for his tea cup. “Still, I don’t think I’ve much to be concerned about.”
Mervyn smiled, but was disappointed by McNowt’s response. He decided to play his Joker.
“Onderstand I’ve got somet’in’ dat belongs to yer.”
“Oh yes?”
Mervyn paused. Something told him he was doing the wrong thing.
McNowt waited mildly for Mervyn to continue, his curiosity inspired more by Mervyn’s manner than his partial revelation. He was gratified to know that that he was showing good self-restraint when the gormless Paddy so obviously wanted him to sweat. Just further evidence of the inherent superiority of Anglo-Saxon genes.
Mervyn swallowed, and made the wrong decision: “Onderstand yer lookin’ fer a key.”
* * *
Doreen and I went to a place called Mamawagas near Hyde Park, not far from where she was staying. I’d never been to a Japanese noodle bar before, but it was okay. The beer was good. I had this funny sort of chicken noodle soup with lots of herbs and chilli. Much better than the Sportsmen’s Club.
Doreen was strangely silent, and I found myself thinking about Shona. I’ve always been against the idea of having “affairs”. I’ve always believed that you have to be honest in a relationship, but what was the status of my relationship with Shona? Was it over? Or did I owe it to her to behave myself? A pang of guilt flashed through me as I realised that the best part of a week had gone by since I’d told Shona I’d be home any day.
Fuck.
It was clear I’d be here a bit longer.
Then Doreen said, “Are you playing football next Saturday?”
“Next Saturday? Probably not. It’s the Cup tie.”
“Does that mean you have the weekend off?”
There was no reason to protect her from the truth, so I told her I wasn’t playing and all about Ronnie Wellard and his apparent antipathy to me. And before I knew it, I was protecting the bastard.
“He sounds like a total scumbag!” raged Doreen, getting all hot under the collar. I’d not seen her like that before.
“Aah, you can’t blame him. I’m a blow-in really. Why should he change his team for me?”
“Why?” asked Doreen, incredulous. “How many of his other players have been invited for a trial at Manchester United?”
“Dunno. Not many, I’d reckon.”
“So why aren’t you his biggest priority?”
It was the kind of question that required a week’s answer, or none. Then Doreen’s eyes narrowed, and she asked me: “Does he actually know you were invited to trial with Manchester?”
“Erm, no. It never came up.”
“Eric! You only get so many chances over here. You’ve got to tell the bastards how good you are, which reminds me. You already said you weren’t playing next weekend, would you like to come to Glastonbury with me?”
“Glastonbury? Where’s Glastonbury?”
Doreen looked me squarely in the eye and asked, “Does it matter?”
And in that moment, I knew absolutely that it didn’t.
* * *
After dinner we went strolling down past Hyde Park, continued through Green Park and found ourselves, eventually, at Piccadilly Circus. It was the most natural thing in the world to be holding hands and at first I hadn’t even realised we were doing so. But as soon as I did realise, I became all self-conscious about it and my hand began to sweat. As Bernice would say, we’d slightly raised the stakes affection-wise, all very nice but further complicating matters - for me at least.
“So what’s on in Glastonbury?” I asked, breaking a long silence. “Presuming that it does matter.”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? It’s called Ley Lines. Sort of an alternative, druidic piss up. I’ve been invited to play the sunset show on the Saturday.”
“Really? Does that mean you’re famous?”
Doreen went all giggly-coy in a girly sort of way I’d also not seen previously.
“Maybe a little bit. Not your meaningful … heaps of cash … useful sort of fame though.”
We shared a laugh, but I felt extremely proud of her, despite the fact that I’d never heard her music. That wasn’t the point. I’d known her for over a week and only just found out she was famous. Now that’s humility.
“So, tell me about your music,” I said, as the lights of Piccadilly Circus exploded around us. It was about 10.00 p.m. after all.
“I’ve been telling you for days,” she said. “Experimental tonalities and primal beats.”
“I’ve heard you say those words,” I conceded, “but I wouldn’t have a clue what they mean.”
“But I explained it,” she laughed, punching me in the arm, “at the British Museum, when we saw the finger holes on the ancient wind instruments. Don’t you remember the ancient holes?”
“I remember one of ‘em.”
Dores gave me that thin-lipped-but-indulgently-patronising smile that all women learn from their mothers by the age of six.
“I can just imagine the wind music that would ‘ve come out of that hole,” she said, and I grinned. There’s no way Shona would ever make a fart joke.
“Okay, maybe I get the experimental tonalities,” I continued. “… a bit. But what about the primal beats?”
“Well, what is beat?”
“Eh?”
Doreen laughed, not remotely elitist about her knowledge, happy to share.
“What is beat?” she repeated.
“Jeez, I’ve never thought about it. I guess it’s like … a rhythmic basis for music?”
“Excellent!” she exclaimed. “But why do we like it?”
“Why do we like beat?”
Doreen started squeezing my hand rhythmically, sort of offbeat to the cars swishing past us on the Piccadilly Road.
“Why do we prefer music that has a beat?” she asked.
We walked on, and I couldn’t help but notice that the rhythm of our walk now matched the offbeats of the passing cars.
“There are lots of theories,” she continued, “but it comes from deep within us. Possibly from breathing, possibly heart beat … possibly
