Chapter 13
The Sandycove Seafarers’ stadium consisted of a few run-down terraces with broken seating on four sides of a pitch. And there wasn’t a pitch as such, as in the large manicured green vistas, with grass which had been cut with nail scissors, sprinkled with spring water and minded with the attention you might give to a prize-winning orchid. This was a farmer’s field type of pitch, with unearthed sods, sparse grass and an undulating topography more suited to an upland slice of Connemara, perfect for scraggly sheep and not much else.
Kitty was wondering what she had agreed to. Yes, it was true, she had agreed to have more fun in her life, but perhaps agreeing to play football had been rash. Kitty’s new football boots, which she had bought hastily from a sports shop in town, felt like circus shoes, as she tottered out of the changing room and then sank into the soft grassy mire.
‘I don’t care what I look like any more,’ Shazza had told Kitty, as they changed in the grotty little building beside the field. ‘No one is looking and I have to say, it feels fecking marvellous.’ She’d put one leg up on the bench beside Kitty. ‘Feel it,’ she’d ordered. ‘Go on.’
Kitty had brushed her hand across the sharp stubble.
‘Haven’t shaved in weeks,’ Shazza had explained proudly. ‘No more hair removal, no more uncomfortable shoes or undergarments, or anything that pushes me up, straps me in or restricts my right to be a chest-thumping, flag-waving, bra-burning feminist. I’m so au naturel, I’m practically fully compostable.’
They walked out to where Tom and Rory were standing on the sidelines, neither of them looking particularly professional in their faded T-shirts and the kind of shorts you might wear on the beach in Alicante, but they were both smiling and waved to Kitty and Shazza.
‘Lads,’ said Shazza, ‘if anyone can enlighten me why exactly we’ve found ourselves inadequately dressed, in an environment to which we are unused, and about to partake in an activity in which none of us has ever bothered partaking before, then please go ahead.’
Rory laughed. ‘Well, I’m not that unused to football. Played it at school. Was never on the team… but our brother…’ – he gave Tom a half-smile – ‘our brother Paddy and I used to play. He was good. This brother here… he was always reading.’
Tom shrugged. ‘I used to play with Paddy and Rory,’ he said. ‘Rory has just forgotten it or blocked it out. But he’s right… I’m not the world’s best player.’
‘So why are you here?’ asked Kitty. ‘Why did you volunteer?’
The two men looked at each other again. ‘We’re here because…’ began Tom, and then there was a voice.
‘You made it!’ It was Tara, the woman from the community hub meeting, jogging towards them, dressed professionally in white shorts and a football top in blue and yellow, a whistle around her neck. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Work was crazy. Had to get changed in the car, which was not easy, I can tell you.’
‘Tara,’ said Tom, ‘have you met Kitty and Shazza properly?’
‘Briefly,’ said Tara, reaching out and shaking Shazza’s hand, then Kitty’s. ‘What’s your experience?’
‘What do you mean?’ said Shazza. ‘Regarding what?’
‘Football!’ replied Tara. ‘What else could I have meant?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Shazza. ‘Could have meant anything.’
‘But it’s all about context, is it not?’ said Tara. ‘We’re all dressed ready to play football. You have special boots on. We’re in the Sandycove Seafarers’ stadium…’
Shazza was nodding. ‘Yes, of course. Context is everything.’
‘I think,’ said Kitty, ‘that we just don’t believe we’re here…’
Shazza was nodding. ‘It’s like an out-of-body experience. We don’t play football. We’re not the type.’
‘So why are you here then?’ asked Tara, incredulously, her hands on her hips, staring at Shazza and Kitty as though they were mad, which, Kitty felt, they were. ‘No one forced you to volunteer. Your lives did not depend on it. You raised your hands.’
‘For fun,’ said Kitty, as Shazza nodded in agreement.
‘To keep us off the streets,’ continued Shazza. ‘Metaphorically, anyway, just to clear up any confusion. Anyway, my experience of football is zero. But I’m mainly here as part of my healing journey.’
Tara was trying hard not to show utter bemusement as she turned to Kitty.
‘No experience whatsoever,’ said Kitty, trying to manage expectations. ‘I can’t play.’
‘Right…’ said Tara, letting the word hang in the air. She blew the whistle around her neck. ‘Come on, let’s have a kick around. See what skills anyone has. Maybe we have an undiscovered Roy Keane in our midst?’
‘Keen? Who said anything about being keen?’ said Shazza, as she jogged onto the pitch behind Tara.
It was like being back in school, those awful games periods where you had to hang about outside in all weather, being shouted at by a bossy woman in a tracksuit, her whistle piercing your eardrums. Tara soon had them jogging up and down, or passing the ball to each other, or practising firing it at the goal. Kitty did her best, running after the ball, and trying to kick it in the general direction of the goal or to a team member.
At last, Tara blew her whistle for the final time as Shazza and Kitty collapsed in a heap, the two of them groaning.
‘Fun, Shazza?’ managed Kitty.
‘I may have got it wrong,’ said Shazza. ‘I think we are looking for fun in all the wrong places.’
Afterwards, they joined Tara and the two lads in The Island, the pub in the village, Kitty and Shazza crawled onto the benches and then listlessly tried to stay upright. Rory was wearing a faded and slightly holey Take That T-shirt. He was one of those people who floated through life, thought Kitty, who was effortlessly charming and likeable, who were always assets to have around because they made everything more pleasant. Tom was taller, broader and darker. The same affable charm, but he was more serious than Rory, he smiled less, but there was a relaxed air about him, as though… Kitty couldn’t quite work it out, but it seemed as though he had nothing to prove, he was just him.
Tom bought a round and placed a gin and tonic in front of Shazza and Kitty. He and Rory both had pints of Guinness, Tara was drinking sparkling water.
Tom held up his pint of Guinness in a toast. ‘So, to our first five-a-side meeting,’ he said.
‘I can’t stand meetings,’ said Rory. ‘I make it a rule never to have one.’
‘Except for now,’ replied Shazza. ‘Not much of a rule if it’s broken while you’re doing it. It’s like saying I don’t smoke while smoking. Or I’m on a diet while stuffing one’s face with cream cakes.’
Rory laughed, taking zero offence. ‘What can I say, I’m a tangle of contradictions?’
Shazza rolled her eyes again. ‘Like all men,’ she said. ‘Say one thing and do another.’
‘Still off men?’ said Tom.
‘Yes, forever,’ said Shazza. She sighed. ‘I mean, it’s not your fault, Tom, or yours either, Rory… it’s just for my sanity, I have to put myself in a women-only zone. I was listening to this podcast called Healing After Relationship Trauma and they said that you had to consciously remove vestiges from the patriarchy from your zone.’
Tara nodded. ‘Sounds like good advice…’
‘Exactly!’ said Shazza. ‘So that’s what I’m doing…’
‘But why don’t Rory and I count as vestiges of the patriarchy?’ asked Tom, glancing at Kitty and giving her a half-smile. ‘I feel I should be insulted.’
Shazza laughed. ‘I’m doing my best. No one ever said healing after relationship trauma was easy.’
‘I find the best way,’ said Rory, ‘is to get into another traumatic relationship. No two bad relationships are the same. It’s endlessly fascinating. I’m on a trauma loop when it comes to girlfriends. I just can’t seem to find the right person.’
‘Join the club,’ said Shazza. ‘A needle in a haystack would be easier.’
‘So, what about you?’ Tom turned to Kitty. ‘Any traumatic relationship stories?’
Shazza snorted as Kitty answered. ‘Not at all… all very boring…’
‘Boring to the point that it should be a cure for chronic insomnia,’ said Shazza, darkly.
Kitty looked at her. ‘Better boring than traumatic.’
‘I think I’d go for traumatic,’ said Shazza. ‘At least trauma is exciting.’
‘By boring, you mean safe and dependable…’ asked Tom.
Shazza made another sound of derision. ‘If you call dependable someone who’s gone back to live with his mother!’
‘He’s under a lot of pressure…’ explained Kitty to Tom. ‘Thought I was trying to marry him off…’
‘To whom?’ he asked.
‘To me,’ she said.
‘He should be so lucky,’ said Shazza.
Tom turned to Shazza. ‘I take it that you don’t approve of this man…’
Shazza shook her head. ‘Kitty is too good for him,’ she said, giving Kitty a look, one eyebrow raised. ‘Only she doesn’t realise it.’
Kitty spoke to Tom. ‘We’ve been together for a long time… we’re happy… well, we’re not… currently. And he’s just going through something and I’m supporting him…’
‘Hence she has more free time,’ explained Shazza.
Kitty thought again about if she and Dave had ever really been happy. They had been content, she thought. But it had always been her smoothing the way, organising everything, ensuring life ran along relatively easily for the two of them. But since his father had died, he’d almost resisted her efforts, making it harder to smooth things over.
Tom was frowning slightly, listening, and Kitty felt it necessary to jump in and further elucidate. Or, rather, defend herself because Shazza wasn’t helping with her snorts, sighs and eye-rolling.
‘Dave needs me,’ Kitty said. ‘He likes me to have everything organised for him, and make sure he’s got everything he needs. We work well like that. I’m like his… I don’t know… his PA or his secretary…’
Tom’s eyes widened slightly and even Rory stopped fiddling with the coaster to look up. Tara had a look of abject horror on her face.
‘But in a good way,’ Kitty quickly assured them. ‘We love each other…’
‘Each to their own,’ said Shazza. ‘But what do I know? I’m in my virtual nunnery, wearing my virtual wimple, my virtual giant crucifix swinging from my neck…’
‘You look very fetching,’ said Kitty. ‘Pity it’s all virtual.’
‘Have you girls ever thought about getting out of your virtual lives?’ said Tara, rolling her eyes. ‘Shazza here lives in some kind of dystopian fantasy world and Kitty is hanging around waiting for someone who prefers his mother to her. Neither of you is in a real relationship but neither of you is single. You’re both in love limbo.’
Shazza was nodding. ‘That’s exactly it. Except love limbo is part of my healing journey…’ She held up her gin and tonic. ‘Well, that and also the mysterious powers of this essential ancient medicine of the gods and goddesses.’
Tara gave her a look. ‘If the Sandycove Seafarers are going to win any matches, then you have to cut out the alcohol, the chocolate, the sweets… the fast food…’
Shazza was looking at her open-mouthed. ‘You mean not self-medicate? Do you have any idea what might happen if I go off my meds? The hounds of hell might be released. The River Shannon would start to flow backwards. St Patrick would return to reintroduce snakes to this rain-benighted island. I am only just hanging in there. I have to remain slightly medicated at all times.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Tara, drily, before turning to Kitty. ‘What about you? Do you eat properly? Do you follow a regime? Protein? That kind of thing.’
‘Salads, mainly,’ said Kitty. ‘Chicken…’ She tried to think what else she ate. ‘Porridge. Tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches. Eggs.’ As she spoke, Kitty had a flash of realisation that she had the most boring diet in the history of diets. She was even no-frills when it came to food.
‘I’m a big believer in protein,’ Shazza was saying, earnestly to Tara. ‘Like major believer. They are the building blocks of our bodies… and, I don’t know… our hair?’ Shazza started to look a little uncertain. ‘Nails? And… well, biology was never my strong point. But the problem is, sadly, proteins don’t agree with me as much as carbs do. Carbs are my true love.’
‘Lion bars are my snack of choice,’ Rory said. ‘And Chunky KitKats. Toblerone.’
Shazza nodded, enthusiastically. ‘I love all of the above… although I bought a giant personalised Toblerone for Mr Unmentionable for Christmas with his name on. Turned out he didn’t like them. Should have known then. Never trust a man who doesn’t like Toblerone.’
‘That’s a long name to fit onto one bar of chocolate,’ said Rory.
‘I just put Mr Unmensh,’ said Shazza.
‘You did?’ said Rory.
Shazza laughed. ‘Of course not. I put his name, which is, of course, unmentionable.’
Tara didn’t look impressed. ‘Sounds like boot camp is what you need.’
‘As long as it involves sugar and alcohol, sign me up,’ Shazza smiled.
‘That’s called a holiday,’ said Tom.
‘Well, book me a flight,’ said Shazza.
‘No,’ said Tara. ‘We have to be serious. We have our first match this Friday evening. That’s precisely three evenings’ time and I have absolutely no faith in us at all. I know it’s meant to be fun…’
Shazza poked Kitty in the ribs.
‘But,’ went on Tara, ‘I am worried we’re going to be a shambles. We need to be less embarrassing.’
‘That’s my motto in life,’ said Shazza. ‘Be less embarrassing.’
‘No, I’m serious,’ said Tara, intently. ‘The other teams have been training for months. And just because we’ve lost most of our members recently, we’re starting from nothing. What’s the point of doing something if you’re not going to do it properly?’
‘Exactly,’ Kitty said, before realising that Tara was asking her to play football properly. She liked doing everything other than football properly.
‘I’m only doing it because Tom is doing it,’ said Rory.
‘I’m doing it because I need a distraction from Mr Unmentionable,’ said Shazza.
Tara turned to Kitty. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m here because I have a bit of spare time and I’m trying to have more fun.’
‘Did you have fun out there today?’ Tara scrutinised Kitty, her eyes narrowed.
‘No, not really,’ admitted Kitty.
Tara tossed her head. ‘Jesus! I’m playing with amateurs and out-of-condition fools!’
But Shazza and Rory started giggling.
‘I want us to be less of a shambles from now on,’ said Tara.
‘We can try,’ said Shazza.
Tara turned to her. ‘Try?’ she exploded. ‘Try? You’ll do more than try. You’ll play bloody brilliantly or you will bring the whole of Sandycove into disrepute. Right, we practise again on Thursday and then our first match is the following evening.’
‘I thought you said this was going to be fun,’ said Kitty to Shazza, in a low voice.
‘I may have been hasty,’ replied Shazza, looking scared. ‘I think the word might have been misused. But there’s nothing we can do about it, except get on with it.’
‘I’ll leave your strips on the benches in the changing rooms,’ continued Tara. ‘As long as you don’t mind second-hand? We don’t have the money to buy brand new strips for everyone.’
‘I’m all about second-hand,’ said Shazza. ‘Reuse and recycle. That’s me. Except when it comes to relationships.’
Rory laughed but stopped when he caught the beady eye of Tara.
‘And it will mean, Rory,’ she said, ‘you will be wearing something other than your T-shirts. Think you can lower yourself not to look cool for fifty minutes?’
‘I don’t try to look cool,’ said Rory, with a shrug. ‘I just am.’
Now it was Shazza’s turn to laugh. ‘So deluded,’ she said, with a sad shake of her head. ‘So incredibly deluded.’