Lizzie’s house, where her mother had kept them two luscious slices of home-made strawberry meringue. Valerie loved being at her friend’s house where she was treated like one of the family. It was a real home, unlike her own, which was fraught with arguments and tension.
She had a precious hour of peace the following Sunday when her parents left for Dublin, but it sped by and then reluctantly she pulled on her coat and a purple knitted hat to keep the cold out, and made her way to Lizzie’s house. Lizzie was dressed to impress in new Levi’s and a cream polo-necked skinny rib jumper under a cropped denim jacket, and wedge boots. ‘You better bring a coat, it’s cold out,’ Valerie warned, as her friend finished putting on her eye shadow.
‘Do I look OK?’ Lizzie fretted. ‘Should I put on some more blusher?’
‘Not unless you want to look like Bobo the Clown. You’re fine,’ Valerie assured her, whooshing her out the door, wishing the ordeal was over.
To add insult to injury it started raining about ten minutes after the match started; a fine grey mist, which clung wraithlike to her, seeping through her coat and hat, which she had pulled down over her ears. The heels of her boots sank into the soft ground and the bottoms of her jeans were caked with muck. Beside her, Lizzie jumped up and down like a crazy marionette yelling, ‘Come on, Rovers! COMMME OOOOOONNNNNNN!!!!! Put it in the net, lads. Put it in the NEEEET. Ref, Ref, are you BLIND? Offside, OffSIIIIDE!’
When, Valerie wondered, had her best friend turned into a football fanatic? Until a month ago, when Phil Casey had first asked her out, she had never shown a scintilla of interest in anything related to football. Now she was even watching Match of the Day with Phil, leaving Valerie to her own devices on Saturday nights. Valerie couldn’t help the by now familiar feeling of being hard done by. Lizzie had dropped her on Saturday nights and yet she expected her to be by her side at a boring football match. She expected a lot, Valerie thought with renewed resentment, praying Lizzie would shut up screeching.
Valerie was yawning, wishing she had worn a scarf to stop the rain dribbling down her collar, when a violent thump made her jump. The hard leather ball bounced again, spattering her with muck.
‘Bloody hell! Look at the state of me.’ She glared at Lizzie.
‘Kick it back in,’ Lizzie instructed.
Valerie was so mad she drew her foot back and let fly just as one of the players was heading in her direction to retrieve the ball.
‘Yikes, you nearly got Jeff Egan in the goolies!’ Lizzie snorted.
‘Pity I didn’t. Is this thing nearly over?’
‘Stop making me feel bad,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘Standing there with a face like a slapped ass. I won’t ask you to come again.’
‘Great, Lizzie, great that’s good to hear.’ She couldn’t hide her irritation.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Phil’s got the ball. Go, Phil! Go, Phil! Go, Phil! GOOOOOO!! ’ Lizzie was dancing with excitement as her new boyfriend scored the winning goal. The hundred or so supporters erupted, yelling and roaring, and then, music to Valerie’s ears, the final whistle blew, a long sharp piercing note that led to more yelling and joyous cheering.
Later, while she was sipping a Bacardi and Coke in the Oyster Bar, a local pub near the football grounds, a hand tapped Valerie on the shoulder. ‘The least you could do is buy me a drink since you nearly ruined my marriage prospects. Just as well I’ve got good reflexes.’ A pair of smiling brown eyes looked down at her and she grinned when she saw Jeff Egan standing beside her. He had been a year ahead of her at school and they knew each other casually.
‘Sorry about that. But you ruined my trousers, buster.’
‘Ah, stick them in the washing machine, they’ll be fine,’ he laughed. ‘So what about that drink, then?’
‘They won’t serve me, I’m under age. I’ll give you the money for it but you’ll
She had a precious hour of peace the following Sunday when her parents left for Dublin, but it sped by and then reluctantly she pulled on her coat and a purple knitted hat to keep the cold out, and made her way to Lizzie’s house. Lizzie was dressed to impress in new Levi’s and a cream polo-necked skinny rib jumper under a cropped denim jacket, and wedge boots. ‘You better bring a coat, it’s cold out,’ Valerie warned, as her friend finished putting on her eye shadow.
‘Do I look OK?’ Lizzie fretted. ‘Should I put on some more blusher?’
‘Not unless you want to look like Bobo the Clown. You’re fine,’ Valerie assured her, whooshing her out the door, wishing the ordeal was over.
To add insult to injury it started raining about ten minutes after the match started; a fine grey mist, which clung wraithlike to her, seeping through her coat and hat, which she had pulled down over her ears. The heels of her boots sank into the soft ground and the bottoms of her jeans were caked with muck. Beside her, Lizzie jumped up and down like a crazy marionette yelling, ‘Come on, Rovers! COMMME OOOOOONNNNNNN!!!!! Put it in the net, lads. Put it in the NEEEET. Ref, Ref, are you BLIND? Offside, OffSIIIIDE!’
When, Valerie wondered, had her best friend turned into a football fanatic? Until a month ago, when Phil Casey had first asked her out, she had never shown a scintilla of interest in anything related to football. Now she was even watching Match of the Day with Phil, leaving Valerie to her own devices on Saturday nights. Valerie couldn’t help the by now familiar feeling of being hard done by. Lizzie had dropped her on Saturday nights and yet she expected her to be by her side at a boring football match. She expected a lot, Valerie thought with renewed resentment, praying Lizzie would shut up screeching.
Valerie was yawning, wishing she had worn a scarf to stop the rain dribbling down her collar, when a violent thump made her jump. The hard leather ball bounced again, spattering her with muck.
‘Bloody hell! Look at the state of me.’ She glared at Lizzie.
‘Kick it back in,’ Lizzie instructed.
Valerie was so mad she drew her foot back and let fly just as one of the players was heading in her direction to retrieve the ball.
‘Yikes, you nearly got Jeff Egan in the goolies!’ Lizzie snorted.
‘Pity I didn’t. Is this thing nearly over?’
‘Stop making me feel bad,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘Standing there with a face like a slapped ass. I won’t ask you to come again.’
‘Great, Lizzie, great that’s good to hear.’ She couldn’t hide her irritation.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Phil’s got the ball. Go, Phil! Go, Phil! Go, Phil! GOOOOOO!! ’ Lizzie was dancing with excitement as her new boyfriend scored the winning goal. The hundred or so supporters erupted, yelling and roaring, and then, music to Valerie’s ears, the final whistle blew, a long sharp piercing note that led to more yelling and joyous cheering.
Later, while she was sipping a Bacardi and Coke in the Oyster Bar, a local pub near the football grounds, a hand tapped Valerie on the shoulder. ‘The least you could do is buy me a drink since you nearly ruined my marriage prospects. Just as well I’ve got good reflexes.’ A pair of smiling brown eyes looked down at her and she grinned when she saw Jeff Egan standing beside her. He had been a year ahead of her at school and they knew each other casually.
‘Sorry about that. But you ruined my trousers, buster.’
‘Ah, stick them in the washing machine, they’ll be fine,’ he laughed. ‘So what about that drink, then?’
‘They won’t serve me, I’m under age. I’ll give you the money for it but you’ll
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