Marco was one very subdued puppy indeed. I’ve been ticked off by experts – by Piet, by James Hamilton once, by Hansie, by Tim. By Nick, who’s damn good at it for a guy who isn’t a Top. Fran was cross with me but she didn’t say much; I think I only need her in full voice to have a matched set and be able to claim the free display case. I found that the experience rubbed off, well enough for me to know just what to say when it was my turn to do the ticking.
I stopped to draw breath; Marco was gazing fixedly at the floor.
“Tomorrow, I want you here at 9:30. You needn’t bother with your kit, you’re not going out, but you’re not getting a day off either.” His head came up in confusion: the day after a match is normally a rest day for whoever played. I cut him off before he could speak. “Yes, I can do that. I can do it because I’m captain. You’ll be here on time, because if you’re not, we’ll be taking this to Mr de Vries, understand?”
He nodded sullenly.
“Then get out of my sight.”
And later? I didn’t tell Piet about it. Well, actually, I didn’t think I needed to. I did, I admit, want him not to know, but I wasn’t troubled about not telling him. This was captaincy stuff, not coach business, and I was dealing with it.
In the morning, though, he raised an eyebrow when I put on my blazer. We’ve got a uniform which we’re expected to wear when we travel to matches or give interviews other than on pitch-side and so on: dark trousers, club blazer and tie, white shirt. It’s not usual for me to wear it other than on match days but it felt right.
“You are very smart this morning.”
I preened exaggeratedly. “I’m being captain today. No, I’ve got people to see and the blazer makes it easier for everybody to remember what’s going on. What’s on your plate today?”
He made a face. “Statistical analysis and video replay. So when I come home I will be very bored and cross and frustrated; shall we go out?”
“Film? I’ll have a look at what’s on at the Odeon, shall I?” Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing wrong between him and me. Nothing.
And Marco turned up with five minutes to spare and a face like a wet weekend, and his normal clothes on; he looked at my blazer and shrank a little. I set him down at Rob’s desk and plonked a file in front of him.
“These are the letters we get in from the schools. Have you seen them before? No? But you’ve been in on a couple of the visits, haven’t you? You were on the rota for St Stephen’s Primary last time.” He nodded. “So you know what the kids did and what they saw. And they’ve sent us thank you letters.” The Board is very insistent that we do a lot of outreach work with the schools; it’s good for the sport and the club and it’s good for the community. It’s common enough too that we’ll get a thank you letter afterwards: a parcel from the primary schools, containing a folder of misspelt notes illustrated in crayon by Josh, aged 6, and Hannah, aged 8; a single sheet from the upper school signed by the poor staff member who had to take responsibility for the whole shebang. “The letters have to be answered. You’ve got – um – Mrs Pargetter’s class and Mr Laxman’s class there, from St Stephen’s. Now normally, we would send one reply to each class and we’d print it big enough for them to put on their notice-boards. But I want you to give some thought to rôle models. To the fact that these kids are at a very impressionable age. To the fact that you’re a hero to some of them, and they’ll think that whatever you do is something for them to emulate.” His gaze was fixed downwards again, on the folder between his hands. “To your duty, Marco. Your duty not to teach them anything morally damaging. You’re going to answer those letters, individually and by hand, and clearly enough for 7 and 8 year olds to read. You’re not going to write the same thing to each one: you’re going to give them as much care and attention as they’ve given us, get me?”
His expression was comically horrified and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression of severity. But I know about pulling the rein tight and then slackening it. “Go and get yourself a coffee first; bring one for me as well, please: milk and no sugar. And then get started.”
There wasn’t a squeak from him for over an hour; when I was bored with what I was doing, I sent him for more coffee, and picked up some of his replies. He watched me doubtfully.
“You’ll have to re-write that one: I can hardly read it so a child won’t be able to.” He was struggling with the content quite quickly, which was hardly surprising: how many different ways are there to say ‘I’m glad you had a good time’?
At one I sent him out, told him to get himself some lunch and to be back in an hour, and after that he did another class-worth of acknowledgement letters and then photocopied all his replies and attached them to the originals. I looked at my watch.
“All right, that’ll do. Put them in the post tray.” He’d had nothing to say to me all day and I thought he was resenting me horribly, but for all that, I knew what came after a punishment. “That was well done, Marco. You’ll have made their day for those kids, you know. You need to remember, you’ve got power over the public, specially the children. I’m sure you won’t make that sort of mistake another time; we’ll not mention it again, O.K.?” I wondered about offering him my hand – Hansie had said that was what Piet used to do – but it would have felt forced, and anything else (like the tap on the back which Hansie had also mentioned). . . well, I don’t. I’m careful. There are too many people know I’m gay; I’m careful what I say to the juniors and how I behave round them, and I don’t ever, ever touch them uninvited. Yes, I’m protecting myself – and Piet too, I suppose – but I’m protecting the boys as well.
And that was that. Phil being captain, and well, actually, if you must know, I was a bit smug. I thought I’d handled it pretty well.
For a fortnight, I thought so. I didn’t see much of Marco for the next week: the training schedule changed so that we were split into groups and different people did different things with us, and as it happened, Marco wasn’t in my group. That was just chance; when we all came together again to be split up differently, I didn’t actually give him much thought. It was one of Harry’s sessions: he told us to split into three groups, and the senior players did that more or less straight away. We know what’s expected: not always with the same people so everybody works with everybody else. I looked at the juniors who were hanging back, and made some decisions, based on nothing more than getting on. “Steve and Marco, you go with Mark’s group. Jake and Liam, with Tommy. You two with me. Quickly now!”
And we went and did whatever we were doing and presently Harry wanted the groups changed again, and once again the seniors rearranged themselves and the younger ones hung back, and once again, I snapped out names. “Liam and. . . what’s your name again? Jamie? With Mark. Dave and Marco with Tommy, Steve and Jake with me.”
Didn’t make anything of it, actually. Liam’s fast and enthusiastic but doesn’t pay half enough attention. Jamie was so nervous he was all over the place. Dave’s not got it, he’ll never find a place in the Firsts, although he’ll be a good second stringer. Steve’s workmanlike rather than good but there might be something more there. Jake and Marco are the best of them, and Marco will outstrip Jake, no trouble. But he didn’t have a good session; later, when I was talking to some of the guys, Mark commented that Marco had lost the plot.
“He wasn’t listening to what he was told, he was looking off somewhere else all the time, watching one of the other groups.”
Tommy agreed. “Heaven preserve him if the Terminator comes down to take a session himself; he’ll eat that lad for breakfast and spit out the bones. He looked good in the Seconds; I wonder why it’s all gone flat for him?”
“Just happens sometimes,” I said doubtfully. “Nerves, big changes. It’s odd, though, I agree: he had a good first match. I wonder if I should have a chat with him, see if he’s worrying about something? Can’t hurt, I suppose.”
But I didn’t see him again that day, nor the next. His schedule didn’t cross with mine in the gym; when we had a run planned, the fitness people gave us all different targets and none of the babies came in my set. It was Thursday before I actually spotted him in the boot room.
“Marco? Marco! Wait!” for he was heading for the door and plainly avoiding me. He didn’t get away with it: Ryan was coming past and helpfully pointed out to him that I was calling; he couldn’t get away with pretending not to have heard me. “Marco, hi, I’ve been wanting a word with you. Come. . .” I glanced round. There were too many people about to take him into the dressing room or café. “Come upstairs, will you?”
You’d have thought I was taking him to an execution. He sat down with the sort of marked lack of enthusiasm which I display after Piet has been very vexed about something, and I headed for my own chair and then thought better of it. Sitting on the other side of the desk was a bit ‘called to see the boss’, I thought, so I hopped up to sit on the desk itself with my legs swinging.
“I just thought I hadn’t seen anything of you for a bit and I wondered how you were settling in the dressing room, if everything was all right with you?”
And now that I had him in front of me, alarms were going off like nobody’s business. Very obviously indeed, things weren’t all right at all, to the extent that I wondered how I’d missed it even just passing him in the corridor. I ploughed on, looking for a clue. “How are you finding your new schedules? It’s a bit of a step up from the Seconds, isn’t it? Are you managing all right?”
He muttered something I didn’t catch. I went on a bit more gently. “It’s O.K. if you’re finding it unsettling, you know. Big changes are disconcerting. When I came here from my university side, I thought I’d never get how everything worked. Did they give you somebody to sheepdog you until you found your feet?”
“Ryan,” he said shortly. I winced. Ryan’s a lot of fun, but Mr Reliable he is not. I wondered who had been responsible for that pairing.
“Is he looking after you?”
He shrugged and the alarms went off again. Something was desperately wrong here and well, I was going to find out what it was.
“If. . . if you wanted to talk about stuff, he might not be your best choice. He’s a. . . I mean, they’ll have asked him to keep an eye on you, but if. . . if it worked better for you. . . it’s not a contract, you know? Tommy’s good to talk to, or Rowan Archer – he’s not that long out of the Seconds himself – or you’re always welcome to come and look for me. Even if all you wanted was to chat.”
There was an awkward silence. In the end I just dived in. “Look, Marco, what’s the matter? I can see something’s bothering you, so come on, tell me what it is and we’ll see if we can’t sort it out. Has somebody been giving you a hard time?”
His head came up at that, his eyes blazing. “Oh, like you’d care?”
“Of course I would care! I’m acting captain now and I’m vice-captain in my own right, and it’s part of my job to keep things working for everybody. This isn’t working for you, I can see that, and if you’ll let me, I reckon I can help sort it out.”
“There’s nothing to fucking sort!”
I honestly didn’t know what to make of that. I mean, I’m not bothered about bad language (my own is none too special). At least, Phil isn’t bothered about it – but the Gryphons captain shouldn’t be sworn at by his own junior players in his own office. For a moment I didn’t know whether to address the tone or the content, and then he snarled, “It doesn’t fucking matter, I’ll be gone soon enough anyway.”
“Gone?” I asked blankly; “why? Have you had another offer? I mean, good for you if you have, although we’ll miss you here, but why didn’t you say?”
“Oh, go fuck yourself!” he howled at me. That did make me blink a bit. “When you said I had no place here?”
“When. . . I didn’t say that! When did I say that?” My own temper was beginning to come a little unstuck.
“After that last match.” He was sullen again. “You said I was a cheat and there was no place for me here.”
“I said nothing of the bloody sort!” I snapped back. “I said what you did was cheating, which isn’t at all the same as saying you’re a cheat. Everybody’s done something they’re ashamed of at least once. I’ve had it in the neck” (and other places) “from Viper de Vries for throwing a punch at a guy at a party. I hit somebody. That doesn’t mean I’m basically violent. It was a stupid thing to do, I’m ashamed that I did it, I don’t mean ever to do it again. I grew up, that’s all. Yes, you did something stupid too. I hope you damn well are ashamed of doing it because you ought to be. But for Chrissakes, I’m not going to judge you completely on the basis of one mistake! Wash your bloody ears out and then operate them again with your brain in gear! I said ‘if’ you couldn’t grasp the basics about decent play, you had no place in the team. If. Do we understand ‘if’?”
I stopped to gasp for breath. Then I went on more calmly. “Marco, you’ve got talent. I’m not the greatest scout, but even I can see that. You’ve got the potential to be really good. And believe me, you won’t find a better club to develop that potential, or a better back-room team to bring you on. Don’t go unless you’re damn sure you’re going to something better. Where are you intending to go?”
He shrugged, refusing to look at me.
“Well, then, look, if you haven’t got definite plans, let’s just calm down a bit and see if we can’t get you more comfortable here, hey? For God’s sake, you can’t be. . . how old are you? Was that why you were stuck with the Seconds, because you weren’t 19 yet?”
“You’re too late,” he said with a quiver in his voice. “I put my resignation under Mr de Vries’s door at lunchtime.”
I stared in shock – and then leaped off the desk. “Stay there – don’t fucking move or I’ll bloody kill you!” and I sprinted for the door. I knew Piet had been booked for a meeting with the St George woman and Sir John at lunchtime; I knew that Sir John liked to take his time over lunch and that Piet wanted something from him, something to do with the funding of the Colts, so he wouldn’t be trying to hurry the meeting along. I just might – might – be able to recover this situation. . .
It meant sprinting the length of the corridor, through the double doors and along another corridor to Piet’s office – and the door was locked. Bugger. I scrabbled in my pocket for my keys; it was only a faint chance that the lock on his door would be the same as the one on mine or Rob’s, and it wasn’t. Fuck! There would be spare keys in the safe in Accounts and not a bloody chance of anybody letting me have them, and there would be. . .
I took to my heels again, down the stairs, through the juniors’ dressing room and along the corridor which opens on the car park. Please God, surely they had gone out in Sir John’s car, not Piet’s? Yes! He’d parked on the other side of the mini-bus; I scrabbled in my pocket again. I’d got a key for his car; he keeps a complete extra set of kit in the boot, and if he hadn’t changed his usual habit, all his spare keys were in a zip pocket on the side of his bag. Praise God for physical fitness: I took the stairs back up again two at a time, unlocked the door, threw it open, and the edge of it caught the envelope on the carpet and skittered it across the floor and under Piet’s desk, with me in pursuit. I didn’t recognise Marco’s writing, but it was Piet’s name on the front in an adolescent hand sure enough: it couldn’t be anything else. I snatched it up, turning back to the door with the keys in my hand as I stuffed the envelope into my pocket.
And Piet was standing in the doorway.
I must have looked a complete twit – I actually reared backwards in shock, because I hadn’t heard him coming at all. And my reactions screamed ‘GUILT!’ even to me – the panicked look at the keys, the frantic ramming of the envelope to the depths of my pocket, and the stammered ‘Oh. . . shit.’
And he Looked at me, and said “Well?”
“It’s not the way you think.” That was so feeble!
“You have no idea what I think. Are those my keys?”
I nodded.
“Which you have abstracted from my car?”
“I had to,” I offered weakly. “Honestly, P. . . Mr de Vries, it was an emergency.”
“What sort of emergency?”
“I – can’t tell you that. Please don’t ask me to.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both, I suppose. Honestly, it’s not as bad as it looks. I’m not doing anything wrong, I swear I’m not.”
“Mr Cartwright, you are standing, uninvited, in my room. You have let yourself in using my keys, which you have taken from my car without my permission, using, I presume, your copy of my car key which you have only as a personal, not a professional, convenience. Plainly you have removed something from my room, again without my knowledge or permission. And you tell me you are not doing anything you should not?”
I managed, with a great effort, to muster my scattered wits. “I know it looks bad,” I said steadily. “But I give you my word, I’m not doing anything. . .” and I searched for the right words, “anything unprofessional, anything improper. It would be much better if you didn’t know about it, honestly it would.” I swallowed and hoped to God there was nobody outside in the corridor within earshot. “I swear, if you knew all about it, you would be very annoyed, but not excessively so and not with me; if you knew all the details there would be nothing you would think. . .” and despite myself, my voice dropped a little, “nothing you would think I should be punished for.”
He stood for just long enough that I despaired, and then he stepped away from the doorway. “Make sure you reset the alarm on the car when you replace my keys.”
I sent him a look of complete incredulity – I hadn’t found that statement convincing myself, so I hadn’t expected him to – and then I bolted again, back down the stairs, back outside to replace the keys and yes, reset the alarm.
Marco was still where I’d left him, but he was sitting with his feet pulled up onto the chair and his cheek on his knees and he was such a bundle of misery that however irritated I was, I felt a sneaking pity as well. I turned the key in the lock and dropped the crumpled envelope on the desk in front of him.
“Now, can we in the name of God have some sort of sensible conversation about what the blazes you thought you were doing and why on earth you’ve got yourself into quite such a state? Because honestly, Marco, you’re going to have to toughen up. If you can’t take well-deserved criticism from me, what the hell are you going to do the first time the Terminator ticks you off? Or the first time you have a bad match and the sports writers have a go at you?”
And he looked up at me, and the expression. . . it took me a moment to place it, because the last time I’d seen it so nakedly displayed, it had been on another man’s face, a man a year or two older than Marco, and it hadn’t been aimed at me but at Hansie.
I was very much slower the second time I went along the corridor to Piet’s room – and this time, I stopped at the door and knocked, and waited to be invited to enter. To my surprise Rob was there, lopsidedly balancing a huge plaster-cast.
“Hey Phil, how’s it going?”
“I. . . how’s the arm?”
“Improving, apparently. I’m to get the plaster off next week and then I can get some work done. How are things with you?”
I looked across at Piet. “Not brilliant. I’ve screwed up.”
Piet’s eyebrows went up; Rob heaved himself to his feet.
“If you’ve got business to discuss, I’ll push off, then.”
“No, don’t, Rob, please. This is – you’ll be involved with this too. It’s captaincy stuff and I’ve buggered it up completely.” I looked back to Piet. “And I think – I think that when I said to you before that you would be pissed off but not with me, I think maybe I was wrong. I think you’re going to be very pissed off with me.”
“Then sit down, Mr Cartwright, and explain to us what you have done.”
I took a moment to sort my head. “I don’t think I should tell you the first bit. Well, not in detail. What happened was, one of the juniors did something he shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter what, you don’t need to know that, because you can’t do anything about it now.”
“‘Can’t’, Mr Cartwright?”
That was quiet but unpleasantly edgy. I acknowledged that it had been a bad choice of words. “You could, of course, but I hope you won’t. He was out of order and I made it plain what I thought about it, and I found him something to do to convince him not to do it again. And then I told him it was over, so I really don’t think it’s right to bring it all up again.”
“Not fair,” nodded Rob. “And this is Chocolate?”
I must have let my mouth drop open because he laughed. “Not that hard, Filthy. I know I’ve not been in the dressing room, but I came to watch training a couple of times: I’ve been around. Marco’s been going about with a face – ” and I saw him hear in his own head what he was about to say, and panic. Rob’s pet phrase for anybody out of sorts is ‘face like a slapped arse’ – and he’s seen me with stripes often enough to know that it wouldn’t be tactful. I caught Piet’s eye and saw the spark of laughter which didn’t show on the stone face, even when Rob made a massive recovery: “ – like a sl. . .ow day at the races. I thought he was just feeling the pace a bit, up from the Seconds, but if he’d had a kick in the pants as well, that would account for it.”
“Oh, it accounts for it all right,” I said bitterly. “Doesn’t it just. I gave him a rocket and then I said ‘O.K., we’ll forget about it’, and I did forget about it. I didn’t think to check whether or not he had forgotten about it, and he hadn’t. And. . .” This was the difficult bit. “I didn’t take on board that’s he’s only just 19.”
Piet frowned. “I do not think I follow you. So far you have told us nothing out of the ordinary. The boy misbehaved in some way – no, we are not asking how. You scolded him, and if I understand it, you punished him, and then you announced the incident closed. You think you did wrongly?”
I shook my head. “Not wrong, and what I did wasn’t. . . excessive. Wasn’t disproportionate. But what I didn’t take on board –” I swallowed. “Oh God, this sounds so smug. He’s 19, and a month ago he was 18. And he’s not a particularly old 19 either. He’s suffering from chronic hero-worship, he thinks I’m God, and I hadn’t even noticed. So when I tore into him, he didn’t hear me saying ‘don’t do that, you know better’. He heard me saying that I disapproved not of what he had done, but of him. Then when we picked groups to work together, I never picked him – it was just chance, you know how it goes – and he’s been thinking that it was deliberate, that I didn’t want to work with him. And he’s been fretting about it ever since, and I didn’t even notice.” I got up and began to pace angrily. “I didn’t notice and I wasn’t interested enough to find out, and even if Phil the player didn’t see that, the bloody captain should have. I ought to have known before and I certainly should have spotted it this time.”
“And this is what brought you to my office: yes, I see. You were recovering his resignation.”
I missed my footing, I swung round so fast. “You knew?”
“No, but it is hardly difficult to deduce. What else could there be in my office which you would want me not to see? But I do not understand quite why you felt the need to do so: surely you could not believe that even had I seen and accepted his resignation, I would not be sympathetic if you and he came to me and said it had been a mistake?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t what you would do that worried me; it was what he would do. I didn’t know what it was all about at that point; I was afraid that if you’d seen the letter, and he knew you had, he wouldn’t admit to having been wrong.”
Piet nodded comprehendingly. I sat down again. “I’m really sorry; I’ve screwed it up completely. I think I’ve persuaded him to stay; it was bloody difficult, because even when I’d worked out what was wrong, I couldn’t let him see that I knew: he’d have been mortified. But I should have known that there was something wrong, I should never have let things go so far.”
For once, somebody got in ahead of Piet.
“Bloody hell, Phil, give yourself a break!”
I gawped at Rob, who frowned at me. “You’re acting captain, you’re not their bloody nanny. If Chocolate was out of order and you reined him in, all well and good; that’s part of the job. You’re not expected to run round after the guys, massaging their egos and making sure they’re all at peace with the world!”
“I just. . . well, I’m a bit surprised I didn’t notice, to tell the truth. Not that I would want. . .” I was struggling a bit. “I’m generally very careful. I mean, we all know about hero-worship. Let’s face it, it goes with the territory. We all know that we have to be careful when the schools visit, or when we go to the junior clubs. I’ve spent enough time with the kids at James Hamilton’s club to know the score: I watch what I say and do there as a matter of course.”
Piet stirred. “And I think that may be the root of the misunderstanding. You view the players there as children and so of course you are careful. But consider: the girls with whom we have been spending time, some of them are 16 or 17 now. Old enough to marry, and indeed, older than their male contemporaries in emotional terms.” Ain’t that the truth. Some of the younger girls are 14 going on 41 and they scare the shit out of me. “Marco Schioccola is 19 and as you say, a young 19. Had you met him outside the club, you would have viewed him as a youth perhaps, if not actually a child. You would have been aware of him as vulnerable. Even if your dealings with him had been while he was in the Seconds, you would have been cautious. But they were not, were they? You met him here, in the First team dressing room, where he is a fellow professional, where he is an adult. I think Mr Standish is correct: you are too hard on yourself. It is not for you to judge whether or not a professional player – albeit a junior one – is emotionally and intellectually able to cope with the stresses of the job. That is for the talent scouts and for me, and Harry and the Board. Mr Schioccola will need to grow up quickly, for we cannot carry a passenger while he thinks about it. No, you have done nothing wrong. It is as Mr Standish says: the young man misbehaved and you corrected him; that is your duty as captain. Between you and him the incident is closed and you have told him so. Therefore, Mr Standish and I do not need to know about it, and we will pay no attention.”
I made a face. “And the other bit? I honestly don’t know how he’s going to deal with me now. I don’t think I let him see that I knew what was wrong. . . Poor little bugger, his first big match and I go and spoil it for him.”
“Excuse me?” enquired Rob sharply. “You spoiled it? Or he did? You said he did something out of order. If I’d seen it, would I have let it pass? I’m not asking, Phil, but I can’t see you being pissed off to the point of giving him more than a sharp word unless he was bang out of line and must have known it. And in that case, it was just that you caught him, and it might as easily have been me, or Harry, or Coach.”
No. No, of course Rob wouldn’t have let it pass. And as I’d said at the time, if Piet had seen, there would have been blood on the carpet. Piet was watching me closely.
“Indeed, if he did something wrong he has only himself to blame. But I know what you mean, Mr Cartwright. If the boy realises that you are aware of his admiration for you, he will be embarrassed. You must carry on as before with him, without changing your manner and Mr Standish and I will simply add that information to the things we do not know about what has been going on.”
I sat a moment or two in silence, getting my head round it. Piet thought I had done nothing wrong. Rob thought I had done nothing wrong. So. . . as they said, I didn’t need to be too hard on myself. What I did need to do, and it didn’t take any spelling out, was absorb that I had. . . what would you call it? Power? I’d known I had influence over teenagers but it hadn’t occurred to me that I had it over adults. Maybe it should have done: Nick had said something about being treated as an adult only if I behaved like one, and that worked both ways. It wasn’t only inside the Family that I had responsibilities and (yes, it was the right word) power. I’d got Marco for not considering the effect of his actions on others and, well, although maybe it wasn’t my fault, I needed to give some thought on my own account to the same thing. My musing was interrupted by Rob.
“Well, if we’re to know nothing about it, I’ll start now and get out of here; I have an appointment with a bottle of painkillers. I’ll be round and about next week. . .” and he was heading for the door; I looked up to smile and say goodbye. I heard Piet shut the door behind him.
“And you are still worrying about this?”
I considered. “Not worrying, exactly. I’m still a bit pissed off that I missed what was happening. I should have spotted it.”
“I think not. I honestly do not believe, Phil, that anyone will criticise you for not being vain enough to spot an admirer.” He was amused; I was still slightly bewildered.
“Did you really not know what was going on when you caught me in here?”
He tipped his head in agreement. The more I thought about it, the less I understood. “Then. . . thank you.”
The thin eyebrows went up. “For what?”
“For letting it go. For not insisting on hearing about it all on the spot. For not making me tell you what was happening.”
“You need not thank me for that. I could do nothing other than what I did, I think.”
“Because you have to assume that your captain knows what he’s about?”
He gave that sideways flick of his head. “In part, I suppose, but also because of you. Because of us. Because, however hard we try to keep our private life separate from our work, the two are interlinked, particularly when I judge you on professional grounds. Phil, the absolute foundation of a relationship like ours is trust. I know you trust me: you gave me your trust that very first night when I said I could make you great. You demonstrate to me that you trust me every time you accept my evaluation of your behaviour over your own, every time you come to me for punishment. You trust me to do right by you; you are quite entitled to have my trust in return.”
I didn’t understand. “You mean you trust me to do the right thing? But the whole point of the exercise is what we do when I don’t.”
He shook his head. “I trust you to tell me the truth. Not necessarily a recognition of unmistakeable fact, for there is always an element of interpretation, but the truth as you perceive it. You did that today, did you not? You told me that I did not need to know, and that you had good reason to act as you did, and I had no actual evidence to the contrary. When you thought that your reasoning might have been faulty you came back and told me so. But you give me so freely of your trust, Phil, that you must have mine in return. That is how an adult relationship works. You told me that all was well. I admit that I could not see how it might be so: I could not imagine circumstances in which it would have been acceptable, or necessary, for you to steal my keys and burgle my office, to put the worst interpretation on what you did. But see? You were right and I was wrong.”
“You thought I was doing something wrong and you let me do it anyway?”
He shrugged. “What else could I do? I could hold you here and address you as I would a small child: I know that you have done something naughty even if I do not yet know what it is, and I know that you are lying when you tell me that it is not so. Is that the basis of our relationship, Phil? Of course it is not. I hope that if you tell me you have done nothing wrong, I will believe you, always. I will believe you on nothing more than your word. Until I see absolute proof that it is not the truth, I will trust you that it is.”
I was hardly able to speak, but I managed a choked ‘Thank you.’
“You need not thank me for it. It is not a gift from me to you; it is your inalienable right, and the first time I fail you in it, you will be quite within your rights to leave me.”
“And the first time I abuse it, you’ll be within your rights to leave me,” I promised. He smiled at me.
“Now, Mr Cartwright, that is enough of this emotional talk. I am going to throw you out; I have telephone calls to make and correspondence to deal with, and I have not much time left in which to do it.”
I got up, not sorry to move on. “I’ve got a couple of things to do myself. I’ll see you at home.”
And later, there was something on TV he was interested in, and we went to the back sitting room where we could curl up together on what I say is a round couch and Tim says is an invitation to an orgy. I got all the cushions behind my back and Piet arranged his head and shoulders with me to prop him up, and he watched whatever it was with great concentration – it was some programme about the Dead Sea scrolls, I think, and I watched little bits of it and let my attention wander. Presently, I slipped my fingers between his and began to work my thumb over his palm and wrist, and when the final credits came up and he switched off the TV, I took the opportunity to cuddle up close and reach for the other hand.
“You know, Piet, I don’t think I ever realised before quite how much self control you’ve got.”
His mouth twitched a little. “Continue to caress my hands, koekie, and you will discover that I have none at all. This is in respect of what?”
“In respect of all the times you must have been absolutely dying to hurl me over your knee and wallop me until I howled, and you didn’t do it.”
He twisted round to get onto the cushions himself, with me in his arms.
“You know, koekie, I cannot think that I have felt such a desire more than once or twice – per day. No! Do not tickle me, I will not tease you. So why do you think I would have such a need?”
“Well, I did. A fortnight ago I caught myself thinking: what that pillock Marco needs is his backside warmed. And this afternoon, when he was being so bloody unhelpful about telling me what was wrong, I could quite cheerfully have dragged him over my lap and kept him there until he learned that when I asked him a question, I expected to get an answer. Stop laughing! This is a deeply shocking thing for a decent and respectable Bottom to find himself thinking! I don’t do anything like that.”
“You have spanked Tim, and Hansie too.”
“I’ve only ever spanked Hansie in fun, and Tim. . . only once that wasn’t play. But I swear, that boy today – given half a chance I’d have made him squeal.”
“I think it would not answer with him, Phil, but just in case, I forbid you to do it.”
“Spoilsport.”
“Indeed.”
“Just because you want to have all the fun yourself. . .”
“I have no desire to spank Marco. And in terms of - what was it? Walloping you until you howled? That is not particularly pleasant for either of us. I much prefer to spank you until you squirm, and make that noise like a kitten.”
“I do not make a noise like a kitten!”
“No?”
“Not unless you ask very nicely indeed.”
“I shall ask prettily. I shall say: please Phil, come and be spanked, because you look so beautiful over my knee with your bottom blushing.”
“And what’s in it for me?”
His eyes went wide. “A nice spanking, of course. Is that not enough?”
“Well. . .”
“And maybe. . .” and he trapped me under his body and whispered into my ear a selection of suggestions which made me. . .
Miaow.
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,
2008