Buch lesen: «Whatever Happened to Billy Parks»

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Also by Gareth R Roberts

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

17 October 1973

Wembley

The Unbearable Weight of Failure

They had to win. That was all.

If they won, everything would be alright. If they won, there would be happiness; the rest of the English autumn would be mellow and misty, then the winter would be brilliant white with snow, and Christmas would be merry, then the spring would prosper giving rise to a World Cup in the summer in West Germany.

They just had to win. That was all. Against Poland. That’s all.

We all remember it; even if you weren’t born, even if you hate football, even if you don’t remember it, you remember it because everything changed that night. That night, all they had to do was win. They didn’t win. They drew.

Mr Clough had said their goalie was a clown. And Mr Clough was always right. The BBC showed the game live so that we could all revel in the joyous tension that would precede the campaign to reclaim the World Cup, England’s World Cup.

Sir Alf picked three strikers: Channon, Chivers and Clarke. They would score, because the Polish goalie was a clown.

And Billy Parks was on the bench.

Billy Parks: the best of all of them; the most natural, the most beautiful, the most easily distracted, as he carried the immense weight of his talent on his slender shoulders.

The Polish Clown saved from Chivers.

The Polish Clown saved from Currie.

The Polish Clown saved from Clarke, then Channon, then Channon again.

Then. Then. Then. Norman Hunter didn’t tackle Lato, the Polish midfielder. Norman Hunter, who normally took bites out of human legs, who never let anyone past him, missed the tackle and Lato played it through to Domarski who sent it tamely past Shilton. They weren’t winning. They were losing.

Attack.

The Polish Clown saved from Chivers and Channon and Clarke and Hunter and Bell.

Then Clarke scored a penalty. But that wouldn’t be enough. They had to win.

And Billy Parks sat on the bench. In between Kevin Keegan and Bobby Moore. His knees drawn into him against the cold, his mind wandering to the two hundred and fifty quid he’d bet on an England win.

A win that would make everything alright. A win would bring colour to the grey beige of the seventies. A win would change everything.

But the Clown saved every shot that came his way.

So Sir Alf looked to his bench. Destiny called for someone. Sir Alf looked at his bench and thought about which valiant hero would bring forth triumph. Who would forge their name in the fires of destiny. Score a bloody goal.

Billy Parks sat, cold. He avoided Sir Alf’s gaze, his mind on the barmaid from the Golden Swan whom he would pick up later in his inferno-red TR6.

Eventually, because he knew he had to, he looked up. Five minutes to go. He looked towards Sir Alf and Sir Alf looked away from him and called upon Kevin Hector. Kevin Hector would deliver the goal. Kevin Hector would make everything alright. He had scored over 100 goals for Derby County. He was reliable. We would be alright – wouldn’t we?

England got a corner. Tony Currie swung it in. For once, the Clown was nowhere, he was beaten by the flight of the ball. The ball fell on to the head of Kevin Hector. This was his chance. This was his chance. This was his destiny. He headed it towards the goal. The Clown was beaten.

Kevin Keegan and Bobby Moore rose up from the bench. Billy Parks didn’t move.

The ball went towards the goal. Just a ball heading through time and space. It means nothing. It means absolutely everything. All England has to do is win. One goal would do it.

The ball left Kevin Hector’s head and went towards the goal-line. Everyone stood up, everyone waited for the goal, everyone waited for the triumph, for the tension to be broken, for everything to be alright. But it wasn’t a goal. The net didn’t bulge. A Polish defender kicked it off the line.

Keegan and Moore sat down again. Sir Alf sat down again. Parksy looked towards the crowd. The mass of grey faces. Kevin Hector’s destiny was fulfilled. The man who missed the chance.

If only things had been different.

Perhaps they could have been.

Perhaps they could be.

(Taken, in part, from the little known, but highly acclaimed, 1977 biography of Billy Parks, Parksy: The Lost Genius of Upton Park, by veteran Sunday Times football journalist, Philip Clarence.)

1

There are two bar stools on the small makeshift stage.

One for me, and one for my whisky tumbler. The crowd like that. A little visual joke, just to break the ice, just to make them relaxed. I’ve been doing that for years.

I’m sixty-odd now. I still tell people I’m fifty-eight, but with the bloody internet and Wiki-whatsit, every bastard knows that I was born in 1948, which makes me, well, sixty-odd.

Christ, sixty-odd? How did that happen? How did the years crumble away so bloody quickly? Sixty-odd, but still in good nick I reckon; like a well-preserved Dodo, rendered ageless in a glass cage by the blurred images of my youth that I know the crowd prefer to keep in their memories: Sunday afternoons with Brian Moore; Saturday nights with Jimmy Hill after Parkinson with a cup of tea; Peter Jones’s dulcet Welsh tones; Harold Wilson: Ford Capris; the Yorkshire bloody Ripper. It’s all up there in flock wallpaper purple with me somewhere in the midst of it making my way down the wing at Upton Park or the Lane.

Sixty-odd now. Still got all my hair though – well most of it – even if the happy blond is rudely interrupted by the odd bit of dirty grey. I’ll admit that, but, hey, I am sixty-odd.

I smile at the crowd. There are about twelve of them here. A few more are by the bar getting a round in before I start. I don’t blame them. This is a drinking afternoon. Drink’s part of it, of course it is.

They look at me and I know that they don’t care about the deep black ridges under my eyes, or this suspicious purple brown spot that has recently appeared on my cheek. I smile again, with my eyes twinkling just as they remember and my teeth glistening like a Hollywood starlet (courtesy of a bit of work I had done a couple of years ago using the last of my testimonial money). I am still capable of lighting up a room, still capable of sending a full-back the wrong way.

I am Billy Parks.

I lift the cheap whisky tumbler, neat, of course, and drink it. That’s for them. They expect it. It’s part of the legend.

The last of the drinkers take their seats and I notice the poster on the wall above the bar, handwritten in black marker pen proclaiming:

SPORTSMAN’S LUNCH AT THE ANCHOR,

This Tuesday, 14th March, 1pm

Former West Ham, Spurs and England Legend, BILLY ‘PARKSY’ PARKS.

Ticket £5 (includes free pint of Foster’s)

(Samantha and her Boa will be back next week)

Bless ’em.

They had cheered when I came on to the stage, ‘Parksy, Parksy, Parksy,’ they had chanted. Drink helps all of us.

I wave in a quiet understated way and they smile and sit back in expectation of an hour’s drinking and a good laugh. I wonder how many of them have actually seen me play? But that doesn’t matter; they all know the stories, and that is what they’re here for – the stories and the brief journey into a world they all feel they know and belong to.

I like to think that I don’t disappoint; hell, I’ve been telling the same stories for twenty-odd years.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Good to see that so many of you have used your day release from Parkhurst to be with me today.’

They laugh. I knew they would.

I go into my spiel and ignore the two fat City-boy types who are standing at the bar, talking loudly, probably about money; I even ignore the bloody fruit machine by the exit that, for some reason known only to the evil misguided bleeder who designed it, lights up like tracer fire every ten minutes and plays the opening bars from Coronation Street at top volume. I’ve told Alan, I don’t know how many times, to turn the bloody thing off when I’m on stage.

I tell them football stories, because that is what they’ve come to hear. I tell them about the characters of my era – proper characters, true lions of another better time, long passed over into the realm of myths and legends with the telling and retelling of tales. I tell them of their drunken exploits, their sexual exploits, the fights, the put-downs, the fast cars, the funny stories that made them godlike and mortal at the same time. I tell them of the managers who were hard bastards, and lunatic chairmen. I tell them about magical footballers, old friends, whose very names conjure up colours and tastes and sounds and sensations and people long gone: Georgie Best, Rodney Marsh, Chopper Harris, Norman Hunter, Alan Hudson, Charlie George, Frankie Worthington – legends each and every one of them.

I tell them about a tot of rum before kick off and a sneaky fag at half-time, fish and chips on the bus on the way back from Newcastle and the time Terry Neill got so angry at Loftus Road that he put his foot through the changing room door and missed the second half as a couple of stewards and our kit man tried to pull his leg out. I tell them that they were good honest pros, though. Good. Honest. Pros. And the crowd fills itself with lager and scampi and smiles and feels, for a few minutes, closer to that time, closer to the legends, and that feeling that if there had been any justice it would have been them. I know that they all think that. I’ve always known it. It’s the way they look at you. You were one of the lucky ones, Parksy. Luck: it’s got nothing to do with luck, son.

I’ve emptied the glass on the other bar stool, so I turn towards the bar and wordlessly call for another. And another. Fair play, Alan treats me well at The Anchor.

Any questions?

The same questions I’ve been asked a thousand times. I don’t mind.

Who was the best player you ever played against?

I sip my drink as the question’s asked, then I answer as the alcohol surges down my throat and loosens the connection between my tongue and my mind and my memory. They expect it.

‘The best player – that’s easy,’ I tell them. ‘Georgie Best.’ Hushed respectful tones and thin lips when talking about Georgie; the best player ever to grace a football pitch, bar none. God rest his mad Irish soul.

Who was the hardest opponent?

‘Paul Reaney – Reaney the Meanie of Dirty Leeds. The others would try to kick you, but he was the only one who was fast enough to catch you –’ I pause ‘– then he’d kick you.’ They laugh. Oh, yes, Paul Reaney, dirty, hard, fast bastard. I smile at the thought of being kicked by a good honest pro. ‘Good bloke,’ I add quietly, because I mean that. And that’s what good honest pros did – a kick, then a handshake and a few beers in the players’ lounge bar after the match. None of the nonsense you get with footballers these days, with their fancy cars and their fancy agents and their one hundred and ten fucking grand a week.

Not that I blame them.

I’ve answered these questions thousands of times. I’ve emptied a thousand glasses. I’ve smiled on thousands of fans. This is easy money, money for my memories and a few minutes of adulation to remind me that I’m still alive.

I’m getting warmed up now. The crowd is a good one, suitably boisterously pissed and attentive to all my best stories. I’ve become good at this.

My eyes wander towards the back of the pub, and there, standing close to the blessed Coronation Street fruit machine, stands a man in a tan sheepskin coat and trilby. There’s something familiar about him, something about the thick furious grey eyebrows that explode across a forehead that’s creased and serious. I know I’ve seen those eyebrows before, but where?

I catch him watching me intently, his face a humourless shade of thunderbolt grey. For a second I meet his stare, just a second. Where the bloody hell have I seen him before?

I turn away just as the man’s voice cuts through the muggy atmosphere of the pub to ask a question.

‘What would you give to turn the clock back and put a few things right?’ he asks.

God, not that old chestnut. I try to stifle the furrowing of my brow. There’s something about the way in which he asks the question though; it lacks the smiling compassion that usually accompanies my inquisitors. There’s a cold, understated masculine aggression to it. Perhaps he is one of the nutters that I sometimes get. Sad, bitter, twisted old bastards – back in the day, they’d want to fight me; now, occasionally, they want to humiliate me.

I pour more of the cheap neat whisky into my mouth. I can deal with it – I’ve heard this type of question a thousand times before:

If you could change anything, what would it be?

Do you have any regrets?

Where did it all go wrong?

I know exactly how I will answer it. I know that my mouth will form itself into a quick smile before opening and allowing meaningless soft words to tumble out like little balls of cotton wool harmlessly falling on to a bouncy mattress. Puff.

I put on my most sincere voice and answer, as the man in the sheepskin coat stares: ‘Football has given me a very lovely life and great memories,’ I tell him. ‘I wouldn’t change a second of anything. I’ve been very lucky.’ I pause, then smile. ‘And so have hundreds of birds and everyone in north and east London that was lucky enough to see me play.’

I grin, some of the audience chuckle, but the man’s expression doesn’t change, which gives me a sharp pang of discomfort, as though I was being chastised by an old and respected uncle. Well, sod that. I glance towards the bar, where the barmaid, Leanne, a rather hefty girl who obviously likes a bit of artificial tanning, stands bored, cradling her chin in her hands. Thirty years ago we might have been up for a bit of fun later – but not now.

It’s time to finish.

I turn again to the audience and ignore the bloke in the sheepskin coat.

‘Right, gentlemen, thank you very much, you’ve been lovely.’

The crowd applaud. Not Anfield, not Stamford Bridge, not Wembley Stadium or the San Siro, not the deep, pure, momentary masculine love of an adulating crowd roaring after the ball has ripped into the net, but smiling faces and clapping hands and a muted sincere cheer.

‘Thank you very much, fellas,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll tell you what, if any of you want to ask any more questions, I’m happy to oblige over by the bar.’

I always do this. I know that a little coterie of drinkers will surround me, try to get closer to me, close enough to breathe my air and buy me drinks and talk to me as if I’m one of the lads, one of them: ‘So, what do you think about the Hammers, eh? It’s a fucking disgrace.’

I’m not one of the lads. But I will be for a drink. They expect it.

‘You havin’ a drink with us, Parksy?’

‘Thank you very much, mate – I’ll have the same again. Yes, the Hammers – fucking terrible, I’ve not been down there for a while.’

After about an hour the crowd leaves: happy, drunk sportsmen. I’m alone. Alan, the landlord, a large man who wears brown short-sleeved shirts and steel-rimmed glasses, comes over.

‘You alright to get home, Billy?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘You sure?’

He looks carefully at me. ‘Did you know that your pupils have gone yellow? You should watch that.’

Yellow? What does he mean yellow? The daft bastard.

‘It must be something you’re putting in your scotch to water it down with,’ I say, and he grins at me with concerned eyes.

‘Here you go, son,’ he says, handing me a brown envelope. ‘Forty quid, I’ve taken out the twenty you owe for your tab, alright?’

I nod. I’m not going to quibble over a few quid.

I leave the safety of The Anchor, stepping out into the late afternoon. The pub door shuts behind me and the south London air stings my eyes. I hate that, I hate that moment when the pub door shuts and the moroseness hits you. The devastating lonely feeling of insignificance. My past means nothing under the massive spitting sky. Cars whip by creating movement and noise in the gloom. They ignore me. They don’t know who I am. But if they did, if they had seen me …

I stumble, then grab hold of the railings by the side of the road. Better take myself to The Marquis close to the park. Yes, there would be friendly faces there, friendly faces and the same conversations and the same drink: people to tell me how worthwhile my life has been, people to love me. Perhaps Maureen, the landlady, will be there and I might find solace in her comfortable body.

I start to walk; my knees hurt, the result of Paul bloody Reaney no doubt, him and the hundreds of others without an ounce of talent who’d been told to kick me as hard as they fucking-well could. I feel tired. I rub my eyes and start to cross the road.

‘You didn’t answer my question, Billy?’

I turn around abruptly, drunkenly, to see the man in the sheepskin coat and trilby walking towards me. My eyes narrow as I try to focus on the man’s face. Where the bloody hell do I know him from? There was something familiar about him.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘I should hope so,’ he says, and he smiles slowly and mechanically at me.

I stagger slightly and move my head back trying to get a better look at him, to picture him, put a name to the face, put an age to the face.

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ I say. ‘I can’t remember. You’ll have to remind me.’

‘Come on,’ says the man ignoring the request. ‘Let’s take a walk through the park.’

We walk through Southwark Park. Some kids kick a ball on a strip of concrete. We stop and watch them: it’s what old football men do.

‘You see that?’ asks the man in the sheepskin coat.

And I turn to face him. I’d seen nothing of worth in the boys’ kick-about and am starting to feel a bit weird, light headed, there is something about this man that confuses me, weakens me, makes me feel ill.

‘The grass, Billy,’ the man continues. ‘Those boys are playing on the concrete because the grass on the park is useless. It’s just mud.’

I look at the empty field, heavy and rutted with green and brown, then back to the boys.

‘Not many people know this, but the grass on that park is Bahia grass which comes from South America. Did you know that, Billy?’

I shake my head. I’ve no idea what he’s going on about. Suddenly I want another drink like I’ve never wanted one before.

‘Some clot decided that if the boys of south London were going to play like South Americans, then they should have South American grass.’

‘Oh,’ I say. But I don’t want to stand still talking about grass; the open space of the park is starting to hurt my eyes.

The man in the trilby gives a throaty laugh. ‘Of course, they didn’t realise that Bahia grass would struggle in our climes – it doesn’t grip the soil in the same way, you see. It’s rubbish.’

The man smiles and looks over towards me as I start to feel a warm sensation in my temples.

‘That’s where you know me from,’ he says, warming slightly. ‘Brisbane Road. Gerry Higgs. I was head groundsman and coach at the Orient when you went there as a boy.’

Gerry Higgs, of course, Gerry Higgs. I nod my head slowly then rub my temples. There is sweat rushing down the side of my face. Why am I sweating?

‘Gerry Higgs,’ I mumble. ‘Yes, I remember.’ I look at him, my eyes narrowing and clouding as I examine him more closely – Gerry Higgs. Bloody hell. But that doesn’t make sense. ‘Mr Higgs,’ I say, confused, ‘you were old then – you haven’t changed. Why haven’t you changed?’

‘Ah,’ he says, ‘there’s a reason for that, Billy.’

‘What’s that then?’ I try to muster a clever joke, despite the pounding in my head. ‘Porridge every morning? Cod liver oil before you go to bed?’

‘No son,’ he says. ‘I went into the Service a few years ago.’

Service. Service? What is that? What does he mean, Service? I rub my eyes again – my body becomes heavy. Why? What’s happening?

The man’s eyes train on me. I need a drink. I turn away from him.

‘How’s your daughter, Billy?’ I hear him say, as though he’s talking from another room. I note the slightly sinister tone to his voice. I want to answer but I can’t. I want to ask him why he’s mentioned my daughter, Rebecca. But I can’t. I can’t muster an answer. I hear more words, this time from even further away, ‘And your grandson – what’s his name? Liam isn’t it?’

I’m reeling now. What did Gerry Higgs know about my daughter and the boy?

‘I dunno.’ I’m stuttering, trying to shout. ‘How do you know about them?’

The man smiles. ‘I know everything, son. As I told you, I’m in the Service. And now I want to help you, Billy. I want to help you to put everything right. You do want that don’t you? We can do that in the Service.’

There was that word again: Service. What does he mean? My eyes blur and I feel something loosen in my mind. I don’t understand. Gerry Higgs. What does he mean – how can he help me? What is the Service? I look around for something to hold on to, and as I do an image forms in my mind of Becky and Liam – my daughter and my grandson. I’m not with them. I haven’t been with them for bloody ages, years. The image is one of longing and spiky, prickly, guilt. Why has Gerry Higgs mentioned them? Gerry Higgs, the groundsman at the Orient who coached the kids and drove the youth team bus on a Saturday. What did it have to do with him?

Was it really him?

I feel a little explosion in my mind then a cloying lightness that spreads throughout my body, starting with my eyes then rippling downwards, jumping from my torso to my knees that suddenly veer in spastic directions.

No balance, no control.

I fall. What’s happening? What the bloody hell is going on?

Is this it? Is this the end? Is this death?

For a few seconds everything is quiet. Nothing. Not a sound. There’s just me, Billy Parks, Parksy, bloody Billy Parks of West Ham United and England, legend, lying, alone, on the ground, crumpled and small and breathing with a violence that makes my body shudder.

I can hear anxious voices in the distance. ‘See that, that old geezer’s fallen over,’ they say and the boys who’d been playing football start to run towards me.

I’m not old, I think.

And my lips move, silently.

I’m Billy Parks.