Beatles (3 page)

‘What sort of magazine?’

‘A travel brochure about Africa. My uncle was in Africa this Easter.’

The senior teacher regarded me for a long time.

‘So your uncle has been to Africa, has he?’

‘Yes, he has,’ I said.

He leant over me for longer still, his breath was unbearable, herring, fish oil and tobacco. Then he took a step back and shouted, ‘Well, get outside then, boy!’

I ran up the steps into the sunshine. At that moment the bell rang and it felt as though it was inside me, somewhere between my ears. The rest of the skunks were standing by the gym, staring at me as if I had just landed on earth and was small, green and slimy.

‘How… how?’ Dragon stuttered.

‘He likes ’em smooth with cream on,’ I said, strutting past them.

And all of sudden I felt drained, absolutely shattered. The gym teacher shouted to us from the door and we shuffled down to the sweaty dressing rooms with wooden benches and iron hooks and the floor that was always wet from the showers. I didn’t care if we weren’t outside today. At that moment Gunnar joined me. We hung back behind the others. I slipped him the envelope and he rolled it up in the sweater he had just taken off.

‘I’m a bastard,’ Gunnar mumbled.

We stopped.

‘I left you in the lurch,’ he went on. ‘I’m a traitor.’

‘I was holdin’ the mag,’ I said.

‘I left you with the envelope. I’m a shit.’

‘You wouldn’t’ve been able to lie,’ I said.

Gunnar straightened up, a faint smile spread across his broad face.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t.’

We laughed. Gunnar adopted a boxer’s posture and punched the air with a fist, then he was serious again, more serious than ever before. He said in a low, almost chiding voice:

‘Don’t forget this, Kim,’ he said. ‘You’ll always be able to count on me!’

And then he shook my hand, it was quite a solemn act, and his strong fingers squeezed mine as if they were a few sprigs of parsley, and I wondered whether I had seen anything like this in
Illustrated Classics
. Was it
Lord Jim
or
The Last of the Mohicans?
Then I remembered it was in an episode of
The Saint
and I began to look forward to the evening already, because it was Friday and there was an hour’s crime programme on TV.

‘And then it was six n-n-nil,’ Ringo shouted as we turned off by Bislett on our way towards Kåres Tobakk in Theresesgate. He was sitting on the luggage carrier as his bike had no spokes after his brakes had failed down Farmers’ Hill and Ringo had stuck his shoe in the front wheel out of sheer panic. It looked like he had trodden in an egg-slicer afterwards.

‘S-s-six nil, boy oh boy,’ Ringo repeated. ‘
Six n-n-nil
!’

‘If it’d been six against England or Sweden, but against Thailand…’ I said.

‘Nevertheless! Six g-g-goals!’

Now Theresesgate began to climb even steeper and I didn’t have the wind to speak. John and George were cycling slalom in front of us and cheering and shouting, and behind us at the bottom the tram was coming, so now I had to pedal harder to reach Kåres Tobakk before it caught us up.

‘Where is Thailand a-a-actually?’ Ringo asked.

‘Left of Japan,’ I panted.

And we made it before the tram. I was already looking forward to the ride down. Then it would be George’s turn to have Ringo on the back.

‘Wonder if they’ll put me on the wing this year,’ John said.

‘Probably have to count our blessings if we’re in the team at all,’ George thought.

‘If I have to play at the b-b-back, I ain’t interested,’ Ringo said. ‘I get so nervous standin’ s-s-still.’

We went en masse into Kåre’s dark shop,
Kåres Tobakk,
and it smelt strange inside, of fruit, smoke, sweat, chocolate and liquorice. And we knew that under the counter there were copies of
Cocktail
and
Kriminaljournalen
, but it wasn’t a thrill any longer, not after Gunnar’s brother’s magazine, something had been lost, a shame in a way.

Kåre appeared out of the dark, his good-natured boxer’s face with a harelip, and I think he recognised us from the previous year.

‘Sub?’ he asked.

We nodded and each of us put ten kroner on the counter, he fetched four cards and we dictated our names.

‘Born in 51,’ Kåre mumbled. ‘Boys’ team then this year.’

‘Have lots of people signed up?’ John asked.

‘We’ve got good teams at all levels,’ Kåre smiled.

‘How’s F-Frigg d-doin’ in the t-top league then?’ Ringo wanted to know.

‘We’ll win,’ Kåre said with conviction.

‘And we beat Thailand s-s-six nil, didn’t we,’ Ringo added with enthusiasm. He couldn’t get over it.

‘Training starts on Tuesday,’ Kåre said. ‘Five o’clock on the Frigg ground.’

‘Will there be a trip to Denmark this year?’ George wondered.

‘Reckon so. Train hard and you can go, too.’

We were given our membership cards, split a Coke, but didn’t dare buy cigarettes because Kåre might not have liked Frigg boys smoking, and none of us wanted to miss out on the Denmark trip.

Back on the street, Ringo looked at John and whispered:

‘What did you do with the m-m-mag?’

‘Chucked it,’ John answered.

‘You’ve ch-ch-chucked it!’

‘Yep.’

And in fact we all breathed a sigh of relief, but Ringo would not give up.

‘What’ll your b-b-brother s-s-say, eh?’

‘My brother thinks it’s fine that I chucked it.’

So we jumped on our bikes and flew down Theresesgate. The warm air sang in our ears and our screams of ‘I Feel Fine’ bounced off the house walls, and George shouted that the needle of his speedo was hovering on eighty, though you couldn’t always rely on it, but we were going fast and didn’t need to pedal until we came to Bogstadveien.

‘Not quite a month to May 17 now,’ John said.

‘Not long to the exams, either,’ George added.

‘Or to s-s-summer!’ Ringo shouted.

We went quiet for a few moments because it was a bit strange to think about summer. After summer there was no guarantee we would be in the same class, or even the same school. But we had sworn allegiance to each other; nothing would part us and The Beatles would never split up.

First of all, we ran around the pitch, then we did a bit of heading and afterwards we were divided into two teams, eight players in each. We were allowed to use the big goals the seniors and the Police College used, and the goalkeepers felt tiny between the sticks, they could not reach the crossbar however much they jumped. They looked like herrings in an enormous fishing net. John and I were put in the same team, he was centre half, I was right back. My opponent on the left wing was Ringo. George was a central defender and he didn’t look very comfortable when John went storming through like a tank sweeping away all the opposition. I stayed in my position and whacked balls to the midfield. George managed to stop John a couple of times, but I wondered whether John wasn’t giving him the ball so that we could all be in the same team. Towards the end of the game Ringo intercepted the ball and came roaring up the
touchline. When he was close enough he whispered, so that only I could hear:

‘L-l-lemme past! L-l-lemme past!’

I held my position, legs apart, didn’t move from the spot, could easily let Ringo past because I had already made a few strong tackles and reckoned my place in the team was secure. So I stood rock still. All Ringo had to do was run around me, I was a buoy, and then centre the ball for a clear header on goal. But of course he had to overreach himself, he started with a few crazy step-overs, thinking he was in Brazil, his team were yelling and shouting at him, and then at long last he played the ball forward, lowered his back and ran straight for me. We banged heads and the ball rolled out of play and I got the throw-in.

‘Sh-sh-shit,’ Ringo wheezed. ‘B-b-bloody hell!’

‘I didn’t even move!’

‘H-h-how was I supposed to know. The b-b-back doesn’t usually stand b-b-bolt upright, does he!’

I think our team won 17–11, and afterwards there was feedback and a review. A couple of players were down as dead certs, Aksel in goal, Kjetil and Willy in attack. And John must have been in, too, the snowplough. George looked quite exhausted and Ringo was peeved.

‘There’s a match next weekend,’ Åge shouted. ‘On Saturday. Against Slemmestad. In Slemmestad.’

No one said anything. The gravity of the situation was apparent.

The trainer continued:

‘And we’ll win this match!’

We cheered.

‘Good lads! Everyone here today meet up at the same place on Saturday at three. We’re going to Slemmestad by coach. And the majority of you will get a run out on the pitch. But if any of you don’t, your chance will come later, okay!’

The teams dispersed, some boys on their own, some in dribs and drabs. We were left standing in the middle of the huge ground studying each other.

‘Reckon all of us’ll get a game,’ John said.

‘That idiot over there wouldn’t let me p-p-past even when I a-a-asked him,’ Ringo said, pointing to me.

‘But I didn’t even move!’

‘Th-th-that’s why! I thought you’d m-m-move left so I headed s-s-straight for you. D-d-dirty trick!’

All of a sudden John went quiet, stared like an Irish Setter in the direction of the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation building, and whispered in a cracked voice:

‘Isn’t that, isn’t that Per Pettersen comin’ towards us?’

We stared, too. It was. It was Per Pettersen. The man himself. He was strolling towards us in white shorts and a blue and white shirt with a bag slung over his shoulder.

‘Must have his autograph,’ John shouted. ‘Any of you got anythin’ to write with?’

Of course we hadn’t taken a pencil to football training, or any paper. Per Pettersen was approaching and John began to scour the grass in desperation. He couldn’t let the chance slip, but all he found was a Zip chewing gum wrapper. He smoothed it out on his thigh and up came Per Pettersen.

‘Autograph,’ John stuttered, passing him the wrapper.

Per stopped and looked at us with gentle eyes. Then he put down his bag and laughed.

‘Haven’t got anythin’ to write with,’ John said.

Per rummaged in his bag, found a biro and wrote his name on the sweet-smelling wrapper, Per Pettersen with two neat Ps. But as he was about to go Ringo pushed forward, he had been hopping from one foot to the other the whole time.

‘Could you have a shot at me, like?’

Pettersen stopped and swept back his recalcitrant fringe.

‘Okay. You stand in goal.’

Ringo, red-faced, gaped at the rest of us, then sprinted to the goal, positioned himself in the very centre and crouched down like a lobster. Per Pettersen placed the ball on the grass, retreated a few steps and tapped the toe of his boot on the grass.

‘Poor Ola,’ George said under his breath. ‘He’s gone soft in the head. If he even gets hold of the ball it’ll carry ’im through the nettin’.’

Per Pettersen sprinted up and blasted and there was Ringo, sitting on the ground with the ball in his clutches. He hadn’t moved from the spot. He looked bewildered, as though he didn’t know what had
happened. Then he scraped himself up and staggered over to us. Per Pettersen slung his bag over his shoulder, flicked back his fringe and shouted to Ola:

‘Great save!’

And with that, Per Pettersen was gone.

Ola looked drained. He could hardly hold the ball. But he was happy.

‘Hit it hard, did he?’ George asked gently.

‘H-h-hardest shot I’ve ever faced,’ Ringo said. ‘Gordon B-B-Banks would’ve had trouble standin’ up.’

‘Fab save,’ John said. ‘Perfect.’

‘How did you know where he was goin’ to shoot?’ George enquired.

‘I f-f-feinted,’ Ola said. ‘I p-p-pretended I was goin’ to the right. Then I switched to the l-l-left and the ball hit me in the s-s-stomach.’

We strolled towards our bikes in the long grass by Slemdalsveien.

‘D’you think Per P-P-Pettersen’ll tell K-K-Kåre and Åge?’ Ola asked.

‘Possible,’ John said. ‘If they meet up.’

‘I s’pose I’ll get the goalie’s spot then. Regular place in the t-t-team!’

Ola’s eyes began to glaze over even more, he seemed to lose sight of us.

‘The trick is keepin’ eye c-c-contact,’ we heard Ola say. ‘I focused on the whites of his eyes. And then he l-lost confidence and the b-b-ball was mine.’

We pushed our bikes to the kiosk by the Police College and bought Ringo a Coke. He thought he deserved it and drank the whole bottle in one go. After getting the deposit we had a peep at the crashed cars on the other side of the boarded-up fence, and we thought about the people who had been in them. That was a spooky thought, as if they were still sitting there, bloodstained and crushed, ghosts in smashed-up cars. The Alsatian guard dog growled at us by the gate, its white teeth gleaming in its red jaws. We shuddered and went on to Majorstuen, to the Vinkelgården centre, and pointed at the Durex advert above a clock which showed it would soon be seven o’clock. Then Ringo yelled as loud as he could, he was sitting behind me again, and he was beginning to come down to earth after his wonder save:

‘Dew… Dew…. D-D-Dew…’

And Seb responded:

‘Rex!’

And Gunnar screeched at the top of his voice:

‘Dick-Dick-Dick-Dick.’

And I completed:

‘Dick Van Dyke!’

And that wasn’t all we could do, we had ‘Great Balls of Fire’ and ‘Country and Western’, but then we shut up because Nina and Guri from the C class were standing in Valkyrie plass, and we skidded onto the pavement with screaming tyres and pounding hearts.

‘Where have you been?’ Guri asked.

‘Dance classes,’ Seb answered.

The girls laughed and Seb seemed to grow in the saddle.

‘Could we have a lift to Urra Park?’ Nina asked.

We were going that way anyway, so that was fine, and even if we’d been going to Trondheim it would have been fine, too. But now at least one thing was sure, and that was that Ola would have to get his bike fixed, and smartish, because he was always sitting on the back of mine. Nina and Guri jumped onto Gunnar’s and Seb’s, and, with that, my chances were ruined. We sped down Jacob Aalls gate with the girls squealing and complaining, and I might just have been a little relieved after all about Ola having scuppered his bike and sitting with me now. Otherwise Guri and Nina would have had to choose between the four of us, and then two would have lost out, and even though we didn’t give a shit about little girls with plaits and pouty mouths, it wouldn’t have been much fun with no one on the back, whistling and peering into the sunset, pretending everything was normal.