24
I’m a ball of nerves when everyone assembles at The Fox early the next morning. There’s a lot to do to get the pub ready before we throw the gates open at eleven, and the whole team– minus Cassie, who’s teaching her Saturday group, and Craig, the only player who hasn’t shown up yet– is pitching in.
Levi and Scott blow up balloons and fix them to the fences around the garden. Marge is in charge of organising the tables for the cake competition and the raffle prizes. Bob is assembling the homemade tombola he’s fashioned out of an empty five-litre water bottle. It’s a hive of activity and I run round like a headless chicken trying to oversee everything. I want it all to be perfect.
‘Do you think we need to put the marquees up or do you think we’ll get away with it?’ Olly asks, glancing up at the sky. It’s mostly blue, with a smattering of cloud, but the Met Office website says there’s a chance of rain mid-afternoon.
‘Why don’t we just do a couple? One to go over the cakes, just in case, and one for people to shelter under if we do get a shower. Or if they get too hot,’ I suggest.
Olly nods and calls Adio over to help him, and I get back to attaching bunting to the front edges of the tables– in the team colour purple, of course.
Dad and Elliot are out in the car park setting up a portable goal on a square of artificial grass that Olly keeps stashed away for the occasional times when the pub hosts a wedding party. Visitors will be invited to see for themselves what it’s like trying to score from the penalty spot against our goalie. I suspect Elliot’s going to have a busy day.
Ben will, too, I reckon. Bob has created a picture frame out of scraps of wood and hung it from a tree in the corner of the garden, so fans can get a framed photo of themselves with a Premier League footballer– or any of the Crawford players who are not busy elsewhere.
Craig, Adio, Nico and Aaron will be walking around with coin buckets, as we’re operating a pay-what-you-can entry system. We don’t want anyone to be excluded from the day by the cost, but the hope is that our supporters will give more generously than we maybe would have requested. Bailey, meanwhile, is our official photographer and will be taking pictures throughout the day for us to post on social media– although I’m hesitant now to post anything that isn’t strictly football-related.
Thomas and Jacob– as well as Phoebs, who’s also helping out– will be serving drinks with Olly behind the bar. Based on the number of customers Olly typically serves on a Saturday afternoon, we’re anticipating a minimum crowd of around a hundred and fifty. Plus the kids from Cassie’s Saturday Kickers club and their families, and anyone else who’s curious to see what’s going on.
When Craig finally makes an appearance, I head straight over to berate him for leaving everyone else to do all the work. So much for being a team player. I don’t know why Phoebs wants to spend her time with him. But before I have a chance to open my mouth, he shows me the contents of the giant bags he’s carrying and I’m faced with five phoenix-shaped pi?atas, coloured purple, which he admits he had custom-made especially.
‘I had to wait in for the delivery,’ he explains with an apologetic smile. ‘I thought some of the kids might enjoy giving them a good whack to get the sweets out.’
I shake my head and sigh. I can hardly stay angry with him now, can I? ‘That’s really thoughtful, thank you. Why don’t you take the picture frame down off that tree and hang them up there? The frame can go elsewhere, or Ben can just carry it around with him, it’s not too heavy.’
His smile grows wider, no doubt at the thought of making Ben’s life a little harder. But then I follow his line of vision and see Phoebs wiggling her fingers and mouthing ‘hi’ at him. So maybe I’m judging him unfairly. But there’s no time to dwell on it; there’s more bunting to put up.
A sudden blast of noise from the speakers Olly has strung up around the garden makes me– and probably everyone else– jump half out of my skin. Olly pops his head out of the pub door and shouts, ‘Sorry! I was just testing the volume and I think the knob must be on backwards. I thought that was going to be too quiet.’
‘The boys over at Fulham probably heard it,’ Bob says. ‘And they’re playing up in Manchester today!’
‘Yeah, let’s aim for creating some atmosphere, not bursting eardrums,’ I suggest.
‘On it,’ Olly shouts, disappearing back inside.
I follow him in, so I can pin some bunting to the shelf above the bar.
‘Need me to hold the back of the chair?’ Craig offers. I hadn’t realised he’d also come inside.
I stare at him and ask him straight out what’s going on with him today. First the pi?atas and now this? Helpful– or generous for that matter– are not words I typically associate with him.
He shrugs. ‘Phoebs wants you to like me if we’re going to go on double dates.’
I have to fight to keep my expression neutral but my whole body goes rigid. No one is supposed to know about me and Ben, especially no one from the team. I’m going to kill her– this is the last thing I need right now– so my voice is cool when I tell him I didn’t know he and Phoebs were officially dating.
‘More like kind of seeing each other,’ he says. ‘She doesn’t want anything serious.’
And yet she’s proposing hanging out with me and Ben as a cosy foursome? It sounds to me like she’s more invested in him than she’s been admitting.
‘So I was thinking,’ Craig continues, oblivious to my concerns about my secret getting out, ‘that as well as supervising the kids with the pi?atas today, maybe I could contribute to the auction too.’
‘How so?’ I manage to ask, still recovering from the shock of Phoebe’s indiscretion. I don’t doubt Craig would fancy himself as a charismatic auctioneer, but that’s Dad’s role and I know he’s excited about it, so I’m not about to let Craig take over from him.
‘Well, I’m sure people will bid for the training session with Ben, but what if we offered up a life drawing afternoon with me as well?’ he suggests. ‘It’s not like I don’t have the time and I reckon someone would shell out for it. I was making ￡250 a sitting before and that’s when I wasn’t even on a football team.’
Feeling guilty for misjudging him again– unless this is just an attempt to try and outdo Ben– I tell him every contribution is welcome.
But just when I think we’re moving on to safer ground, he circles back and says, ‘So how long have you and Ben been a thing?’
‘We’re not discussing that.’ I cut him short, glancing furtively around the bar to make sure no one else is in hearing range. ‘And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss it with anyone else either. It’s not up for debate.’
We may have been working on making the players also feel like our friends, but there have to be boundaries. Clearly I’ll need to remind Phoebs of this, too.
‘As you prefer,’ Craig says, just as Marge ambles over to join us. I seize the opportunity to put an end to the conversation. ‘Marge! You wouldn’t mind taking over from Craig for a moment, would you? I’m assigning him to water duty.’
‘Oh yes, this looks way easier.’ She nudges him out of the way. ‘Do you know where to find the cups?’
He shakes his head, so she directs him to a stack of beakers in a bag behind the bar. ‘Tap water to the top then pop them on the end of the counter. Thanks, love,’ she says, then to me, when he’s out of earshot, ‘Not still trying to get in your knickers, is he?’
‘Marge! He’s dating my best friend. No, I just wanted to talk to you about the cakes,’ I fib. ‘I heard you telling Olly there was some kind of disaster?’
‘Only that some of my muffin balls have got stuck together. The icing wasn’t quite set when I popped them in the box. It’s not a problem though– I’ll just sell those ones as duos for double the money.’
Bless her, she spent the better part of yesterday baking, just in case no one else brought in an entry and we ended up with nothing to sell on our cake stand. With mine, Ben and her efforts, at least the table isn’t empty. Time will tell if the prize of a Crawford season ticket encouraged anyone else to attempt cake decorating.
By 10.45a.m., all our preparations are complete and we’re ready to welcome the first arrivals. My stomach twists with anxiety as the official start time comes and goes, and Dad drums his fingers on the bar impatiently. I must check my watch at least every twenty seconds. I have to keep reminding myself it’s still early.
It’s just before midday when the first visitor finally appears and it’s such a relief I almost burst into tears. Thankfully, they’re followed by plenty more in quick succession. At last our fundraiser is happening.
The younger kids drag their parents straight to Elliot’s goal, while a couple of teenage girls make a beeline for Ben, phone cameras at the ready. When Cassie arrives, she finds me chatting to Marge at the cake stand. She apologises for not having changed out of her sports kit. ‘I didn’t want to get here any later. Most of my students are coming down with their parents and I wanted to make sure I was here before them.’
‘Don’t worry– there isn’t a dress code,’ Marge says kindly, even if she is wearing the most glamorous outfit I’ve ever seen her in. I’m used to seeing her in jeans and a sweater for the footie– often with a winter coat. Today she’s in a floral tea dress with a matching cardy, albeit still with trainers on her feet.
‘Whoa!’ Bob exclaims. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
He’s looking over our shoulders at a close to full-size replica of the FA Cup advancing slowly towards us on a cake tray.
Marge lets out a slow whistle. ‘That makes our contributions look rather amateur.’
‘Tell me where you want it– it weighs a bloody tonne,’ comes a voice from behind the cake.
‘Barbour?’ I’d recognise that raspy tone anywhere.
‘Yeah, but before you get excited I’m just the courier. My wife’s parking the car up then she can take all the credit.’
Tempting as it is to swipe a bit of the icing off the side as he follows Marge over to the cake table, I manage to resist for fear of sending the whole thing toppling over. It will be enough of a shame having to slice it up when the time comes.
‘It’s a cup cake, geddit?’ he says, once it’s been safely deposited.
‘It’s amazing.’ Marge beams, looking delighted that her cake table has suddenly improved so dramatically. ‘It must have taken ages.’
‘She even missed Coronation Street.’ Bob sounds very proud of this.
‘And we’re all very grateful,’ Marge tells him.
By one o’clock, the fundraiser is in full swing. The FA Cup cake has been joined by a boot, three more football shirts and a scarf all iced in the colours of Crawford United. There’s also a far superior football pitch– my goals have collapsed on to my cake by this point– and a face that I suspect is supposed to be Dad’s. Olly announces over the Tannoy that the judging will take place in just a few moments– we need to get it done early so we can start selling slices. Or whole cakes if anyone is keen.
Needless to say, Barbour’s wife is declared the winner. She gives a little bow and tells us how she made discs of sponge and held them together with butter icing to get the height, then covered the whole structure with gold frosting for the finished effect.
‘A deserved winner, I think you’ll agree,’ Marge says to the crowd gathered in front of her table as Mrs Barbour grins from ear to ear.
‘You’d better award the prize to the second place winner though,’ she says. ‘We’ve already got our season tickets.’
‘Who baked the scarf?’ Marge asks.
Another delighted baker steps forward and everyone applauds as Marge hands her the ticket.
‘Now let’s get some photos of these bad boys and get them chopped up,’ Bob says, ‘so we can see if they taste as good as they look. Make mine a slice of the scarf though. I’ve had thirty years of the missus’s cooking.’
‘Two pounds a slice and remember it’s for a good cause,’ Marge reminds everyone as she starts handing out paper plates.
I let the assembled crowd know that the pub quiz will be kicking off next. ‘Inside the pub in ten minutes, teams of six, leave your phones in your pockets please.’
Then I move on to check on the boys queueing up to take part in the keepy-uppy contest on the other side of the car park. Jamie is recording names and scores, and the winner will be announced at the end of the day and gifted a ball signed by the whole team.
‘Twenty-three is the number to beat so far,’ he informs me. ‘If you want to have a go.’
I politely decline on the grounds that I need to keep schmoozing. There’s no need to show myself up in front of anyone today.
Back in the bar, I have just enough time to ask Phoebs how the raffle ticket sales are going before she’s swamped by people wanting to get a drink before the quiz starts.
‘Make it two for a quid for anyone buying four drinks or more,’ I tell her, before turning to the next customer. I can help out here for ten minutes until the rush dies down.
I don’t stay for the quiz though– I helped compile it so I know all the answers. Plus with Dad, Cassie and at least half the visitors now preoccupied inside, it’s a good opportunity to grab a few minutes with Ben.
Bin bag in hand, he’s gathering up discarded paper cups and plates and I want to hug him for taking on the one job that nobody else on the team volunteered to do. But for now just my hand rested on his arm will have to do. ‘Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it.’
‘How do you think it’s all going?’ he asks, and we both turn our gaze towards the giant see-through bin where Adio and co are depositing their coins any time their collecting buckets get heavy. It’s not even a quarter full, but it’s a big old bin, so there’s no telling exactly how much is in it.
We debated whether to have it on display, or if that would be too tempting for thieves. In the end, we decided it was more likely to inspire people than attract any wrong’uns. Plus it’s not like anyone could grab it and jog up the street with it– it’s way too heavy.
‘There’s still a steady stream of people arriving and there’s a collection bucket beside Elliot’s goal that hasn’t been added to the pot yet, so there’s still time to get closer to our target.’ Which is a black line Cassie has drawn halfway up the bin with the word ‘goal’ written above it. ‘I know we probably won’t make a fortune, but if people go online afterwards and buy a season ticket, or even a match ticket, we’ll still be in a better place financially than we’ve ever been.’
‘You’re doing a grand job,’ Ben assures me with a grin. ‘I want to kiss you.’
I smile up at him. ‘I want to kiss you too.’
We both look around us. There are too many people nearby.
‘Meet me behind the cake tent in two minutes?’ he suggests.
I laugh. ‘Like horny teenagers?’
His grin widens. ‘I hope so.’ And it’s all I can do not to break into a run.
With his arms wrapped around me and his lips meeting mine, I think I relax for the first time all day. I hadn’t registered how stressed I’ve been trying to make sure everything is going to plan. I melt into his embrace, savouring the brief reprieve.
We’re mid-clinch when Olly announces over the Tannoy that the pub quiz prize has been taken by the Johnsons– one of the families from Cassie’s Kickers club. Each member of the team will be presented with a Crawford season ticket, giving us another handful of fans to add to our slowly growing following. I’m gradually allowing myself to be optimistic that we will end up with quite a few more, given how many people have come here to compete for the chance to win.
I freeze when I hear my sister’s voice in the cake tent with Marge. ‘Have you seen Lily? I reckon we’re probably at peak attendance round about now so it’s a good time to get the auction underway.’
‘I did see her head round back with the rubbish with Ben,’ Marge replies, shattering my illusion that we’d sneaked away unnoticed. Then something else I hadn’t noticed comes to light– there’s a flap in the back of the cake tent that allows both Cassie and Marge to poke their heads through, leaving Ben and I frozen in each other’s arms, well and truly busted.