attempt on goal or a goal?’ I say.
He gives me a look that could shrivel plastic. ‘Goal.’
‘OK.’ I smile and scribble it down then go back to my bouquet and add a fringe of roses before starting work on Treacle’s veil. As I lengthen the soft lace with a swirl of my pen, pooling it around her feet, the crowd roars. I look up like a startled squirrel. The Green Park players are whooping. Goal ? I look for Treacle. She’s bouncing with delight at the edge of the whoopers. Someone must have scored.
Then I realise Jeff’s not beside me any more. Has he gone home and left me in charge of stat-logging? Please, no! Fear-sparks snap in my brain; I’ve only made three match-related notes and one of those is so entwined with roses it’s hardly legible any more. I need him to fill me in on the game.
With a whoosh of relief I spot Jeff keeping pace with the linesman. He’s watching the players as they fan out and restart play. Treacle punts the ball downfield. Anila heads it down and starts dribbling towards the goal. As she prepares to fire, the ref blows his whistle for halftime.
Treacle jogs over to their football coach, Miss Bayliss, who’s handing out oranges to the players on the far side of the pitch. Sucking on a slice, Treacle scoops up a rain-soaked towel and wipes her blotchy, wet face.
I hurry over to Jeff. He’s chatting to the linesman – Mr Chapman, my geography teacher. Glasses. Beard. Totally hopeless, but sweet. Twice a week he tries to convince me that maps hold the key to all knowledge. He hasn’t won me over yet, but it’s nice of him to try so hard.
‘Good job Green Park equalised before half-time,’ Jeff observes.
‘It gives them a chance to come back.’ Mr Chapman takes off his rain-spattered glasses and rubs them with the hem of his jersey.
So it was a goal after all. ‘Who scored?’ I ask innocently.
‘Number seven,’ Jeff answers.
Anila . I jot it down under the sketch of Wedding Treacle then duck between Jeff and Mr C and interrupt. ‘So what do you think of the game so far?’ I ask Jeff.
‘Not bad.’
‘Treacle’s pretty fast, isn’t she?’
‘For a girl.’
I punch him in the arm. ‘What do you mean for a girl ?’
Jeff looks nonplussed. ‘I mean she’s fast for a girl. She’s a top team player. Good striker too.’ I make a mental note to warn Treacle that Jeff’s a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get) kind of guy. He may lack tact, but she’s not going to have the hassle of second-guessing anything he says.
The ref blows his whistle and Mr Chapman starts bobbing along the sideline doing whatever it is linesmen do.
As play begins, I start doodling love hearts round the edge of the page and, keeping one eye on the game, link them with a pretty chain of daisies. Sometimes, when I spot Treacle with the ball, I point her out to Jeff. Not too much. I don’t want to make him suspicious. But I don’t want him to forget she’s on the field either.
As I draw a garland of buttercups round a freshly sketched heart, I wonder if Treacle will let me choose my own bridesmaid’s dress. Pale green would totally highlight my eyes and I’d wear my hair up, princess-style.
‘Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?’
Tears prick my eyes as Treacle passes me her bouquet and lets Jeff take her hand.
‘YESSS!’
Jeff’s roar makes me jump. I look up from the notepad.
‘Go, Treacle!’ Jeff’s punching the air.
‘She scored?’ I stare. ‘She scored !’ Go, Treacle!
‘The winning goal!’ Jeff’s clapping as the ref blows the final whistle. ‘They’ve made it through to the next round.’
I grab his arm. ‘Let’s go and interview Treacle!’ This is even better than I’d planned.
I don’t give Jeff chance to answer, but head straight across the pitch.
Treacle’s swamped by teammates, jumping round her, screaming. I wait for them to calm down, keeping one eye on Jeff in case he bolts. The rain’s cleared, but the wind’s
He gives me a look that could shrivel plastic. ‘Goal.’
‘OK.’ I smile and scribble it down then go back to my bouquet and add a fringe of roses before starting work on Treacle’s veil. As I lengthen the soft lace with a swirl of my pen, pooling it around her feet, the crowd roars. I look up like a startled squirrel. The Green Park players are whooping. Goal ? I look for Treacle. She’s bouncing with delight at the edge of the whoopers. Someone must have scored.
Then I realise Jeff’s not beside me any more. Has he gone home and left me in charge of stat-logging? Please, no! Fear-sparks snap in my brain; I’ve only made three match-related notes and one of those is so entwined with roses it’s hardly legible any more. I need him to fill me in on the game.
With a whoosh of relief I spot Jeff keeping pace with the linesman. He’s watching the players as they fan out and restart play. Treacle punts the ball downfield. Anila heads it down and starts dribbling towards the goal. As she prepares to fire, the ref blows his whistle for halftime.
Treacle jogs over to their football coach, Miss Bayliss, who’s handing out oranges to the players on the far side of the pitch. Sucking on a slice, Treacle scoops up a rain-soaked towel and wipes her blotchy, wet face.
I hurry over to Jeff. He’s chatting to the linesman – Mr Chapman, my geography teacher. Glasses. Beard. Totally hopeless, but sweet. Twice a week he tries to convince me that maps hold the key to all knowledge. He hasn’t won me over yet, but it’s nice of him to try so hard.
‘Good job Green Park equalised before half-time,’ Jeff observes.
‘It gives them a chance to come back.’ Mr Chapman takes off his rain-spattered glasses and rubs them with the hem of his jersey.
So it was a goal after all. ‘Who scored?’ I ask innocently.
‘Number seven,’ Jeff answers.
Anila . I jot it down under the sketch of Wedding Treacle then duck between Jeff and Mr C and interrupt. ‘So what do you think of the game so far?’ I ask Jeff.
‘Not bad.’
‘Treacle’s pretty fast, isn’t she?’
‘For a girl.’
I punch him in the arm. ‘What do you mean for a girl ?’
Jeff looks nonplussed. ‘I mean she’s fast for a girl. She’s a top team player. Good striker too.’ I make a mental note to warn Treacle that Jeff’s a WYSIWYG (what you see is what you get) kind of guy. He may lack tact, but she’s not going to have the hassle of second-guessing anything he says.
The ref blows his whistle and Mr Chapman starts bobbing along the sideline doing whatever it is linesmen do.
As play begins, I start doodling love hearts round the edge of the page and, keeping one eye on the game, link them with a pretty chain of daisies. Sometimes, when I spot Treacle with the ball, I point her out to Jeff. Not too much. I don’t want to make him suspicious. But I don’t want him to forget she’s on the field either.
As I draw a garland of buttercups round a freshly sketched heart, I wonder if Treacle will let me choose my own bridesmaid’s dress. Pale green would totally highlight my eyes and I’d wear my hair up, princess-style.
‘Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?’
Tears prick my eyes as Treacle passes me her bouquet and lets Jeff take her hand.
‘YESSS!’
Jeff’s roar makes me jump. I look up from the notepad.
‘Go, Treacle!’ Jeff’s punching the air.
‘She scored?’ I stare. ‘She scored !’ Go, Treacle!
‘The winning goal!’ Jeff’s clapping as the ref blows the final whistle. ‘They’ve made it through to the next round.’
I grab his arm. ‘Let’s go and interview Treacle!’ This is even better than I’d planned.
I don’t give Jeff chance to answer, but head straight across the pitch.
Treacle’s swamped by teammates, jumping round her, screaming. I wait for them to calm down, keeping one eye on Jeff in case he bolts. The rain’s cleared, but the wind’s
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