Support Player

Mike heard the clunk-click of the door then Janey threw herself into the backseat of the car. He could tell she was angry. The air bristled with an explosive cocktail of annoyance and frustration. She was a little drunk as well as she banged a petulant hand on the headrest in front.

“Let’s go then!”

“Where’s Karen?” He asked.

“She’s not coming, okay? Let’s just go.”

He bit back a reply and started the engine.

The wipers slapped away enough water for him to make out the narrow country lane he’d hesitantly navigated a few minutes earlier. Finding the place had been hit and miss. When the mock Tudor monstrosity had finally reared up in the headlights he’d been glad he’d given himself an extra half an hour’s leeway. He fingered the little package wrapped and tied with silver string in his jacket pocket. Perhaps now wasn’t the right time.

Silence in the car as spooky trees loomed passed them and Janey simmered.

“Won’t her parents want us to…?”

“She phoned them. She’s staying over and they’re getting her tomorrow. We had a row.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah – Oh!”

“What about?”

“Nothing!” She stabbed the word at him.

“Right. Good party was it…?”

“Crap.”

“What really crap, or just a bit crap?”

“Really bloody crap!”

“What was the food like?”

“Brilliant. Why don’t we eat stuff like that?”

The tight bend coming up gave him an excuse to hesitate while forming a reply. He still got it wrong of course;

“It’s a sort of time thing…”

“Yeah – time we ate something decent!”

He could have said he was too knackered to prepare anything but the basics after all the overtime, or he could have told her to bloody well do it herself. He did neither.

“What did they give you lot tonight, then?”

“Steaks and homemade bread, lots of fresh salad, they had sushi as well. It must have cost a bomb.”

He’d had a quick cheese sandwich, grabbed between getting the washing out of the machine, clumsily draping it over the clothes horse and jumping in the car.

“It was nice of your friend to throw a birthday party for you; quite a fancy one at that! “ He peered out at the great house’s bulk slipping back into the darkness. He could never have done something like this for her. They were only just getting by on his meager wage as it was. He sensed her relaxing. Slightly.

“Sorry, dad. Thanks for picking me up. It’s just that…” She paused long enough to make him think she’d finished, before continuing in a breathless rush. “It’s just that I’m always there for her, y’know? And I listen to all her stuff, and sympathize and try to cheer her up, and then when everything’s tickety-bloody-boo again and I want to talk about MY stuff she ignores me the rest of the evening and goes and hangs around with her country club mates, who I hardly know, right? And I just go along with it of course, big stupid grin on my face.”

“So you had a row with Karen?”

“We didn’t have a row, I just made that up. How can I possibly have a row with someone who'd done all that for me? Or at least her mum and dad did; just for Karen’s scummy friend. I didn’t even thank her properly. I’m such an ungrateful cow.”

He heard a sniffle. The silence lasted a lot longer this time before he said anything, making an effort to keep his voice quiet and steady.

“I think… I think in a way you’re what I’d call a support player, Janey.”

Wrong again.

“I’m a what…? Oh I see; here comes another bloody football analogy. Come on then, let’s have it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, let’s have the full range of your football psychology class one more time.”

He should have just shut-up then. She was tired, emotional, and he was just very tired. But he wanted her to feel better about herself, to gain a perspective, see where she could fit into a group that could make her life a success. It was the last thing he had left to offer her, perhaps more important than the posh school and high-flying friends that went with it; the key to getting along. She’d need it. 

He began with an inward sigh. She wasn’t going to like this.

“Town had a defender called Protheroe a few seasons back. He was unspectacular, not much of a ball-player, tended to clear the danger with a powerful header upfield rather than get the ball down and play. He wasn’t popular or well known like our star number nine, more what the papers described as a ‘support player’, but the thing he did, always did, was be there first. If there were a quick through ball he’d see it and intercept it; if one of their forwards broke down the wing he’d be across to slide tackle, and he’d never miss. At corners it was always Protheroe protecting our keeper. People took him for granted.

Then we had a big cup game at home to Spurs, a chance to be a real giant-killer. Protheroe couldn’t play; some family bereavement or other. We were leading one-nil in injury time when they lobbed a pass over our defence. The young lad they’d brought in saw it too late then slipped in the mud. Their bloke was past him and finished it off. One-all. We lost the replay four-nil.”

The long silence after he’d finished made him think she’d fallen asleep. He’d gone on longer than he’d meant to, but that always happened when he spoke about his beloved team. The little anecdote sounded a bit pathetic now; a sad story from a sad old man. He should have kept his mouth shut.

He slowed the car down to round another tight bend, dabbing at the windows with his left sleeve to clear the condensation away. He twisted the heating knob up to maximum.

Then her voice came again, quieter, somehow hurt. “Is that what you think I am, just some kind of support act?”

He was stung. “No, no I didn’t mean it that way. No, Janey, I’d never think of you like that.”

But wasn’t that what he’d said?

“You might have settled for being a no-one dad, but I haven’t. Are you saying I’m not as good as them?”

“I don’t think I’m a no-one and I don’t think you are! You’re missing the point! I’m saying the most important people are the one’s least appreciated, the ones who hold everything together while others grab the headlines.”

But that sounded pompous and trite. If he hadn’t been so knackered he’d never have said it. And this damn road wasn’t helping! The rain was sheeting down and he could hardly see ten yards in front of him. Where the hell was the motorway?

More words delivered over his shoulder, this time angry ones spat out like hateful bullets.

“Didn’t you ever have any ambition?” Yes, for her. “You’re such a downer!” Maybe he was. Then, “I can see why mum left you!” And the bullets finally found their mark.

He heard her slump back in the seat, a night’s frustration spent. He sat there, absorbing it all, defusing it away into the musty air of the car. He found his hands gripping the wheel and slowly relaxed them. Up ahead the harsh white neon of the motorway appeared along the horizon. Nearly there now, then quickly home.

Tomorrow she’d have a hangover, she’d get up late and potter around yawning, he’d make her coffee and toast and they’d talk about the party. She’d gossip and giggle, and he’d ask stupid questions and get people’s names wrong, and they’d have a laugh. And all these ugly late night words would be forgotten, or at least they’d pretend.

And everything would carry on.

He rounded the last bend and turned for a moment to catch a glimpse of her asleep sprawled in her coat, suspended limply in the seat belt. The face he first saw cradled in his arms seventeen years ago was blotchy, the lipstick smeared and eye shadow run to tear tracks.

It was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He hesitated a moment longer before turning back. The lorry was in a most ridiculous place in the road. It had been trying to turn around but had got caught up somehow between a traffic island and the kerb. A man in blue overalls held the cab door open, leaning half out of it looking over his shoulder as he twisted the wheel.

The man looked up and in the last few moments their eyes met.

The doctors had told Janey she’d need the wheelchair for at least another two months. She’d decided she’d be out of it in less than one. The crying hadn’t started yet but it would, once the numbness had worn off.

After the service Karen pushed her slowly to the car where her mum and dad were waiting. Karen stopped short of them and whispered, “What was that thing you hung on his gravestone?

Janey thought about the heart-shaped pennant the police had found in Mike’s pocket, still in its little box with the silver string intact. And the tiny message she’d had engraved on its shiny surface.

‘Thanks dad, my own support player.’

Then she looked up at her best friend and just smiled.