Here in this office, where they sat upon his knee.
Mrs Jean Reid stands in the doorway. My boys looking at their feet.
‘Any chance of a cup of tea, love?’ I ask her.
Mrs Jean Reid says, ‘The directors are waiting for you upstairs.’
‘For me?’ I ask. ‘Why?’
‘For the board meeting.’
I take off my jacket. I take out my handkerchief. I place it on the seat of the chair. His chair. I sit down in the chair behind the desk. His desk. I put my feet up on the desk –
His chair. His desk. His office. His secretary –
‘They are waiting for you,’ says Mrs Jean Reid again.
‘Let them wait,’ I tell her. ‘Now how about that cup of tea, duck?’
Mrs Jean Reid just stands and stares at the soles of my shoes.
I knock on the desk. Don’s desk. I ask, ‘Whose is this desk, love?’
‘It’s yours now,’ whispers Mrs Jean Reid.
‘Whose was this desk?’
‘Mr Revie’s.’
‘I want it burnt then.’
‘Pardon?’ exclaims Mrs Jean Reid.
‘I want this desk burnt,’ I tell her again. ‘The chairs and all. The whole bloody lot.’
‘But …’
‘Whose secretary are you, duck?’
‘Yours now, Mr Clough.’
‘Whose secretary were you?’
Mrs Jean Reid bites her nails and stems her tears, inside her resignation already penned, just waiting to be typed up and signed. On my desk by Monday –
He hates me and I hate him, but I hate him more, more and more –
‘Change the locks as well,’ I tell her on our way out, the boys with their eyes on the floor and their hands in their pockets. ‘Don’t want the ghost of troubled Don popping in now, do we? Rattling his chains, scaring my young ones.’
* * *
The scenery changes. The pain remains. Stagehands bring on the furniture in boxes. Bring you home in an ambulance. In on a stretcher. You have suffered a complete tear of the cruciate and medial ligaments. More serious than a broken leg. There is no satisfactory operation. For three months you lie at home on your red G-Plan settee with your knee bent in plaster and your leg up on the cushions, smoking and drinking, shouting and crying –
You are afraid, afraid of your dreams; your dreams which were once your friends, your best friends, are now your enemies, your worst enemies –
This is where they find you, in your dreams. This is where they catch you –
The birds and the badgers. The foxes and the ferrets. The dogs and the demons.
Now you are frightened. Now you run –
Laps of the pitch, up and down the steps of the Spion Kop. The fifty-seven steps. Thirty times. Seven days a week from nine in the morning. But you keep your distance from the dressing room. The fifty-seven steps. You prefer the beach at Seaburn. Thirty times. The beach and the bar. Seven days a week from nine in the morning. Running –
Scared. Frightened –
Scared of the shadows. The figures without faces. Without names –
Frightened of the future. Your future. No future.
But day by day you find your feet again. You cannot play, not yet. You cannot play, so you coach. For now. The Sunderland youth team. It keeps you out of the pubs and the clubs, out of bed and off the settee. Keeps your temper too. Coaching. Teaching. Five-a-sides. Six-a-sides. Crossing and shooting. You love it and they love you. They respect you. The likes of John O’Hare and Colin Todd. Young lads who hang on your every word, every one of them, every single word. You take the Sunderland youth team to the semi-finals of the FA Youth Cup. You pass the FA coaching examination. You bloody love it –
But it’s no substitute. It’s still second best –
Your future. Still second best.
* * *
Round the corner. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. To the boardroom. The battlefield. The wooden double doors. There are windows here, behind these doors, but only here. Matching curtains and carpets. Matching blazers and brass:
Manny Cussins. Sam Bolton. Bob Roberts. Sydney Simon. Percy Woodward; Alderman Percy Woodward, the vice-chairman –
Half Gentile, half Jew; a last, lost tribe of self-made Yorkshiremen and Israelites. In search of the promised land; of public recognition, of acceptance and of gratitude. The doffed cap, the bended knee, and the taste of their arses on the lips of the crowd –
The unwashed, applauding them – not the team, only them – them and their brass.
Keith Archer, the club secretary, is hopping from foot to foot, clapping his hands. Patting my lads on their heads, ruffling their hair.
Cussins and Roberts, smiles and cigars, and would you like a drink?
‘Bloody murder one,’ I tell them and plonk myself down at the head of the table, the top table.
Sam Bolton sits down across from me. Bolton is an FA councillor and vice-president of the Football League. Plain-speaking and self- made, proud of it too –
‘You’ve probably been wondering where your trainer is?’
‘Les Cocker?’ I ask and shake my head. ‘Bad pennies always turn up.’
‘Not this one,’ says Bolton. ‘He’ll be joining Mr Revie and England.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ I tell him.
‘Why do you say that, Mr Clough?’
‘He’s a nasty, aggressive little bugger and you’ve still got plenty to go round.’
‘You’ll be needing a trainer though,’ says Bolton.
‘Jimmy Gordon will do me.’
‘Derby will let him go, will they?’
‘They will if I ask for him.’
‘Well, you’d better bloody ask them then, hadn’t you?’
‘I already have,’ I tell him.
‘Have you now?’ asks Bolton. ‘What else you been up to this morning?’
‘Just looking and listening,’ I tell him. ‘Looking, listening and learning.’
‘Well, Clough, you’ve also got eight contracts to look at.’
‘You what?’ I ask him. ‘Revie’s left
