‘A raging argument, you mean,’ Mum added, tutting in disgust. ‘Including the nastiest comments from people I once thought would never discriminate against someone for being slightly less able. As if a children’s football team is all about winning matches.’
‘Well, it kind of is about that,’ Dad said, wincing as one of the children sent a ball rolling off into the bushes.
‘No. It isn’t,’ Mum snorted. ‘This isn’t the FA cup. They are eight years old. What matters is having fun, making friends and learning new skills. One of which is how to handle losing. Most of the people sticking their noses in, going on about village pride and other nonsense, don’t even have children who play. And that so-called manager, Simon Simonson! He’s from Brooksby! Can you believe that he had the audacity to demand Houghton Harriers have avillage voteabout it?’
‘Wait.’ I tore my eyes away from the coaching session and looked at Mum. ‘People wanted to vote Elliot off as assistant coach? Because of his disability?’
‘No, it’s far worse than that. They wanted to introduce trials, and make it so that only village residents could join the club, booting out half of the kids.’
‘A Houghton only team? How will that help them win?’ The village was so small it would be impossible to find enough eight-year-old children to make a football team.
‘Because most of the non-village kids joined this team because Elliot is the only one who will accept them.’ Dad’s voice was tight with anger.
‘Elliot waited until Simonson took a month off to visit New Zealand and then made it known that he welcomes anyone. Of all abilities. And hereallywelcomes them. As long as they can run, and kick a ball.’
‘One of the players is registered blind,’ Dad said.
‘Wow.’
‘They started off with a child with one arm, who brought his friend who has a condition that means he falls over a lot. Initially people assumed they’d be allowed to train but during matches stay on the substitute bench, but Elliot insisted they got to play as much as the others. Some of the better players have decided to leave, and Elliot doesn’t mind because more kids who’ve been rejected from other teams are happy to fill up their places. That’s when the complaints started, and when Simonson came back it only got worse.’
‘They’ve lost every game since Simonson’s holiday. Haven’t scored a single goal. But anyone with half a brain cell can see that they’re the best in every other way,’ Mum exclaimed as we left the park. ‘Anyway, here we are.’
We crossed the road and headed down a short gravel drive to a door with buzzers for six apartments.
‘The code is nine eight nine four.’ Dad winked as he tapped it in. ‘Let yourself in any time.’
‘Of course it is.’ Mine and Isaac’s birthday. ‘And no, I won’t let myself in any time. That’s an invasion of your privacy.’ My parents wereverymuch in love. The Sunday afternoon I phoned and they declared it was perfect timing because they were in bed together was bad enough. There was no way I would risk walking in on anything.
‘Anyone else could let themselves in though with a code that obvious.’
‘You’ve forgotten that we live in a village. Everyone knows we aren’t worth burgling. What would they take: that vase you made in year two? Besides, there’s CCTV in the stairwell, we’d soon figure out who it was.’
Keeping my rational arguments to myself, I followed them up a flight of stairs and through a plain black door into the flat.
‘Really?’
They hadn’t been joking about the vase. There it sat on a shelf, keeping company with Isaac’s clay mug, a framed copy of the poem I’d entered into a writing competition and come second to last, and various other pieces of homemade tat that normal parents gushed over before discreetly tucking into a box.
Not to mention the photos.
Younger versions of Isaac and me covered every wall. A tiny corner next to the television included the rest of the family – aunties, my grandparents, only one of whom was still alive and living with my auntie in Leicester, plus my four cousins.
I would have wondered where the pictures of my parents were (although they were in a lot of the ones featuring me and Isaac). Then they showed me a quick peep in the bedroom and I stopped wondering.
Mum insisted I sat and ‘relaxed’ while she heated up the pie and Dad set the table and made us all a cold drink. It wasn’t easy to unwind, sitting there, surrounded by my history – not only the photos, but the furniture, the crockery and curtains. I tried focussing on the pre-prom memories, which most of them were, but then I spotted the picture that was like a stab in my guts.
A pair of twins and their best friend, standing in front of a tandem bike. Isaac was laughing as he looked straight at the camera, his expression full of youthful confidence. My face was slightly inclined towards his, I could imagine myself mid-head shake as he guffawed at his own joke. But what made my breath catch in my lungs was Elliot. His dark eyes were completely focussed on me.
He looked exactly the same as when he’d leaned forwards, about to kiss me for the first time.
He looked like a boy hopelessly in love.
I couldn’t help glancing at my parents, cheerily bustling about in the kitchen space. Mum must have spotted my reaction to the photo, because a few seconds later she’d come to sit beside me.
‘It’s one of my favourite pictures,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘You were all glowing with possibility and promise that night.’
‘Yeah. Until we weren’t.’ It was okay that my voice caught on the words. We all knew the evening ended in tragedy.
