The Goldberg Variations. Mark Glanville

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СКАЧАТЬ see you after the game, darling.’

      He gave me one of his my-little-son smiles, and I moved away abruptly in an effort to separate myself from him and the ill-ease it engendered. Once inside the ground with the programme in my hand, I felt I’d arrived. I examined its cover, the figures shaking hands, the number, the date, the fixture, just to make sure it really was happening, then ran up the steps of the stand, unable to wait any longer for my first view of the ground I’d seen so often on television. I was shocked by how much the sight of what was, after all, only a football pitch moved me, as I visualised the heroes and their exploits on the turf. It didn’t matter that most had gone or that those who remained could never repeat their great deeds, that just lent the occasion poignancy, but as the teams ran onto the pitch and chants of ‘U-NI-TED’ rang round the ground, the football itself didn’t seem to matter at all. I felt I belonged here as never before, as I joined in the singing, knowing I was as passionate about this club as anyone there. The state of the art electronic scoreboard read Manchester United o Tottenham Hotspur o. I hoped that would change soon. It did. When Martin Peters put Spurs one up, looking round, I noticed that Mecca had been infiltrated as about one hundred Spurs fans celebrated. A handful of United promptly steamed into them from the back of the Scoreboard End terrace, whacking a few before being arrested. Then Peters scored again, reducing the usually deafening Stretford End to the level of a village church congregation. I joined in the chants of ‘You’re gonna get your fuckin’ ’eads kicked in’, just to give myself a bit of a lift. By the time the referee blew his whistle, Peters had added two more. I had the compensation of seeing the great Bobby Charlton score, but this current team were just men. No mist swept round their feet as they left the pitch with their heads hanging after what turned out to be the worst home defeat of the season.

      As Dad phoned his report through, the name Peters was polluting the press box air.

      ‘Your team were lousy!’

      He saw how dejected I was.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ he smiled sympathetically. ‘Not much of a present.’

      I felt bad. I remembered why I was there, and the pleasure it had given Dad to bring me to Old Trafford, but there was no way a fanatical United supporter could have enjoyed it. It was impossible to dissemble. I shrugged my shoulders.

      In the pressroom I was introduced, with mutual disinterest, to several of his colleagues. Then a handsome, dark-haired man turned and gave Dad the warmest smile he’d yet received, and all the joy knocked out of me returned. Pat Crerand, one of the gods who looked down on me as I lay asleep at night, had stepped down from his picture. The pain when he squeezed my hand confirmed he was real.

      ‘They could have done with you today, Paddy.’

      ‘There’s a lot happening here, Brian.’

      ‘Do you think we’ll stay up?’

      I was surprised to hear myself speak.

      ‘Of course, son. Just going through a bad patch.’

      His words reassured me for a moment, but I’d seen enough to realise that the situation was dire.

      Outside the ground the streets were dark and empty, strewn with bottles, cans, half-eaten burgers and torn-up programmes cast aside in disgust, but I felt good, bonded with Dad in a way I hadn’t been for a long time, part of his world. Although we discussed the game as equals, he felt more like a father than ever. On the journey home he reminded me of how alike we were. It was said with affection, inspired by the feelings that had been kindled in us both that day, but, like the smile he’d given me before I entered the ground, it seemed to imply ownership. I felt ambivalent about the prospect of turning into another version of him; on the one hand I was filled with admiration for a man apparently so successful professionally, financially and with women, on the other afraid that I might never achieve that success, and that if I did, I might, in that last respect, grow up to hurt someone as much as I felt he had my mother.

      Beta was from Berlin; more confident and mature than most of our other au pairs, her English already very good. She’d been working as personal assistant to one of the editors in a German publishing house and now she would be cleaning ours. Where others faded at the court of King Brian, Beta flourished. Poking fun at Dad and quick enough to return fire in the nightly shoot-outs, she slipped into our family like a long-lost older sister.

      One evening she failed to come down for dinner. Liz offered to look for her. Ten minutes later she was back.

      ‘Beta’s in floods of tears. She’s really upset.’

      ‘Did she tell you what’s wrong?’

      Mum looked anxious.

      ‘She won’t say.’

      ‘You’re very quiet, Brian. Anything the matter?’

      ‘Nothing, mutteler. Okay kids, I’m going up to watch Kojak. Coming anybody?’

      ‘Be nice if you stayed and helped with the washing-up for a change.’

      ‘Why, dearest daughter, when I have four wonderful children?’

      He picked several newspapers off a pile by his seat, and left.

      ‘I’m going to see how Beta is.’

      Liz followed Mum upstairs. By the time Mum returned I was alone, finishing the drying.

      ‘Don’t you want to see Kojak?’

      She was scowling.

      ‘Where’s Liz?’

      ‘Upstairs talking to Beta.’

      She picked up a tea-towel and began drying the plates vigorously, as if she were wiping the nose of a petulant child.

      ‘God, he makes me sick!’

      ‘Who?’

      My question was faux naif.

      ‘The poor girl’s in a dreadful state up there. Your lather tried to seduce her. He just can’t control himself. Even shits on his own door-step.’

      ‘He’s done it before?’

      Mum wrinkled her forehead. I knew the answer. My question had been prompted by a prurient fascination with the minutiae of Dad’s indiscretions.

      ‘Sylvia: I caught them snogging on the sofa. Fat lump of Swiss lard!’

      I remembered Sylvia, bad-tempered and unfriendly with long black hair. I used to lift her skirt to see her knickers, which really irritated her. Now I was glad I’d humiliated her, but annoyed that while I was indulging in horseplay it appeared that Dad had been getting the real thing.

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘I was furious with him.’

      ‘What about her?’

      ‘Oh, that silly tart! She didn’t have long to go with us.’

      ‘So you let her stay.’

      ‘I needed help, Mark.’

      ‘How СКАЧАТЬ