If I Were You

Chapter 20 Amy

Twenty Years Ago

My dad’s hands grip my legs as I join in the chant. I can hear his voice the loudest as he shouts out the words at the blue and white players. I join in some of the lines and when I do he jiggles me up and down and I laugh out loud. Somewhere below me Laura is wobbling on the seat asking who’s got the ball. Dad said she was too heavy to go on his shoulders now.

I’m so high up I can see everything. The man in front of us has a small circle of skin right on the top of his head, and the rest of the heads look like different coloured pool balls. The ground smells of onions and men and rain and I love it. I want half-time because he’ll buy us a pie and a Coke and tell us not to tell Mum because Coke rots our teeth, and he’ll put his finger to his lips and wink at Laura and me and we’ll love the secret sharing.

My chest hurts when I think of how much I love Dad. He’s like a double rainbow.

When the match ends it’s great because he’s in a good mood and telling everyone we’re his girls and we’re going to be in the stands with him when he’s an old man. And people pat us and call us ‘loves’ and we all sing the one about the only good City fan’s the one that’s dead and Dad laughs every time and tells us not to tell Mum because she doesn’t think it’s a nice one, but it’s my favourite and everything sounds good in Dad’s voice. I want to be a singer like him.

We’re full and sleepy but we don’t complain because it’s brilliant walking back through the streets wrapped up in our stripy scarves and football strips, the pavements full of noisy steps and chants and the tink of beer bottles, and it feels exciting and a little bit dangerous, but Dad keeps us both close and I always feel safe with him. These are the best days.

He’s promised tonight we can stay up late, painting signs for him to take on a march tomorrow, but we’re not allowed to go on that. Well, not yet. Last night him and Mum argued about it because we’re not too young to fight against the system. Dad says that we need to stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves. Mum says we can make the signs, and that is a compromise. Which I think is a thing you do if you can’t decide one thing or another thing. Laura cried about it because she is scared to go and doesn’t want to go to prison, but we wouldn’t go to prison. Prison is for bad people and Dad’s not bad. He was so proud when I said I wanted to march too and he called me his Firestarter and ruffled my hair, which made me feel warm inside. Mum and him don’t argue much and he always wins, so I think I will go.

He grips my hand as we walk back home, and when Laura says it’s too far he tells her it’s not long, and when I say it he scoops me up into his arms and I get carried all the way back. I poke my tongue out at Laura over his shoulder and she tells on me. Dad tells her ssh, I’m the youngest, so it’s fair because she got lifted up when she was small too.

When he’s carrying me, I smell his smell that makes me think of a big oak tree.

‘I love you, Daddy.’

‘I love you too.’

I close my eyes and rest against his chest, feeling the big thud, thud, thud of his heart which is so huge it fits lots of people inside. He’s the biggest, softest man, like a bear, a friendly bear who gives the squeeziest hugs.

When we get home I’m too tired to paint the signs but he isn’t cross, he just puts me straight into bed in my Rovers strip and sings me a song as my eyes close. The last thing I hear is Laura and Mum laughing next door, the last thing I smell is the paint, the last thing I see are the glo stars on our ceiling, the last thing I feel is his kiss on my forehead.