Ned (1)

1.

Sitting in the departure lounge, an hour or so before boarding the Harwich-Esbjerg ferry, Robert’s transistor died.

   He’d sat himself in a corner, conspicuously so, in order to listen to the second half football commentary – a Saturday afternoon ritual stretching back most of his adult years – when the sound of the terraces faded to silence. So, with the air of a condemned man desperate to fulfil his final wish, Robert spent a considerable sum on four batteries and re-settled himself in his seat, head to one side, transistor balanced on his left shoulder. Aston Villa were playing Newcastle and the first half had been a cracker.

   ‘That the football I can hear ?’

   Robert had noticed the man earlier, standing alone near the ferry company’s office, peeling an orange. He was in his late sixties and was wearing a black duffel coat, black jogging pants, and tan buckskin loafers. His grey-white hair, recently trimmed, had needed a good squeeze of gel to flatten it. Beside the man was a feeble-looking trolley – the kind used by the more traditional female shopper, only wider – onto which had been strapped a ragged assortment of supermarket bags and a small buff suitcase with frayed corners.

   ‘Jeez…..that match last Friday night. See it ?’

   ‘Thursday’ Robert corrected.

   ‘Yeah, Thursday. Never in my life have I seen soccer played like that. The passing, the heading, the control of the ball – everything.’

   As the man spoke his arms moved animatedly in front of him, reminding Robert of the hammed-up gestures of a music song-and-dance man.

   ‘And the people packed into that ground. Phewee! Have you seen that ground ? The size of the stand ? For a moment there I thought I was back home watching the Yankees.’

   By now the transistor was beginning to slip from Robert’s shoulder. He threw in a few knowledgeable details about the game, recounted how he’d spent many a cold October afternoon at an English football match, and tried not to sound too impolite.

   ‘You know what those guys should do ?’

   ‘No’ said Robert. ‘What should they do ?’

   ‘They should get Brazil over. You familiar with Brazil ? The world football champions ?’

   ‘Yes, I’m familiar…’

   ‘They should get Brazil over and play an exhibition match. The money those guys would make! What stadium would they fill ? After Thursday night, what stadium ? I’ll tell you what stadium. The big one. In London. They could fill that stadium and make a real killing.’

   ‘You mean Wembley stadium ?’

   Robert was beginning to revert to type, sounding like a pugnacious teacher correcting an over-zealous student.

   ‘Yeah. You’ve got it. Wembley – Wembley stadium.’

   Across the way two other fellow-passengers were looking at Robert in helpless despair: he’d been accosted by the whacky American grandfather from hell. What’s more, he wasn’t about to let Robert get away.

   The previous week had seen two events of major importance in their respective fields. On Wednesday, September 28th, in the early hours of the morning, a roll-on, roll-off ferry travelling from Tallin to Stockholm had sunk with the loss of over nine hundred lives. In the three days that had passed many theories had been put forward by way of an explanation for the tragedy, that the ferry’s bow doors hadn’t been closed properly, that they had been ripped from their hinges by waves, that gross negligence on the part of crew members was to blame. Sitting in the departure lounge, waiting to board the less than pristine Esberg Princess, the fate of those nine hundred people was uppermost in Robert’s, and everyone else’s, mind. Apart from one or two morbid jokes emanating from the bar, a deferential sadness seemed in evidence as if the incident had confirmed unspoken questions of mortality. Also – and Robert couldn’t help noticing this – more than just a few occasional glances were being aimed the Esberg  Princess’  raised bow section.

   The second event of major importance: on Thursday evening, in a thrilling encounter, Aston Villa had knocked the holders, Inter Milan, out of the UEFA Cup.

   Next subject: English TV.

   ‘English TV is amongst the worst in the world. It stinks. Never in my life have I seen such turgid TV. I’ll tell ya how bad it is – I was forced to leave my hotel room every night and go to the movies. That’s how bad. No wonder you people spend so much time in the pub.’

   Now, Robert was not, by nature, what you might call a pushy or aggressive person. But it so happened that earlier in the year he’d enjoyed a few weeks gainful employment as a storyliner on one of network television’s lesser known soaps. The football was forgotten. Robert went for the jugular.

   ‘Very well’ he said, his voice hitting a hitherto unknown register. ‘Name me some decent American TV. Can you do that ? Hmmm ?’

   By now the whacky American had shuffled to within a few feet of Robert, utilising the space and playing to the wings between the small bar and the corner seat in which his prey had been cowering. Boy, was he a pro! A veteran of ferry departure lounges the world over. Was he the pre-travel entertainment, Robert wondered ? Or a  stooge for one of those ghastly take-the-piss-out-of-the-general-public shows ? He sank into an empty seat, his ample frame descending like a burst zeppelin, and sat for a moment, hand on chin, gazing at an undetermined spot somewhere out in the harbour. Yes, Robert thought, fumbling after his radio (and hoping to God that Cheers had slipped the old man’s mind) – dig yourself out of that one, bud!

   To Robert’s despair the burst zeppelin began to re-inflate itself. Then, with the look of a five year old who’s found the buried treasure, he turned to Robert and snapped: ‘Bet Your Life.’

   For the next ten minutes he enthused about this moribund game show – a show so cheap and mind-numbing it was transmitted on British TV at 9.25 in the morning. The whacky grandfather recounted its history, how the format was based on a 1950’s quiz fronted by Groucho Marx and how the humour of the programme lay in the comic manipulation of the contestants by Bill Cosby – ‘One of the richest blacks in America’. Perhaps noticing Robert’s increasingly comatose state he looked into the younger man’s eyes and said: ‘Ever seen it ?’

   ‘No’ Robert lied.

   Then, like a doctor offering a final diagnosis, he smiled and said tenderly: ‘Try and catch it when you get back home. I think you’ll like it.’

   Right on cue, Robert’s transistor erupted. Newcastle had scored.