he
wanted
to be an invalid. He felt happier that way.
Now, he thought drily as he returned downstairs with the paper, he was a king without a subject and a woman in trousers had just carried him downstairs as if he was a sack of coal. He shuddered at the memory. Tomorrow when she came, he’d be in the chair, tea made, and tell her it was sheer willpower that had done it, a victory of mind over matter.
He was just reading how the Russians were fighting back, defying the Germans every step of the way, and thinking admiringly, ‘the stubborn red devils,’ when the front door opened again and this time it was Aggie Donovan who came in, a bottle of milk in her hand.
‘Oh, so you’re up,’ she remarked in surprise.
‘Vera Dodds helped me down,’ Jimmy explained somewhat unwillingly.
‘Did she now!’ Aggie looked slightly aggrieved, as if she would have carried him down herself given half a chance. ‘I’ve brought your milk in. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’ve already made one,’ Jimmy said curtly. If she expected him to offer her some, she had another think coming.
‘Wonders will never cease! Would you like a bite of breakfast, then?’
‘No, ta. I intend making meself something in a minute.’
‘Your Kitty will have a heart attack when she comes home.’
‘Our Kitty cosseted me too much,’ Jimmy said traitorously. ‘She wouldn’t let me do a thing for meself.’
‘Pull the other one, Jimmy, it’s got bells on. Oh, well, I’ll love you and leave you. Tara.’
‘Tara.’
Jimmy returned to the paper. He’d cut the key off the string in a minute, otherwise the house would be like Exchange Station all day long.
A few minutes later, the back door opened, and Dominic Reilly, Sheila’s eldest boy, came in with a bowl of porridge.
‘Me mam said she couldn’t spare the milk and sugar. You’ll have to use your own.’
Jimmy was about to tell Dominic what he could do with his porridge when he remembered he quite liked the lad. He was a splendid little chap, eight years old, clean-cut and with a pleasant open face – the image of his dad, Calum Reilly. Not only that, he was a good, keen footballer. Jimmy often observed the lads playing footy in the streets, goalposts chalked on the railway wall. Dominic stood out from the others with his speed and nifty footwork.
‘Ta,’ he said, doing his best to sound gracious.
‘Me mam said you’d be in bed and I was to put the sugar and milk in and take it up to you.’
‘Well, I’m not in bed, am I? I’m up, and I can put me own sugar and milk in, thanks all the same,’ Jimmy said tartly. It was one thing having your own daughter waiting on you hand and foot, but another thing altogether for heavyweight postwomen and little boys to behave as if you were totally helpless.
Dominic looked at him with interest. ‘You used to play footy for Everton, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Only the reserves.’
‘Still.’ The lad seemed impressed and Jimmy preened himself. ‘Did you know Dixie Dean?’
‘He was after my time, I’m afraid.’
‘He scored sixty goals one season,’ Dominic said reverently, ‘more than any other footballer in history.’
‘I know.’ If Jimmy had been standing, he would have genuflected.
‘We’ve got a big match at school soon,’ Dominic said proudly. ‘I’m team captain. It’s some sort of cup thing,’ he added vaguely. ‘We’re already through the first round.’
‘What position do you play?’
‘Centre forward, same as Dixie. It’s me favourite.’
‘It was mine, too. You feel like you’re king o’the pitch.’
They stared at each other, eyes aglow with mutual understanding.
‘Look, I’d like to know how you get on.’ Jimmy genuinely meant it. ‘In fact, pop in after school some time and I’ll give you a few tips.’
‘Honest? I’ll come today. I’ll have to go now, else I’ll be late.’ Dominic was halfway down the yard when he shouted, ‘I forgot to say, me mam’ll be
wanted
to be an invalid. He felt happier that way.
Now, he thought drily as he returned downstairs with the paper, he was a king without a subject and a woman in trousers had just carried him downstairs as if he was a sack of coal. He shuddered at the memory. Tomorrow when she came, he’d be in the chair, tea made, and tell her it was sheer willpower that had done it, a victory of mind over matter.
He was just reading how the Russians were fighting back, defying the Germans every step of the way, and thinking admiringly, ‘the stubborn red devils,’ when the front door opened again and this time it was Aggie Donovan who came in, a bottle of milk in her hand.
‘Oh, so you’re up,’ she remarked in surprise.
‘Vera Dodds helped me down,’ Jimmy explained somewhat unwillingly.
‘Did she now!’ Aggie looked slightly aggrieved, as if she would have carried him down herself given half a chance. ‘I’ve brought your milk in. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘I’ve already made one,’ Jimmy said curtly. If she expected him to offer her some, she had another think coming.
‘Wonders will never cease! Would you like a bite of breakfast, then?’
‘No, ta. I intend making meself something in a minute.’
‘Your Kitty will have a heart attack when she comes home.’
‘Our Kitty cosseted me too much,’ Jimmy said traitorously. ‘She wouldn’t let me do a thing for meself.’
‘Pull the other one, Jimmy, it’s got bells on. Oh, well, I’ll love you and leave you. Tara.’
‘Tara.’
Jimmy returned to the paper. He’d cut the key off the string in a minute, otherwise the house would be like Exchange Station all day long.
A few minutes later, the back door opened, and Dominic Reilly, Sheila’s eldest boy, came in with a bowl of porridge.
‘Me mam said she couldn’t spare the milk and sugar. You’ll have to use your own.’
Jimmy was about to tell Dominic what he could do with his porridge when he remembered he quite liked the lad. He was a splendid little chap, eight years old, clean-cut and with a pleasant open face – the image of his dad, Calum Reilly. Not only that, he was a good, keen footballer. Jimmy often observed the lads playing footy in the streets, goalposts chalked on the railway wall. Dominic stood out from the others with his speed and nifty footwork.
‘Ta,’ he said, doing his best to sound gracious.
‘Me mam said you’d be in bed and I was to put the sugar and milk in and take it up to you.’
‘Well, I’m not in bed, am I? I’m up, and I can put me own sugar and milk in, thanks all the same,’ Jimmy said tartly. It was one thing having your own daughter waiting on you hand and foot, but another thing altogether for heavyweight postwomen and little boys to behave as if you were totally helpless.
Dominic looked at him with interest. ‘You used to play footy for Everton, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right. Only the reserves.’
‘Still.’ The lad seemed impressed and Jimmy preened himself. ‘Did you know Dixie Dean?’
‘He was after my time, I’m afraid.’
‘He scored sixty goals one season,’ Dominic said reverently, ‘more than any other footballer in history.’
‘I know.’ If Jimmy had been standing, he would have genuflected.
‘We’ve got a big match at school soon,’ Dominic said proudly. ‘I’m team captain. It’s some sort of cup thing,’ he added vaguely. ‘We’re already through the first round.’
‘What position do you play?’
‘Centre forward, same as Dixie. It’s me favourite.’
‘It was mine, too. You feel like you’re king o’the pitch.’
They stared at each other, eyes aglow with mutual understanding.
‘Look, I’d like to know how you get on.’ Jimmy genuinely meant it. ‘In fact, pop in after school some time and I’ll give you a few tips.’
‘Honest? I’ll come today. I’ll have to go now, else I’ll be late.’ Dominic was halfway down the yard when he shouted, ‘I forgot to say, me mam’ll be
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