Wicked! (102 page)

‘Rocky by name, Rocky by nature,’ yelled the increasingly intoxicated crowd of Larks supporters.

‘Steady, steady,’ pleaded Emlyn, a great golden bear prowling the touchline. ‘Oh Christ, well done,’ as Xav kicked eighty yards up the field into touch.

Bagley rallied. Lubemir, winning the scrum, passed to Anatole, who passed to Jack, who found himself running into a solid Berlin wall of defence: Monster, Rocky and Johnnie Fowler, who brought him crashing down. Xav took the ball off him and kicked it up field, where it was gathered up by Feral, who with Ferrari acceleration charged up to the Bagley defence, their gumshields glaring, waiting to flatten him, and popped over a glorious left-footed drop goal.

As he sauntered back, festooned with cheering, thumping, ecstatic Larks players, Miss Cambola, who’d been practising with Kylie Rose and the choir, started to sing ‘Swing Low, Sweet Chariot’, as, from all sides, crimson Larks banners were waving.

‘That’s our tune,’ snorted Biffo Rudge.

Bagley were now displaying all the symptoms of nerves, losing in the line-out, high tackling, killing the ball, sledging, biting, resorting to every dirty trick. What was also plain to everyone was that Paris was out of it, passing to the wrong people or the other side, kicking in empty spaces, and when Boffin blew the whistle, first on Monster for high tackling, and then on Johnnie for swearing and spitting at Cosmo, Paris missed two easy penalties.

‘Lord Posh, Lord Posh,’ barracked the Larks crowd.

‘Lord, la-di-da, nose in the air,’ bellowed Stormin’ Norman to the edification of the entire field, ‘you’re as useless as tits on a bull.’

Pete Wainwright laughed happily because he was gaining intense pleasure watching Feral. You could see the boy thinking, glancing around each time he had the ball, using his brain. The others mostly kicked and hoped. Xavier was playing beautifully too. It was gratifying to see two black boys working so well together, cleaning up in the white heartland of an English public school. Pete was so pleased to see the delighted pride on Xav’s sweet mother’s face.

‘The directors loved your lunch – it was a great success,’ he told Taggie.

Johnnie Fowler’s mother, Shelley, swayed up to Rupert’s car. ‘Your Xav’s playing like a little king, Lord Black.’ Then, when Rupert lowered the window a millimetre: ‘My Johnnie’s the good-looking one, didn’t go into Larks much in the old days, had a lot of days off, but since Emlyn, Taggie and the Brig’s taken over, he’s hardly missed a day.’ Noticing how handsome Rupert was, she added, ‘Would you like me to get you a drink?’

‘If you’re going that way.’

Seeing Rupert looking more friendly, Poppet Bruce rushed over. ‘Rupert, Rupert, how’s your GCSE Eng. lit. going?’

‘Fine,’ snapped Rupert.

‘Oh! You’re reading
Opening Lines
. Charisma’s finding it so enriching. Each poem yielding its meaning.’

‘Not to me, they don’t. I can’t make head nor tail of this chap Stevie Smith.’

‘Oh, how priceless.’ Poppet went off into peals of laughter. ‘Smith’s a woman, Rupert.’

‘Explains why the poem’s such crap.’

‘Don’t be so sexist. You’ll never pass your GCSE that way. Why not join our workshop in the Easter holidays?’

Fortunately relief arrived in the form of Shelley Fowler and a large brandy and ginger.

‘Get in,’ hissed Rupert, winding up the window.

‘Johnnie’s got that book too,’ said Shelley, picking up
Opening Lines
. ‘Didn’t understand a word till Janna explained it.’

Half-time. The sides gathered in two groups, towelling away sweat, swigging bottled water, pouring it over their heads. Hengist strode on to the pitch.

‘What the hell are you playing at?’

‘They’re as tough as shit,’ protested Jack Waterlane. ‘I think I’ve cracked a rib.’

‘They really vant to vin,’ grumbled Anatole.

‘I’ve fucked my ankle, sir,’ lied Cosmo.

‘Well, you better go off for the second half.’

Larks were down to fourteen men: Danny the Irish had cramp. Wally was working on his instep.

Emlyn was talking in a low voice to his team, praising them to the now pink and blue flecked sky, isolating individual triumphs.

‘But the second half’s going to be tougher; you’ll be getting tired. If I sub any of you, it’s a compliment, means you’ve played your hearts out. Rocky, you’ve been awesome, and Monster and Johnnie.’ Emlyn’s square face glowed. ‘I can’t tell you how great it’s been, good as scoring for Wales.’

Janna, watching Emlyn’s joy, felt conflicting emotions. How glorious to see Larks ascending, but she felt so sorry for Paris.

Dora’s despair, on the other hand, was total. She could see Hengist giving the team hell. Poor Paris, head hanging, face concealed by a damp curtain of blond hair, must be feeling suicidal, not just about his dud performance, but about Feral and Bianca as well.

‘Stop bullying him,’ she shouted. ‘It’s so unfair.’

Cadbury, who’d been stuffing his face all afternoon, wandered off to drink from Middle Field Pond. Following him, Dora decided she must save Paris.

102

As the pep talk ended and the teams changed ends and took up their positions, they were distracted by howls of laughter and wolf whistles as a streaker came running out of Middle Field and raced across the pitch skipping and dancing, arms outstretched. Her high breasts and bottom were too small to wobble. The waist, in between, as yet lacked definition, the racing legs were still a little plump. A pale blonde triangle was just discernible between her thighs. Her face was hidden by a pulled-down baseball cap.

‘Who is it? Who is it?’ yelled the delighted and cheering crowd. Then, as the streaker did a cartwheel and two handstands, her baseball cap fell off, her blonde plaits tumbled out and a chocolate Labrador bounded on to the pitch after her.

‘My God, it’s Dora,’ said Lando. ‘Look, sir, a streaker.’

Hengist swung round and laughed.

‘Good heavens, so there is.’

‘Gone away,’ brayed Jack Waterlane as Siegfried’s horn call rang out joyfully on Miss Cambola’s trumpet.

Binoculars and little oblong silver cameras were being raised all round the pitch as the cheers escalated. The press raced along the touchline.

‘Go for it, Dora,’ yelled both teams, momentarily distracted from despair and elation.

‘“Like an unbodied joy whose race has just begun”,’ murmured Theo.

‘Lovely little bottom,’ sighed Artie.

Northcliffe growled at the sight of a passing Cadbury. Boffin clamped his hands over his eyes in horror. Anthea, who had been upstaging Poppet, turned back to the pitch.

‘Oh look, a streaker, how common. We should never have allowed this bonding with Larks!’ Then she gave an almighty squawk: ‘My God, it’s Dora. Dicky! Randal! Do something!’

Randal, only too happy to show how fit he was, set off in pursuit.

‘“The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,”’ murmured Ian Cartwright.

Hot on Randal’s heels came Joan. ‘Dora Belvedon,’ she bellowed, ‘come here at once.’

‘Sit!’ howled Cosmo to roars of laughter. ‘Stay!’

Evading capture, circling, Dora galloped up to Paris.

‘Get your stupid finger out,’ she panted, breasts quivering, face red from running, eyes flashing, hair escaping from her plaits. ‘You’ve got to loosen up and win this game. You can’t let Feral beat you.’

As she slid to her knees in the mud, pretending to shake an imaginary football shirt at the crowd, Paris started to laugh. Then he heard footsteps and caught a whiff of aftershave; Randal was thundering in from the left, Joan, like the Paddington-Larkminster Intercity, from the right.

‘Come here,’ yelled Randal.

‘Come here,’ bellowed Joan.

The crowd were in uproar. Both Hengist and Emlyn tried to contain their laughter as Dora gave her pursuers the slip again.

Scenting danger, detesting Randal, Paris tugged off his sea-blue shirt to more wolf whistles and belted after Dora, grabbing her and forcing the shirt over her head, but having to loosen his grip as he tried to shove both her arms in. Next moment Dora had scuttled off giggling – slap into Randal.

Alas, in the slippery patch near the goalposts, Randal’s Guccis had no grip, and he slid past her flat on his back, covering his lovely new suit in mud. The press went berserk.

‘This is the way the gentlemen ride,’ shouted Amber, ‘gallopy, gallopy, gallopy and
down
in the mud.’

‘That ain’t no gentleman,’ said Cosmo, topping up Mrs Walton’s glass.

Dora, running away, turned to laugh, and promptly hit the buffers of Primrose Duddon’s vast bosom.

‘I’ve got her, JJ.’

Thundering up, Joan flung her duffel coat round a frantically wriggling Dora.

‘How dare you bring Boudicca into disrepute?’

‘I had to jolt Paris out of his despair.’

‘This way, Dora, to me, Dora,’ yelled the photographers, as, clapping and punching the air, Dora allowed herself to be frogmarched up to Anthea.

‘Take your daughter home, Lady Belvedon.’

‘You little slut,’ hissed Anthea, and the next minute had slapped Dora viciously across the face, then again with the back of her hand, catching Dora’s pink cheek with Randal’s huge sapphire, so blood spurted down Joan’s duffel coat and Paris’s blue rugby shirt underneath.

‘Stop that.’ Outraged, Janna shot forward. But Cadbury was quicker. Leaping to the defence of his mistress, he threatened Anthea’s tiny ankle with his big white teeth, making her scream her head off.

‘Get away, you brute.’ Randal, racing up, aimed a vicious kick at Cadbury.

‘Don’t you hurt my dog,’ squealed Dora, kicking Randal in the ankle, spurting blood all over the part of his white suit that wasn’t coated in mud, before grabbing Cadbury by the collar.

On cue, Partner, who’d been chatting up his old friend Elaine, rushed up to Cadbury, jumping up and down, licking his ears in congratulation.

‘My leg,’ shrieked Anthea, pretending to faint into Alex Bruce’s skinny arms, as a tiny drop of blood seeped through her flesh-coloured hold-ups. ‘I must have a tetanus jab.’

‘And a tourniquet,’ murmured Amber.

Randal was howling abuse at Cadbury and Dora. It took Hengist to restore order.

‘Neither you nor Dora are allowed back on to the field with blood injuries,’ he told Anthea. ‘You all right, Dora, darling?’ Whipping out a blue spotted handkerchief, he mopped Dora’s cheek. ‘Looks nasty. We better get on with the game. I’m sure First Aid’ll sort you out, Anthea. The ambulance is over there. Meanwhile we’d better find Paris another shirt and you take Dora to the sick bay, Joan.’ Then, when Joan looked mutinous: ‘
Now
.’

There was no way he was going to abandon Dora to the untender mercies of Randal and Anthea.

‘She can’t bring that dog,’ announced Joan. ‘Hand him over to your mother, Dora.’

‘I can’t.’ Tears, near the surface, spilled over, mingling with the blood on Dora’s cheeks. ‘Randal will put him down. He and Mummy hate Cadbury.’

‘I’ll take him.’ Ian Cartwright took off his tie for a lead but Northcliffe’s golden hackles were up, his teeth bared.

‘I’ll take him,’ said Dicky, borrowing Ian’s tie.

As the second half began, Paris, in a no. 16 shirt, could hardly bear to see Dora being dragged off, defiantly yelling: ‘Come on Bagley,’ to deafening applause from both sides. Joan looked absolutely furious.

Amber shook her head. ‘How can that woman, who has no heart, teach us about the heart in biology?’

The heat of the day had subsided; the horizon was ringed with rose; through still bare trees a moon to match the yellow stripe in Larks’s shirts was rising to aid the floodlighting switched on for the second half.

‘What a dreadful waste of electricity,’ chuntered Poppet. ‘Why couldn’t Hengist schedule this match earlier in the day?’

Johnnie and Graffi, who’d played their hearts out, had been subbed, which gave Graffi the chance to chat up Milly, and Johnnie a chance to chat to the media.

‘Emlyn’s cool,’ he was telling the BBC. ‘I always got sent off at football because I had scraps. Emlyn’s helped me wiv my anger management.’

‘He could give Lady Belvedon a few lessons,’ said the interviewer.

Primrose and Pearl were discussing their respective revision of the Russian Revolution.

‘We’ve been watching a video of
Doctor Zhivago
,’ volunteered Pearl proudly.

‘Hengist is taking us to St Petersburg for a long weekend after Easter,’ said Primrose.

The roaring and cheering were continuous now. Bagley had come back with a vengeance and two tries from Paris who, feeling he owed it to Dora, was playing like a man possessed. Rupert had abandoned his sulks and Stevie Smith, and was yelling his handsome head off. ‘Come on Xav, come on Larks.’

‘“You’ll Never Walk Alone”,’ sang Kylie, her sweet voice ringing out to the accompaniment of Cambola’s trumpet, and all the Larks parents, children and teachers joined in.