The Big Match
by Kevin McCallum
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: As the big game approaches, excitement mounts for some Glaswegians and fear for others.
_____________________________________________________________________
Life had been markedly better for Irene since two teams named Celtic and Rangers last played together. For a spell Irene hoped, even thought, it might never happen again. But it was deemed too important by men in dark suits to let it die.
She didn't watch the draw, but remembers the night well. It was the last time George touched her in any meaningful way.
Now, on the day of the match, Irene carefully cracks the last organic egg into the Mauviel M’Heritage frying pan George bought for her last birthday and spoons the hot oil over the egg. George doesn’t like burst yolks.
Keeping one eye on the egg she lifts the lid off the Vera Wang teapot George insisted on buying her and gives the contents a gentle swirl. She knows how George likes his tea. She got it wrong once.
Irene's mum says George doesn’t know his arse from his elbow never mind a good cup of tea.
Irene tiptoes up the stairs, pokes her head round the door and enters the bedroom.
Still wearing last night's clothes, George lies face down on their Jesse Baldo bed.
After placing the breakfast tray on the bedside table, Irene opens the window, just enough, no more. She leaves the curtains closed but straightens out a slight kink. They’re a wedding present her mum got from The Barras, but she told George they were from Debenhams.
“George,” she whispers. “Best eat your breakfast before it gets cold. There’s a pot of tea for you, too.”
George groans and rolls onto his back. Dried blood stains his Armani shirt and his hands.
Irene shifts her view before he sees her looking.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock. I've made you a fry-up.”
“You know I can’t eat much after a night out.”
“I just thought…what with the match and all on today.”
George pulls himself upright and rubs his eyes. He's not the biggest of men but building work keeps him in shape. He tilts his head and cracks his neck, looking through Irene. “And what would you know about that?”
“Not much. But I know you…I mean…we need to win today.”
“So you’re an expert now?”
Irene shakes her head as George lifts the tray onto his lap and fingers the egg, checking its consistency for the right amount of bounce.
“I just heard you saying the other night about how we had to win. It was too big a game to lose.”
“Aye, well."
Irene wipes a mark off the bedside cabinet with her dressing gown sleeve. “I’ve got something to tell you; something important. It’s about my hospital appointment yesterday.”
“I can feel a draught.”
“I thought you'd like some air in.”
“Where’s my fork? How am I supposed to eat a fry-up without a bloody fork?”
“Is there not a fork there?"
“I wouldn’t be asking for one, would I?”
Irene closes the window and caresses the folds in the curtains again. “I’ll run downstairs and get you one. Do you need anything else?”
George dips a slice of bacon into the perfect yolk. “Bring me up the newspaper.”
Irene stops and turns around. “I’ve not been for the paper yet. I was busy making your breakfast.”
“Well, you can run round now. By the way, this bacon’s a bit cold.”
“I’ve not even washed my face yet, not to mention the state of my hair.”
“Nobody’s interested in your hair.”
“But look at the state of me.”
George rolls his eyes, sighs heavily through his nose and stares at Irene in silence.
Irene rushes to the kitchen, grabs a fork and some coins from the jar on the worktop. As she heads back upstairs there’s a knock on the front door.
“See who that is,” George shouts down. “I told Jamesy to get me up. It’s probably him. And don’t worry about a fork. I found one on the tray right enough.”
Irene gives her hair a quick fix in the hall mirror and opens the front door.
“Alright there, sweetheart,” says Jamesy, dressed in club colours and wearing his usual broad smile. “You’re looking good today. Is that man of yours up yet?”
Irene subconsciously strokes her right cheek, smiles and glances upstairs. “Come in, Jamesy. How’s Jessica? Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No tea for me, sweetheart. That Jessica’s in one of her moods, just because I never made it home last night. What is she like? It’s one thing after another with her. Not like yourself, Irene. You know the score.”
“Aye, well, I hope you two can make up tonight.”
“No chance of that tonight, sweetheart. She’s away to her sister's for the rest of the weekend. You know how she hates the football, especially the big games. But that’s her loss. I can’t let her spoil a glorious weekend. Anyway, do you know what a big game like this deserves?”
“Aye,” says Irene, listening to the familiar sound of trouble clinking from the contents of the plastic bag in Jamesy’s hand. “I’m sure I do.”
“That’s right, sweetheart: a big swally. Buckfast, just the tonic for a sprightly breakfast.” Jamesy steps inside and accidentally brushes against Irene, who jumps. “You alright, sweetheart? I didn’t mean to give you a fright there.”
Face flushing, Irene turns away. “I’m fine. Just remembered I left the grill on.”
Irene rushes off, lights a cigarette and sits sipping a cold latte at the Bentley Designs dining table, which doesn’t go with the décor but George insisted on having once he saw the price. There’s a pile of washing but she decides to phone her mum first.
Her mum’s cheerful as ever. “Morning, Irene. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine, mum.”
“I take it George is going to the game?”
“Jamesy’s just turned up with bottles of Buckfast for breakfast. Is dad going today?”
“Your dad wouldn’t miss a game this big. He left for the social club an hour ago. The bus doesn’t leave until eleven o’clock. He’ll be steaming by then. I’ll not be surprised if he’s too drunk to see the game. You know what he’s like.”
“How is he anyway?”
“He’s been going on all week about how this is the most important game for years. I’ve never seen him so wound up.”
“George has been rattling on like that all week, too.”
“Have you told George about the results of the scan yet?”
Irene places her hand on the growing bump. “No, not yet. Tried telling him this morning but he was more interested in the whereabouts of his fork. What if he wants me to have an abortion?”
“It’s your baby. Don’t let him bully you into anything.”
“I won’t, mum. I promise.”
Sipping her latte Irene watches the neighbours’ children happily playing football in the garden. “Why did this have to happen to me, mum? I don’t think I can deal with it.”
“You and the baby will both be welcome to live here.”
“I know, mum. I know. Look, why don’t you come over here tonight…even if it’s just for a wee while?”
“I can’t tonight. I told your dad I’d have his dinner ready in case he comes home.”
“Well, if you change your mind.”
The sound of thumping feet fills the air as George and Jamesy dance into the kitchen carrying half-empty bottles of wine.
Irene hangs up without saying goodbye.
“You on that phone again?” asks George.
“It was just a quick call from my mum.”
“Hope you told Jean her man's team’s going to get a lesson today.”
“Aye, I told her that,” says Irene, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for another. “Is that you two off then?”
“That’s us off to the piggery, sweetheart,” says Jamesy. “No doubt we’ll need a good wash when we get home tonight…but we’ve got to support the lads…wherever they play.”
Blood rushes to Irene’s face, but she can’t hide it. She knows Jamesy means well. It’s just his way; always the jovial type. But she also remembers the last time Jamesy called Irene sweetheart in front of George. Once Jamesy had left for home George punched her in the face for flirting with him.
George’s eyes follow her every move and he gulps from his bottle, almost finishing the remaining half in one go.
“By the way, Irene” Jamesy continues. “I saw your mum down the town last week. That’s some black eye she’s got. I take it your old man still can’t keep his hands to himself.”
“You know what they’re like, Jamesy,” says George, between burps. “Once an animal always an animal. To be fair to them, they don’t know how to behave in a civilised manner. I blame the parents.”
“You’re right there, George,” says Jamesy between swigs from his bottle. “You wouldn’t catch us acting like those inbred Neanderthals. By the way, how's your hand? That was some skelp you gave that boy last night.”
“I forgot all about that, Jamesy. He deserved it anyway. You know what they're like. They’re a different breed altogether.”
“We are indeed the chosen ones,” adds George, raising his bottle in a toast that Jamesy is only too happy to join. “To us…the best team in the country.”
Irene places a hand on her stomach. She knows the result of her nuchal translucency scan is going to turn George's world upside down and he'll blame her for the baby having Down Syndrome. It’ll be her fault for having imperfect eggs.
“You’re a lucky girl, Irene. You landed on your feet when you married George here. He got you right out that scheme.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her, Jamesy. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Three hundred grand this house cost. I could’ve bought a whole council scheme for that.
“Aye, it’s a beautiful house, George. I’m sure Irene appreciates everything you’ve done for her.”
“She’s one of us now. Aren’t you, my wee darling? Come here and give me a kiss for good luck. When that beautiful baby of ours comes bouncing along we will be complete.”
Irene embraces George with the enthusiasm of a teenager forced to cuddle an old auntie, but forces a smile nonetheless. George holds her in a loving embrace for as long as he thinks will look the part. Jamesy nods approvingly while draining the dregs from his bottle.
As the boys leave through the front door George lets Jamesy walk ahead before turning to face Irene. “Alright…sweetheart. Is it okay if I call you sweetheart, or is it that just for Jamesy? Some of the lads are going to the club tonight after we win. But I’ll come straight home if we don’t win. Make sure you’ve got dinner ready, just in case.”
“What would you like?”
“Obviously I don’t know yet. It all depends on the result, doesn’t it? But it better be ready for me coming home.”
He gives Irene a wink then closes the door behind him.
Irene picks up the phone and calls her mum. “Stick the kettle on.”
Swearwords: None.
Description: As the big game approaches, excitement mounts for some Glaswegians and fear for others.
_____________________________________________________________________
Life had been markedly better for Irene since two teams named Celtic and Rangers last played together. For a spell Irene hoped, even thought, it might never happen again. But it was deemed too important by men in dark suits to let it die.
She didn't watch the draw, but remembers the night well. It was the last time George touched her in any meaningful way.
Now, on the day of the match, Irene carefully cracks the last organic egg into the Mauviel M’Heritage frying pan George bought for her last birthday and spoons the hot oil over the egg. George doesn’t like burst yolks.
Keeping one eye on the egg she lifts the lid off the Vera Wang teapot George insisted on buying her and gives the contents a gentle swirl. She knows how George likes his tea. She got it wrong once.
Irene's mum says George doesn’t know his arse from his elbow never mind a good cup of tea.
Irene tiptoes up the stairs, pokes her head round the door and enters the bedroom.
Still wearing last night's clothes, George lies face down on their Jesse Baldo bed.
After placing the breakfast tray on the bedside table, Irene opens the window, just enough, no more. She leaves the curtains closed but straightens out a slight kink. They’re a wedding present her mum got from The Barras, but she told George they were from Debenhams.
“George,” she whispers. “Best eat your breakfast before it gets cold. There’s a pot of tea for you, too.”
George groans and rolls onto his back. Dried blood stains his Armani shirt and his hands.
Irene shifts her view before he sees her looking.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock. I've made you a fry-up.”
“You know I can’t eat much after a night out.”
“I just thought…what with the match and all on today.”
George pulls himself upright and rubs his eyes. He's not the biggest of men but building work keeps him in shape. He tilts his head and cracks his neck, looking through Irene. “And what would you know about that?”
“Not much. But I know you…I mean…we need to win today.”
“So you’re an expert now?”
Irene shakes her head as George lifts the tray onto his lap and fingers the egg, checking its consistency for the right amount of bounce.
“I just heard you saying the other night about how we had to win. It was too big a game to lose.”
“Aye, well."
Irene wipes a mark off the bedside cabinet with her dressing gown sleeve. “I’ve got something to tell you; something important. It’s about my hospital appointment yesterday.”
“I can feel a draught.”
“I thought you'd like some air in.”
“Where’s my fork? How am I supposed to eat a fry-up without a bloody fork?”
“Is there not a fork there?"
“I wouldn’t be asking for one, would I?”
Irene closes the window and caresses the folds in the curtains again. “I’ll run downstairs and get you one. Do you need anything else?”
George dips a slice of bacon into the perfect yolk. “Bring me up the newspaper.”
Irene stops and turns around. “I’ve not been for the paper yet. I was busy making your breakfast.”
“Well, you can run round now. By the way, this bacon’s a bit cold.”
“I’ve not even washed my face yet, not to mention the state of my hair.”
“Nobody’s interested in your hair.”
“But look at the state of me.”
George rolls his eyes, sighs heavily through his nose and stares at Irene in silence.
Irene rushes to the kitchen, grabs a fork and some coins from the jar on the worktop. As she heads back upstairs there’s a knock on the front door.
“See who that is,” George shouts down. “I told Jamesy to get me up. It’s probably him. And don’t worry about a fork. I found one on the tray right enough.”
Irene gives her hair a quick fix in the hall mirror and opens the front door.
“Alright there, sweetheart,” says Jamesy, dressed in club colours and wearing his usual broad smile. “You’re looking good today. Is that man of yours up yet?”
Irene subconsciously strokes her right cheek, smiles and glances upstairs. “Come in, Jamesy. How’s Jessica? Do you want a cup of tea?”
“No tea for me, sweetheart. That Jessica’s in one of her moods, just because I never made it home last night. What is she like? It’s one thing after another with her. Not like yourself, Irene. You know the score.”
“Aye, well, I hope you two can make up tonight.”
“No chance of that tonight, sweetheart. She’s away to her sister's for the rest of the weekend. You know how she hates the football, especially the big games. But that’s her loss. I can’t let her spoil a glorious weekend. Anyway, do you know what a big game like this deserves?”
“Aye,” says Irene, listening to the familiar sound of trouble clinking from the contents of the plastic bag in Jamesy’s hand. “I’m sure I do.”
“That’s right, sweetheart: a big swally. Buckfast, just the tonic for a sprightly breakfast.” Jamesy steps inside and accidentally brushes against Irene, who jumps. “You alright, sweetheart? I didn’t mean to give you a fright there.”
Face flushing, Irene turns away. “I’m fine. Just remembered I left the grill on.”
Irene rushes off, lights a cigarette and sits sipping a cold latte at the Bentley Designs dining table, which doesn’t go with the décor but George insisted on having once he saw the price. There’s a pile of washing but she decides to phone her mum first.
Her mum’s cheerful as ever. “Morning, Irene. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine, mum.”
“I take it George is going to the game?”
“Jamesy’s just turned up with bottles of Buckfast for breakfast. Is dad going today?”
“Your dad wouldn’t miss a game this big. He left for the social club an hour ago. The bus doesn’t leave until eleven o’clock. He’ll be steaming by then. I’ll not be surprised if he’s too drunk to see the game. You know what he’s like.”
“How is he anyway?”
“He’s been going on all week about how this is the most important game for years. I’ve never seen him so wound up.”
“George has been rattling on like that all week, too.”
“Have you told George about the results of the scan yet?”
Irene places her hand on the growing bump. “No, not yet. Tried telling him this morning but he was more interested in the whereabouts of his fork. What if he wants me to have an abortion?”
“It’s your baby. Don’t let him bully you into anything.”
“I won’t, mum. I promise.”
Sipping her latte Irene watches the neighbours’ children happily playing football in the garden. “Why did this have to happen to me, mum? I don’t think I can deal with it.”
“You and the baby will both be welcome to live here.”
“I know, mum. I know. Look, why don’t you come over here tonight…even if it’s just for a wee while?”
“I can’t tonight. I told your dad I’d have his dinner ready in case he comes home.”
“Well, if you change your mind.”
The sound of thumping feet fills the air as George and Jamesy dance into the kitchen carrying half-empty bottles of wine.
Irene hangs up without saying goodbye.
“You on that phone again?” asks George.
“It was just a quick call from my mum.”
“Hope you told Jean her man's team’s going to get a lesson today.”
“Aye, I told her that,” says Irene, stubbing out her cigarette and reaching for another. “Is that you two off then?”
“That’s us off to the piggery, sweetheart,” says Jamesy. “No doubt we’ll need a good wash when we get home tonight…but we’ve got to support the lads…wherever they play.”
Blood rushes to Irene’s face, but she can’t hide it. She knows Jamesy means well. It’s just his way; always the jovial type. But she also remembers the last time Jamesy called Irene sweetheart in front of George. Once Jamesy had left for home George punched her in the face for flirting with him.
George’s eyes follow her every move and he gulps from his bottle, almost finishing the remaining half in one go.
“By the way, Irene” Jamesy continues. “I saw your mum down the town last week. That’s some black eye she’s got. I take it your old man still can’t keep his hands to himself.”
“You know what they’re like, Jamesy,” says George, between burps. “Once an animal always an animal. To be fair to them, they don’t know how to behave in a civilised manner. I blame the parents.”
“You’re right there, George,” says Jamesy between swigs from his bottle. “You wouldn’t catch us acting like those inbred Neanderthals. By the way, how's your hand? That was some skelp you gave that boy last night.”
“I forgot all about that, Jamesy. He deserved it anyway. You know what they're like. They’re a different breed altogether.”
“We are indeed the chosen ones,” adds George, raising his bottle in a toast that Jamesy is only too happy to join. “To us…the best team in the country.”
Irene places a hand on her stomach. She knows the result of her nuchal translucency scan is going to turn George's world upside down and he'll blame her for the baby having Down Syndrome. It’ll be her fault for having imperfect eggs.
“You’re a lucky girl, Irene. You landed on your feet when you married George here. He got you right out that scheme.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her, Jamesy. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Three hundred grand this house cost. I could’ve bought a whole council scheme for that.
“Aye, it’s a beautiful house, George. I’m sure Irene appreciates everything you’ve done for her.”
“She’s one of us now. Aren’t you, my wee darling? Come here and give me a kiss for good luck. When that beautiful baby of ours comes bouncing along we will be complete.”
Irene embraces George with the enthusiasm of a teenager forced to cuddle an old auntie, but forces a smile nonetheless. George holds her in a loving embrace for as long as he thinks will look the part. Jamesy nods approvingly while draining the dregs from his bottle.
As the boys leave through the front door George lets Jamesy walk ahead before turning to face Irene. “Alright…sweetheart. Is it okay if I call you sweetheart, or is it that just for Jamesy? Some of the lads are going to the club tonight after we win. But I’ll come straight home if we don’t win. Make sure you’ve got dinner ready, just in case.”
“What would you like?”
“Obviously I don’t know yet. It all depends on the result, doesn’t it? But it better be ready for me coming home.”
He gives Irene a wink then closes the door behind him.
Irene picks up the phone and calls her mum. “Stick the kettle on.”
About the Author
Born in Dumbarton, Kevin McCallum has spent most of his life in The Vale, where he gets his daily fix of Ben Lomond. He only began writing in recent years, quickly became addicted and is now a hopeless case. He writes mostly short stories with the odd poem thrown in for light entertainment. He has started a longer project, but there's a long way to go on that.
Examples of Kevin’s work can be found at http://www.abctales.com/user/oldpesky. He also has a blog at http://oldpesky.blogspot.com.
Examples of Kevin’s work can be found at http://www.abctales.com/user/oldpesky. He also has a blog at http://oldpesky.blogspot.com.