‘He might be slow outfield, but at least he’ll be facing the right direction, and the other boys will be there to help him.’
‘It’s worth a try. What else?’
‘Why isn’t Wilf up front? He’s a natural striker.’
Elliot sighed. ‘He doesn’t want to score a goal without Connie watching. If I even suggest it, he starts getting anxious. Last time he pretended he’d injured his toe until I said he could stay as a defender.’
We carried on until Arthur appeared, covered in dust, cobwebs and something sticky on the sleeve of his white coat that I preferred not to identify. I didn’t have many tactical insights, being new to the team, but I’d done enough to help convince Elliot that it wasn’t time to resign quite yet.
‘How did you enjoy your first Harriers match, Jessica?’ Arthur asked, helping himself to stewed, cold tea.
‘Not quite my first. I watched Isaac more times than I can remember.’
‘Of course! So, was it good to be back on the bleachers, as it were?’
‘Back on the bleachers?’ Elliot smiled. ‘She appointed herself assistant manager before we’d had time to warm up.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Arthur’s eyes boggled.
‘Deadly.’ Elliot’s face suddenly fell. ‘At least. I think I am. I think she has… or did I imagine it? Was it actually a joke?’ He darted his eyes to me and then away again. ‘I can’t believe my defective brain thought you’d offered to be assistant manager.’
‘I was going to say!’ Arthur chortled. ‘You’d be better off asking Isaac. Except that he works on Saturdays… His dad, though. Me!’ He laughed so hard it ended in a snort. ‘And I haven’t kicked a ball since Mr Jenkins banned me from the pitch for all-round incompetence and sent me inside to scrub the changing rooms instead. I hate football even more than cleaning school showers!’
‘You didn’t imagine it, and it wasn’t a joke,’ I said, keeping my voice calm to avoid Elliot feeling foolish. ‘You wanted my help with this as part of the Boys to Men project. It seemed sensible to make it official. And, with all due respect Arthur, you know nothing about my football experience. For all you know, I’ve been coaching for years.’
They both looked at me, faces expectant.
‘Okay, so I haven’t. But I don’t hate football and I do know the rules. I’ve also got pretty good at adapting to new situations.’
I didn’t add that I knew more about football than I did cooking, interior design or most of the other project tasks. The longer I could bluff my way through that, the better.
After an excruciatingly rambling apology from Arthur, I went to inspect his progress in the redecorating. Judging by the state of him, I expected a fresh canvas ready for the revamp. What I found was a pile in the middle of the games room that could have fitted inside a waste paper basket.
‘What’s this?’
Arthur rolled his shoulders. ‘Once I started looking, there wasn’t much that wasn’t worth keeping.’
‘Arthur, there’s a broken broom handle propped in that corner.’
‘We use it for limbo competitions!’
‘And you’ve had how many of those?’
‘In the first lockdown… around two.’
I raised one eyebrow.
‘Okay, so it was one, but it was really enjoyable and we said we must do it again sometime. It could be a fun activity to do with our dates.’
‘No. It wouldn’t. And we aren’t keeping a broken handle in here just in case. If there’s a limbo emergency you can use the actual broom. Right, what else?’
By the time we’d finished, the pile had become a mound. On the one hand, removing a decent amount of junk improved things (Arthur insisted they needed the labyrinth of wires, even though most of them didn’t go anywhere). On the other, it now revealed quite how dingy and dreary the room was beneath the clutter.
‘So, what next? Can I see the design?’ Arthur asked. ‘If we get paint now, we can add the first coat this evening.’
‘It’s already seven, and we’ve not eaten yet. It’s been a full day; let’s wait until tomorrow. Or next weekend, so we aren’t leaving things half done all week?’
Or, when I’d actually had time to start thinking about the currently non-existent design and what colour paint to buy?
