Beatles (4 page)

The girls were offloaded in Uranienborg Park, Urra Park as we called it, and we hung over our handlebars again, looking through each other and waiting for something to fall from the sky, as it were, until Ola said in a deep bass voice:

‘S-s-saved a Per P-P-Pettersen penalty!’

‘Who did?’ Nina asked.

‘I did! I saved a Per P-P-Pettersen penalty!’

‘Who’s Per Pettersen?’

Ola looked at us with vacant eyes, begging us for help, but he would have to sort this out himself. He might just as well have said he had saved fourteen shots in a row from Pelé, that wouldn’t have made a greater impression.

‘P-P-Per Pettersen! Plays for the Norwegian n-n-national t-team, doesn’t he!’

‘So interesting,’ said Guri.

That was the end of the conversation about Ola’s miracle save. The girls headed for a bench, we let them go and then followed anyway. And the small green buds on the trees were sticky to hold, the darkness swooped down like a huge shadow and enveloped us all. It was cold standing there in shorts with green knees and elbows. Nothing happened of course. In fact, I can remember better what didn’t happen. For what didn’t happen but might have happened was a lot more exciting than what really happened one April evening in Urra Park, 1965.

You can say a lot of things about Lue, but he had depths he could plumb. Even while he was coming down the corridor we realised that a fresh disappointment had him in its thrall and was wresting derision and sarcasm from his dry, embittered body. He arrived with the pile of essays under his arm, taking quick, incisive steps like the leader of a janissary marching band. His searing gaze went through us like X-ray beams, an insane smile curled beneath his hair-filled nose, and he said not one word. He locked us in the classroom, sat at the desk with the pile of essays in front of him like a menacing tower and there he remained, as mute as a shoe.

I couldn’t restrain myself, I whispered to Gunnar, ‘He’s lost his voice. Shock.’

Lue was on his feet at once. He leapt down between the rows and stood over me with his hands on his hips, the muscles in his face contorted knots beneath the skin. For a moment I was reminded of Uncle Hubert, poor old Uncle Hubert who was not right in the head, even though he was Dad’s brother, and I wondered if Lue was not all there. However, mute he was not.

‘What did you say?’

I looked up at him. I had never noticed that he had so much
hair in his nostrils before. It protruded like a hairdresser’s black broom.

‘I asked Gunnar something.’

‘And just
what
did you ask Gunnar?’

He seized Gunnar by the neck and yelled, ‘Gunnar! What did Kim ask you?’

There was no way this was going to turn out well because Gunnar was the type who was unable to say anything except the truth. If he tried to lie he ground to a halt; he simply could not do it. I watched his neck flush red like a glowing clothes iron.

I spoke up for him, ‘I only asked Gunnar for a rubber.’

Lue spun round to me, his lips pinched flat to the point of non-existence, then his mouth re-appeared as a quivering finger pointed straight at my forehead. I was glad the finger was not loaded.

‘I’m asking Gunnar now, so
Gunnar
should answer and not you! Do you understand?’

‘It doesn’t matter who answers if the answer is the same, does it?’ I said, almost stunned by my own logic.

Lue’s hand loomed larger, it grabbed my shoulder, hauled me out of my chair and dragged me up to the desk. I had to stand there while Lue flicked through the exercise books in his fury. And while standing there I felt some sympathy for Lue because Class 7A was a sorry sight to behold. At last he found my book and waved it in front of my face.

‘Since you’re so clever at answering questions, you can tell the whole class, all these inquisitive minds, these intelligent, alert and interested peers of yours what your future plans are!’

I said nothing, just looked across the heads in the class and out of the window. Someone was working on the roof on the other side of the street. They had roped themselves to the chimney in case they fell. I would have liked to be up there, balancing without a rope, I felt a tingle down my spine and my brain seemed to be on the point of boiling over, balancing like that, on the very, very edge. Then Lue’s voice was there again, a warm puff of air against my cheek.

‘You’re always the one with the smart ripostes. Now tell them what you’re going to be.’

‘I wrote in my essay that I was going to be a doctor, but I wrote
that because I didn’t know what I was going to be. And then I wrote that I would travel to Africa, to pad it out.’

Lue just stared at me, and I could see the fight going out of him. It would not be long now before he gave up. For a moment I felt sorry for him. I would have liked to help him but didn’t know how.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘And keep your mouth shut unless you are instructed to speak.’

The atmosphere in the classroom was a bit lighter now. All the signs were that Lue was close to surrender. But he bravely fought on, desperate and short of breath. He even had to go into the corridor for some fresh air. With clenched fists he returned, bent over the desk and blinked.

‘There are twenty-two boys in this class, aren’t there. Twenty-two quick-witted, intelligent, polite, clean, honest and, last but not least, ambitious boys. Do you agree?’

He didn’t wait for an answer. Of course we agreed.

‘Ten of you are going to be priests. All those going to be priests please raise your hands.’

Hesitant fingers rose in the air. Accompanied by giggles. Dragon was going to be a priest.

Lue pointed a gentle finger at Dragon.

‘So you’re going to be a priest. You’ll have to learn the Lord’s Prayer first. By heart! And then you’ll have to do a better cleaning job on your teeth, otherwise the congregation will expire at the first hallelujah!’

Dragon looked down at the lid of his desk and the flesh on his neck shook. We knew now he hated Lue, that he could have murdered him on the spot. The other priests didn’t look too well, either. I was glad I was going to be a doctor in Africa.

‘So, ten priests,’ Lue said. ‘You can put down your sacred arms now. And then we have five missionaries.
Five
. That’s a cut above the norm. Could you give us a sign?’

Five hands went up. Seb’s among them.

‘You’re going to be missionaries. In India. Africa. Australia. Tell me, why cross the brook for water. Why not begin at home? Why not bring Christianity to Norway first? Or this class? Why not begin here and now, with Class 7A, class teacher included?’

None of the missionaries answered. Seb sat with a crooked smirk on his face, leaning back against the wall. Lue had his beady eye on him, he pointed and yelled:

‘You! Sebastian! Tell us why you’re going to be a missionary! Eh! Speak!’

Seb rocked forward on his chair, still with a grin, that grin wasn’t always easy to interpret, didn’t know whether he was grinning at you or himself or nothing.

Seb said in a quiet voice, ‘I want to travel.’

‘And so you have to be a missionary. Do my ears hear correctly?’

‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’

‘Are you taking the mickey?’

‘No. I could have been a sailor, too, but couldn’t find the words.’

‘Are you all taking the mickey?’

Now he turned to the whole class, well, the whole world for that matter. He smacked his hand flat down on the pile of essays and the desk shook. Then he stepped up onto the podium. He stood on the spot where the sun entered the room like a searchlight, but he seemed to have forgotten his lines and there wasn’t a prompter around. He took out a handkerchief, but no doves or rabbits appeared, either, and then he wiped his face. His face was small and the handkerchief was large, a cloth, faded, yellow, not quite spotless. Then he moved from the cone of light and stepped down into the room, to the brain-dead, godforsaken audience. Lue stood in front of Ola. Ola crumpled like a punctured football. Lue patted his head.

‘Here we have someone who chose a sensible profession, a choice seemingly commensurate with his abilities. But tell me, why a
ladies
’ hairdresser?’

Laughter surged like an oil slick across the classroom. Soon Ola was gasping for air. He would not be able to get out of this situation without instant assistance. Gunnar and I desperately tried to think of something, but he beat us to it. The football had regained its bounce. Ola sat up and said in a dry, unfamiliar voice:

‘My father says that soon b-b-b-boys will stop having h-haircuts.’

Lue nodded, he nodded gloomily several times. Gunnar, Seb and I heaved a sigh of relief. Ola had coped and the rest of the jessies approved of his answer. They sat pulling their fringes over their
foreheads and winding their hair round an ear, and Lue trudged back to his place in the sun.

‘And then we have a racing car driver, a couple of pilots, a parachutist and – he settled in his seat – there was one person who wrote about a day at school.’

The class went quiet and everyone stared at Goose. Of course it was Goose, and he was hauled up to the teacher’s desk. Lue leafed through the exercise book and read aloud:

‘Our class teacher’s name is Lue and he is the best teacher in the world.’

A gasp ran through the room. Goose shrank like a woollen sweater in boiling water and everyone agreed that was the boldest statement ever made since Jesus was said to have walked on water.

Lue just surveyed the class, his lips formed a thin, bloodless smile and his eyes became deep wells of despair. He slowly turned to Goose.

‘Am I the best teacher in the world?’

7A had never been so quiet. Pulses stopped beating, time lay over us like a huge lid and we were a pot that had to explode at any minute.

‘Am I the best teacher in the world?’ Lue repeated, calmer than he had ever been before.

‘No,’ said Goose, and the bell rang.

I got E+, the same as Seb. Gunnar and Ola got a C.

‘When we break up for the summer we’ll have to buy a present for Lue,’ Gunnar said.

‘But what?’ Ola asked.

‘Don’t really know. We just have to buy him somethin’ to make him a bit happy.’

‘We could give ’im a Beatles record,’ Seb suggested.

‘Not sure he’s got a record player,’ Gunnar said.

‘It’s the thought that counts. That’s what my dad always says,’ I said.

‘Then we don’t need to b-b-buy ’im anythin’,’ Ola said.

The atmosphere on the bus was excited and intense. Åge stood
by the driver talking tactics. The battle would be won in the midfield. As right back, I saw a long day ahead of me. Fortunately it was sunny. I was sitting next to John and behind us were Ringo and George. George was just staring out of the window without listening. It was always like that with him, he didn’t listen, but somehow understood everything all the same, an innate ability, I supposed. Ringo, on the other hand, looked very concerned. The historic save of his was a distant memory now, although it had only happened a few days ago. In fact, he had begun to doubt that it had happened at all – perhaps he had just dreamt it. Besides, Aksel, a mercurial custodian from Hoff, was the regular goalkeeper in the team and no one could threaten his position at present.

Gloomily, Ringo stuck his head between John and me.

‘This ain’t going to go w-w-well,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Not go well!’ John exploded. ‘We’re gonna grind the Slemmestad saps into the grass!’

‘For m-m-me,’ Ringo continued in the same tone. ‘G-g-gonna s-s-score an own goal. Can feel it in m-m-my legs.’

‘It’s not
that
easy to score against Aksel,’ I said.

‘My legs,’ Ringo mumbled. ‘They w-w-won’t obey me. G-g-gonna score an own goal.’

Ringo slumped back into his seat as we approached Slemmestad, which, for me, after standing on the jetty in Nesodden in the summer throwing tin cans in the water, amounted to no more than white smoke issuing from the cement factory.

It wasn’t until we were in the dressing rooms, however, that the gravity of the situation presented itself as barbs in our stomachs. There was a smell of Stone Age sweat and old gym shoes. We sat on the benches with bowed heads staring at our still clean football boots, the long white laces and the knots. Åge stood by the door, notebook in hand, his gaze shifting from one face to the next. On the floor beside him was the box with the blue and white shirts. Silence. It was so quiet we could hear the birds singing outside. At last Åge began to speak. He picked up the goalie’s shirt and threw it to Aksel. No one had expected anything else. To everyone’s surprise, though, the left back position went to a lad from Nordberg whom many considered a spy and an agent for Lyn. I was right back,
I pulled the stiff, freshly washed shirt with number 2 on the back over my head. George was left wing and John centre forward. Ringo, along with seven others, was left on the bench, but looked almost relieved. He patted us on the back and said everything would be great, all the Slemmestad players were losers and we would win 25–0, at least. Then we ran out one after the other. The Slemmestad dipsticks were already warming up and along the touchline there were eleven fathers yelling and waving.

The grass had not really grown yet, for the most part the pitch was loose earth. We had a bit of a kick-around and took a few shots at goal to get used to the ball. Then a fat farmer blew the whistle and Kjetil and the Slemmestad captain met in the middle, tossed a coin and we had to change ends. It took me a couple of hours to explain to the Nordberg genius that he was standing in the wrong position, in my position. At last we worked out our formation, stood waiting like statues, with the ball in the middle of the pitch, the referee blew the whistle and John kicked off. Everyone slowly lurched into motion. The ball came into our half, the centre half, a beanpole from Ruseløkka, swung his leg and hoofed it up towards the opponents’ goal. Everyone stormed up the pitch, but the goalie threw himself into the melee and, with his body at full stretch, pounced on the ball. Clapping of hands and stamping of feet from the home crowd. The goalkeeper would have to be outfoxed, no point kicking up-and-unders. Then the ball came our way again and ricocheted to and fro for a bit. The fat referee was always on the wrong side of the field and every time he caught up, panting, the ball was played back again. John won the ball, accelerated towards the goal, but a Slemmestad lout came in with a late tackle and John went down face first into the wispy grass. Of course, the referee was facing the wrong direction and didn’t have a clue what was going on. Slemmestad had possession and launched an attack. The lout sprinted up my side of the field, received a beautiful pass, took it on the run and steamed towards me. Beside the goal, crowds of people were shouting and screaming and nodding their heads. The lout came closer, wild-eyed, and I wondered whether to pull his shirt or elbow him in the nose, but I didn’t have time to think the matter through. I met him with my shoulder, pressed my heel down on his boot, rolled
the ball backwards with my other foot, turned quickly, rounded the fallen foe, spotted John sprinting down the pitch and sent him a high pass which followed him through the air, landed on his instep and stuck like chewing gum. Though I say it myself, I was pretty impressed. John had an open path on goal. The Slemmestad retards went puffing after him. There was just the keeper left now, but the idiot threw himself at John’s feet, both rolled over and the Slemmestad desperado staggered to his feet with the ball in his hands and a very bloody nose. He was treated with cotton wool and a fizzy drink. He would have to be outfoxed, no doubt about it.