Munichs, page 25
See you tomorrow then, said Bill, after the bath, Bill changed and dressed again, and Harry, in his towel still, looked up at Bill from the bench, nodded once and said, Aye, see you then.
*
They had cremated Alf Clarke, the ‘Man Who Bled Manchester United Red Blood’, on the Thursday of that black week, then the very next day, they cremated Tom Jackson, his friend and rival on the Evening News, who had covered Manchester United for a quarter of a century, and was the ‘Man Who Lived for United’, who lived and died for United, lived and died together with Alf Clarke.
Alf and Tom, Tom and Alf, like Murray and Mooney, Stan and Ollie or Flanagan and Allen, Alf the slim one, Tom the rounder man, like peas in a pod, rivals, yes, but old friends first, for twenty-five years, together they had covered, followed, reported on and swooned over Manchester United. Alf had his ‘Casual Comments’ in the United Review, while Tom had his ‘United Topics’ in the match-day programme, too.
But while Alf, it’s fair to say, he would not dispute, was consumed with a deep and serious, nigh on religious devotion to the United cause, Tom was the more cheerful, comfortable man to be about, always with a ready, happy smile, no less partisan in his passion for the club, but with the air of a man who felt just blessed, thankful to be doing a thing he loved to do, that thousands would give their right arm to do, paid to watch, to write about Manchester United every day …
Yes, Tom Jackson knew he was a lucky man, a very lucky man, and knew it because he’d known less lucky, much less lucky men and women, children, too, during and then in the aftermath of the war, in the work he’d done behind the lines, then seeing first-hand the concentration camps, the death factories, then tracking down the butcherers and torturers of those camps and factories, and had been part of the squad who had found and caught Irma Grese, who was never ‘the Beautiful Beast’ to Tom but always die Hyäne von Auschwitz.
The cortège of two hearses, one carrying Tom’s coffin, the other bearing all the flowers, the tributes and the wreaths, left Tom’s home in Kingsway, East Didsbury, towards the middle of that afternoon, that black afternoon, that last black day of that black week, went via Stockport Road, London Road, Piccadilly and Market Street onto Cross Street in the centre, where Tom in his coffin in the hearse halted, paused and stopped outside the offices of the Manchester Evening News, where the workers and Tom’s colleagues on the Evening News stood in silence on the street outside, then, with a police motorcycle escort, the cortège, joined by scores of cars carrying his colleagues and other mourners, made its way back out of the centre of the city, through Albert Square, past Central Station, along Russell Street it went, on Chorlton Road, Brook’s Bar, Upper Chorlton Road, Manchester Road, onto Barlow Moor Road and the crematorium, Manchester Crematorium again, where only the day, the afternoon before his pal, his friendly rival Alf, had come, brought with him sportsmen and writers from clubs and papers near and far, and now again today, this afternoon, many of those same men, same writers, from the same papers and same clubs, came this way again, with other, different men and women, but young and old again, those friends he’d never met but who’d read Tom every day, in the Evening News, every teatime, after work or after school, they read and felt they knew the man, Tom Jackson of the Evening News, here together with the friends Tom knew, Tom’s many friends, his family, his wife and children, all there that day, that afternoon, to say goodbye, farewell to the man, the colleague and the friend, the husband and the father who had lived for United.
*
Who was this Kraut, thought Frank, this jolly, stocky Kraut in his doctor’s coat who strode in every morning, then twice or more at least each day, carried on like he owned the bloody place he did, was he the Camp Commandant this chap, thought Frank, with his Now zen, Jackie, wie geht es Ihnen, full of the old Boche blarney, Guten Morgen, Herr Taylor, sir, wie geht es dem leg today, and then he’d start to poke around in Frank’s leg again, with his scalpel and his forceps and that ever-beaming smile of his, fishing out odd bits of metal, cleaning out the dirt, and though it never hurt, it only ached at worst, Frank always tried to see what was going on, what it was the man was doing to his leg, straining to listen, to catch the whispered words with his assistants and the nurses, and that was how, today, Frank heard him mutter, Die Wunde hier am Bein hat eine Infektion …
Infektion, infection, INFECTION, Frank swore, was sure he heard Kommandant Herr Otto Fritz just say, just now, in among his usual double Deutsch, and Frank, he felt his blood run cold, what little blood they’d left him with, had let him keep, as thoughts, as fears of gangrene and of amputation ran in horror, in terror through his veins, up his spine, to his mind, and Frank tried, tried not to scream, hard not to shout, I’d bet you’d like nothing more than to take an English leg, this fine old leg of mine, you filthy, sneaky little Hun! Well, by Jove, you’ll not take this English leg, not without a fight you won’t, I’ll tell you that, you jumped-up Jerry Kraut!
But then Frank saw his wife, sat there beside the bed, saw her rise to her feet, the look upon her face, and in different horror, different terror, Frank realised, knew all the things he’d thought, he’d said, he’d said aloud, and Frank felt his face, his cheeks turn crimson as his wife Peggy, she stood over, looked down on Frank, on his back, in his bed, and sternly said, Frank Taylor, you should be ashamed of yourself. Professor Maurer, his staff, every doctor, every nurse in this hospital have worked day and night, day in, day out, for hours without sleep, to save the lives of your colleagues and your friends, and moreover your own life, too, and never with a moment’s grumble or complaint, with never a bad-tempered or sharp word. They really, truly are the kindest, most conscientious and professional group of men and women one could ever hope to meet, and though I know you’re very ill, and so not quite yourself, still you really should be ashamed of all those things you’ve said, Frank, you really should …
And he was, Frank was ashamed, but still, yet still he was afraid, Frank was afraid he had gangrene in his leg, that they would come to knock him out, to put him under, then once he was under, while he slept, they’d wheel him out of this room, take him down the corridor, in the elevator to the theatre, and there they’d amputate, take off his leg, so when he woke, all groggy and confused and tried, then tried to wiggle the five toes on his right foot, there’d be no toes, there’d be no foot, no five toes and no right foot, and he’d whip back the bedclothes to find his whole leg gone, he had no leg!
Frank Taylor, said Peggy sternly once again, and Peggy had never once spoken sternly to Frank before, had never dared, in fact, but now still sternly said, You are being quite ridiculous. There is not the slightest chance that these doctors and nurses would ever do such a thing. They have gone out of their way to keep me informed, and they have done the same for all the other wives and families who are out here. And neither myself nor anyone else has had the slightest cause to doubt them.
Frank nodded, but said, That may be so, but my leg is infected, I know it is, I heard them say …
Yes, Frank, said Peggy, your leg is infected, but the doctors have assured me the infection is not gangrene, and so you should be thankful of that, and that you are not maimed or blinded, and that you are alive, and realise how thankful we all are that you are alive. What about poor George or Eric, or Henry Rose or Donny Davies? They’re not here to complain, are they?
*
The Requiem Mass had ended, the hearse and cortège had left for Stretford Cemetery, but Philip Murphy, Norbert Lawton and Norbert Stiles had stayed behind in Saint Ann’s Church to put away the vessels, to tidy up a bit, take off their vestments, fold and put away the cassocks and the surplices, then, stood outside the church, at its gates, in the rain, the rain again that never seemed to go away, Norbert Lawton and Norbert Stiles said goodbye to Philip Murphy, who was going to go back home then head up to the ground, and so maybe he’d see them then, see them later, but then as they were walking up the Chester Road, Nobby Lawton stopped at a bus stop, lit a cig and said, I’m going to get the bus from here, Nobby.
Are you not off back to the ground?
Nobby Lawton shook his head and said, I’ve got to go into bloody work, me, haven’t I?
But what about Coly’s funeral, said Nobby Stiles. It’s this afternoon. Are you not going to go?
Nobby Lawton took a pull off his cigarette, then shook his head again. Boss said if I was serving, I could have the time off, but Eddie wasn’t a Catholic, was he?
Wasn’t he, said Nobby Stiles. Are you sure?
Nobby Lawton laughed. Course I’m sure I’m sure, and you’ll find out I’m right and all, if you’re off.
Course I’m off, said Nobby Stiles. It’s Coly.
Nobby Lawton saw the bus coming down the Chester Road, took one last pull, then threw his cig into the road, and said, Well, say goodbye to him from me, will you, Nobby, please, and I’ll see you tomorrow.
All right, I will, said Nobby Stiles, and yeah, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning then …
But Nobby Lawton and his bus were already gone, soaking the younger Nobby’s trousers, his best trousers, his socks and shoes as they went, and Nobby cursed, asked for forgiveness, sighed and shook his head, then off he set again, up the Chester Road, over the bridge, the canal, through Gorse Hill, thinking, Rain, rain, will you not effing go away and come again another day, until at last young Nobby came to Warwick Road again, turned right there and then was back again, at the ground again, but it seemed he was the only one –
No doubt, he thought, those folk who’d not gone on to Stretford Cemetery, they must still be over Yorkshire way, in Barnsley for Mark Jones, and so young Nobby wondered what to do because he didn’t know now where Coly’s funeral was going to be, which church it was, him thinking, assuming it was at Saint Joseph’s, but if what Nobby Lawton said was right, then it couldn’t be at Saint Joseph’s then, could it, not if Eddie was a Prod, not that it mattered to Nobby, made no odds to him.
But as he walked around the ground, keeping close to the stands, the walls, their bricks, in their shadows, out of the rain, as best he could, young Nobby did not see a single soul, and every door he tried was locked, and Nobby thought, That’s effing strange is that …
But on he walked, around and round the ground he went, how many times, he did not count, just thinking someone soon is bound to come, it’s Old Trafford, not the bloody moon, and if not soon, he’d just have to go and buy a paper from the shop, because the papers printed stuff like that, about funerals, things like that, he knew they did, his dad being in the trade, but suddenly as he walked his feet just stopped, he didn’t know why, they just stopped and would not budge, but then when he looked up, saw where he was, Nobby knew the reason why –
He’d come to that stretch of concrete beside the ground where every Friday afternoon, any other Friday afternoon, there would be twenty-two players here, the first team and the second string, in a game, a match in baseball boots, and they’d be shouting, they’d be swearing, laughing and joking, showing off with bits of skill or landing on their arses, magicking, summoning a world you could not wait to join, and Nobby would stand there, here on this very spot –
Transfixed –
Now what’s with the long face, son, and on one so very young?
Nobby had such a fright, he jumped so much he was surprised to see his skin still on his bones, but was more puzzled than afraid when he turned to see a tiny little man, smaller even than young Norbert here himself, dressed in a cloth cap and plus fours, with a tartan travel rug over his left arm –
I am sorry, son, please pardon me, said the man, with a quick, apologetic touch up to his cap. I didn’t mean to give you such a start, it’s just you look so very sad.
Nobby squeezed and wiped his nose, then sniffed up and said, I’ve just been serving at a funeral and I’m off to another in a bit. I’ve been to that many this week, if you asked me how many, then I’d have to stop to count.
May I ask, asked this strange, oddly happy man, whose funeral it is you’ll be attending next?
Nobby wiped his fingers on his trousers, sniffed up again and said, Coly, er, Eddie Colman’s funeral.
Ah, ‘Snake Hips’ Colman, sighed the man. Oh, what a truly gifted young half-back is Colman! Each time I’ve had the good fortune to see young ‘Snake Hips’ play, he is the premier danseur in Manchester’s ballet, and when he is in such a mood, we should have the Beswick Prize Band accompany him with snatches from Swan Lake, then we shall see the little fellow at his best, will we not?
But he’s dead, isn’t he, said Nobby.
Is he really, asked the man, this strange, oddly happy man in his cloth cap and plus fours, with his travelling rug, his finger raised. Then who, pray tell, is that …?
Dancing out of the rain, the shadows of the Stretford End, between the drops and puddles, across the concrete and the gravel there, a small and chubby cherub of a lad who, with a cheeky Salford grin, one swivel, a little wiggle of his hips, he sent the world a different, better way, made the world a different, better place, and what a glorious feeling it was, to be happy again, laughing at clouds, so dark up above …
*
Every time it rains, it rains Pennies from Heaven, Marjorie was singing to herself, but only in her head, thinking to herself, telling herself, trying to convince herself, Each cloud contains Pennies from Heaven …
He was always the sharp one was Eddie, with the drainpipe trousers and the winkle-picker shoes, and of course he had the sideburns down to here, the real Teddy Boy image, but he was never a Teddy Boy. But he always wanted to look smart, they all did, had to look smart, so say it was in the taxi, into town, they’d all be sitting on the edge of the seat so they wouldn’t crease their jackets, keeping their legs out because they had to look flawless, absolutely flawless, when they got there, into town, the Cromford Club, the Continental or the Spare Wheel, and in they’d walk with a whistle and a swagger, but Eddie had his shuffle, always with that little shuffle …
That night Marjorie first met Eddie, he just asked her if she’d like to dance, and she said, Yes, and obviously she thought he was cute, and so she said, What do you do for a living, and now sometimes Eddie would say he was a painter and decorator, that was his favourite, and sometimes he’d say he was a docker, but that night he just smiled and said, I work in Trafford Park, and Marjorie, she thought, Oh, very nice, very nice …
Eddie was really chuffed, told his best pal Johnny, I’ve met this lovely girl, you know, and Johnny said, Oh, yeah, yeah? Yeah, yeah, said Eddie, yeah.
They just got sort of friendly, and then the week after they’d met, Eddie asked Marjorie to go out with him, and it just sort of went from there …
‘Pennies from Heaven’, that was his song, ‘Pennies from Heaven’, because he thought he had a great voice, Eddie, and after everything had finished on a Saturday, they’d all have a bit of a sing-song, and Bobby would get up, Bobby would sing, and Bobby did actually have a fabulous voice. He sounded a bit like Bing Crosby, or was it Frank Sinatra?
But try as she might, as hard as she could, singing that song to herself, thinking of the good times, and only the good times, the two years they’d had together, to keep herself strong, not just for herself, but for Eddie’s mam and especially his dad, but try as she might, as hard as she could, singing that song, bloody song to herself, Marjorie could not stop thinking about the night she last saw Eddie, when he’d kept on saying, I wish I didn’t have to go …
And she’d said, I can’t believe it! You’ve got this fabulous job! You can go all over the place …
Marge, he said, I don’t want to go.
*
He’s done what, said Jimmy into the telephone, back up in his office, a cup of Cissie Charlton’s special tea in his other hand, he said again, He’s done fucking what?
He’s disappeared, said Paddy down the line from a phone box in Blackpool, on the Golden Mile.
I know he’s bloody little, said Jimmy, but he can’t have fucking disappeared, Pat. He must be somewhere.
I know he must be somewhere, Jimmy, said Paddy, but I don’t know where that somewhere is.
But you always know everything, Pat, you or your brother. You must be able to find him …
I’m looking, we’re all looking, Jimmy, but his missus, she said he’d a call from Sunderland, first thing this morning, and then off he went, up and out the door, without a word, not seen hide nor hair of him since.
Jimmy shook his head. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Paddy, as if I’ve not enough to deal with …
I’ll find him, Jimmy, said Paddy, promised Paddy, bring him to you, you just sit tight –
It’s Eddie Colman’s funeral, said Jimmy, so I’ll not be sitting tight, Pat, but dear God, please, have that little snake here waiting for me when I get back.
Jimmy put down the telephone, took a swig of Cissie’s special tea, then picked up the phone again, dialled the North-East, got through to the Chairman of Sunderland Football Club and said, Ernie Taylor has agreed to sign for Manchester United, so hands off!
Now, Mister Murphy, said the Chairman of Sunderland Football Club, a military man he was, I must, in fairness, tell you that we discussed Taylor several weeks ago and have been in contact with Blackpool with reference to the price, and while we have no wish to cut across you in your grievous situation –
Good, said Jimmy, because it would be a terrible thing, would it not, if the press were to find out that Sunderland Football Club were stealing our players while we were still burying our dead …
*
That black day, that black week, the last of the funerals of the Dead was for the youngest of the Dead, and there were thousands and thousands out again that afternoon, black afternoon, in the rain, the pouring rain, on each side of the street, from Archie Street to Saint Clement’s Church, off Hulton Street, on Groves Avenue, where last Thursday night his mam and dad had come to pray, just last Thursday night, to pray and pray, unanswered prayers, and after the service at Saint Clement’s there, there were thousands, thousands more, stood all up Phoebe Street, along Regent Road, all along Eccles New Road, down Cemetery Road to the cemetery itself, through its gates and on its paths, thousands and thousands coming out of their factories, their offices, their schools and their homes, waiting for the cortège, watching it pass, in mourning black or United red, sheaves of flowers in their hands, they stood and wept as Eddie passed, some throwing flowers in his path, into the road, onto the hearse, a flower for a flower, all those flowers, fallen in the rain, then in the rain, the Salford rain, they buried Eddie Colman, the dear and only son of Richard and Elizabeth Colman, who was just twenty-one years old the day he died, had played just one hundred and eight times for United but who would forever be ‘Snake Hips’, ‘the Boy with the Marilyn Monroe Wiggle’, that little Salford lad who, as Jimmy Murphy had once said, could make the rain, rain go away, the sun come down and dance with him and kiss his tiny Salford arse.
