She handed me the daisy and I plucked the fragile white petals away one by one.
He loves me.
Pluck.
He loves me not.
Pluck.
He loves me.
Pluck.
He loves me not.
Pluck.
He loves me.
Although it was nothing more than a silly childish superstition, a warmth radiated from my core when only the bobbly middle of the flower remained.
He loves me. But who is “he”?
Chapter 8
“Is it awful to be glad that my other half’s got a fever?” Finley asked cheekily, as we climbed the steps leading to our gate into St James’ Park. “I’m glad you could use Joel’s season ticket. I always think of you as a bit of a lucky charm.”
The comment made me chortle. We’d lost the previous match I’d attended at the back end of last season five-nil.
“It’s the scarf that’s the lucky charm,” Dad insisted, fondling the fronds of the black and white knitted accessory that was hanging around my neck. “Three generations of the Drew family have worn that scarf when watching the Toon. It’s forty years old.”
“It can’t be that lucky, we’ve not had forty years of non-stop glory,” Norma huffed, pulling herself up on the metal handrail. “If only!”
“There have been some great nights though,” Fred reminded her. “More than some supporters ever get. Think of those poor sods stuck watching non-league week in week out, they’d love to be here in the pouring rain at a big match like this.”
A man barged past Norma, almost sending her flying on the slippery steps. “Watch it,” I shouted, firing him a dirty look. Norma was a tough cookie, but she was still an elderly lady and it annoyed me when people didn’t show the older generation respect. “Are you all right, Norma?”
“I’m out of puff.” She exhaled as she reached the top of the concourse, her body almost bent double as she clutched at the wall. “It’s those steps that’ll be the death of me, not some idiot with no manners. I’ll be fine once I’ve got my breath back.”
“Take your time, it’s slippy.” Dad hooked his arm and offered it to Norma. “And there’s no reason to rush, there’s still ten minutes until kick-off.”
The familiar strains of one of Newcastle United’s most famous anthems played out. Mark Knopfler’s “Going Home”, the theme from Local Hero, had become synonymous with watching our beloved Magpies. Being at the ground warmed my soul, bringing back memories of some of my happiest times. Coming to the match with Dad had been as much about bonding as it had been about football, and being back on this patch made me wish I came more regularly. Maybe one day I’d get a season ticket again, if I could afford it.
We filed through the turnstiles, the sounds of match day all around us, and I drank in the atmosphere as we made our way to our seats. It felt like coming home. Even though the ground had changed over the years, nothing was unfamiliar. The same smell of Bovril coming from steamy plastic cups clutched in the hands of monochrome-clad fans, the same roar of the crowd as the team took to the pitch, the “Blaydon Races” song accompanying the eleven chosen ones. Most importantly, there were the same people around me, with the exception of Joel, whose seat I was filling.
“Werther’s Original?” Norma offered me a paper bag brimming with the butter mints, and although they weren’t my favourite I took one. I noticed Dad craftily sneak three, popping one in his mouth and the other two into his pocket for later.
“Get stuck in!” Finley yelled, face creased in annoyance as the midfielder who’d given the ball away three times in as many minutes shirked a tackle. “I could do better than that and I’ve not put on a pair of boots in twenty years.”
Two minutes later everyone rose to their feet – some more quickly than others – as our star forward (as much as we had star forwards, not being in a position to compete with the Real Madrids of this world) surged into the box. There was a collective intake of breath as his foot connected with the ball, everything seemingly in slow motion as we waited to see if it found its way into the back of the net…
It didn’t. The ball bounced back off the post, to the chagrin of the crowd.
Fred was apoplectic as he lowered himself back onto the plastic flip seat, furiously rubbing his hand against the contours of his hairless head. “Players these days don’t know they’re born. They need to take lessons from the greats. Watch videos of Alan Shearer or Malcolm McDonald and see how it’s done.” Fred blew out a puff of air in exasperation as he replaced his flat cap, covering the liver spots that speckled the skin on top of his head.
“Sophie surprised me with an old programme,” Dad told him. “Supermac was on the front cover and I was telling her what a joy it was watching him play the beautiful game.”
“Where did you find that?” Finley asked me.
“Second-hand shop,” I mumbled, not wanting him to ask what I was doing rifling through a box of mildew-damaged programmes.
He raised his eyebrows quizzically, but didn’t have chance to ask any further questions because we were on our feet again, the ball having crossed the halfway line. Two passes later, it was skied over the bar, to much derision from the crowd.
Swearing and chuntering (not just from Dad) echoed around the stadium as we sat back down, fifty thousand people lowering themselves into their seats in a reverse Mexican wave. That’s when I noticed Norma wasn’t hurling abuse, she was calling for help as
