Cornwall. If it fits the bill, your mum and I would like to give it a try. How would that sit with you?’
‘I just hope you are serious. I’d go tomorrow, if I could. Blimey, if I could, I’d go today.’
They had lunch in a pizzeria at Gabriel’s Wharf. They walked on to the south side of Lambeth Bridge. There, at the café on the small pier tucked into the side of the bridge, James drank a cappuccino and bought an ice-cream sundae for Jack, reminded of what a complex age thirteen was. It was an age when you lusted after pretty actresses and still spent your pocket money on sweets. It was turbulent and contradictory.
Jack had made his school sound as brutal and hierarchical in some of its bleaker characteristics as a top-security prison, let alone a place of learning. Prisons were there to house criminals and his son was innocent of any crime. School was supposed not to punish but to educate. It was a complication he did not need in his young life. The stress of it was making him unhappy. Getting him out and away was the right thing to do.
‘Your football might suffer, if we move. The competition, the leagues, they won’t be so strong in the south-west.’
Jack just shrugged. He spooned ice cream into his mouth.
‘Don’t you care?’
‘In the squad, at South London Boys, we’re told that we have to want it more than anything, or we won’t make the grade. And then we’re told by the very same coaches that we shouldn’t let it rule our lives, because any of us could pick up an injury that could ruin our chances and because almost nobody makes it through to the top level anyway. If I’m good enough, I’m good enough, Dad. I can’t play at all till Christmas, the surgeon said so.’
‘You’ve had a change in attitude.’
‘Not really. I think I’ve got the ability. You know that police officer who came round?’
‘Detective Sergeant McCabe.’
‘We got talking when you were making the coffee. He was an amateur boxer. He represented England. He was undefeated as a middleweight. I asked him why he didn’t turn pro. He said he got the offers, but that he wanted to make a difference, so he became a policeman.’
‘I don’t see your point, Jack.’
‘I think I’m good enough to go all the way. I think that one day I’ll play in the Premiership. But if I don’t, it won’t be the end of the world. I’ll do something else.’
‘You could be a police officer. Like DS McCabe.’
‘Don’t you think that’s cool? Wanting to make a difference?’
‘I think it’s very commendable,’ James said.
They discussed going to the Imperial War Museum a couple of blocks away, but Jack had been there recently with his school and was unenthusiastic. He had tired, too, his father thought. The walk in the sunshine had tired him. He was recovering from his beating but was nowhere near at full strength yet, despite the cosmetic evidence.
They went and looked at Captain Bligh’s grave in the churchyard of St Mary at Lambeth, just across the road, almost opposite the café. Bligh had been buried a hero after the feat of navigation that got him and his few loyal crewmen to safety during a prodigious voyage in an open boat. That was before the family of the mutineer Fletcher Christian began the propaganda campaign that successfully besmirched his reputation.
James explained all this to Jack, who walked around the handsome stone tomb and read the inscription carved there without comment.
‘Won’t you miss all this?’
‘What? Some old guy’s grave?’
‘Not just that, all this history on your doorstep.’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’m sure this place in Cornwall will have a history.’
James held his arms wide. ‘All this, I mean, the river, everything, the whole spectacle of London.’
‘You sound like a tour guide, Dad.’
‘Won’t you miss it?’
Jack smiled. ‘Why would I miss a river, when we’re going to live by the sea?’
That night, the Greers went out for a family dinner. James
‘I just hope you are serious. I’d go tomorrow, if I could. Blimey, if I could, I’d go today.’
They had lunch in a pizzeria at Gabriel’s Wharf. They walked on to the south side of Lambeth Bridge. There, at the café on the small pier tucked into the side of the bridge, James drank a cappuccino and bought an ice-cream sundae for Jack, reminded of what a complex age thirteen was. It was an age when you lusted after pretty actresses and still spent your pocket money on sweets. It was turbulent and contradictory.
Jack had made his school sound as brutal and hierarchical in some of its bleaker characteristics as a top-security prison, let alone a place of learning. Prisons were there to house criminals and his son was innocent of any crime. School was supposed not to punish but to educate. It was a complication he did not need in his young life. The stress of it was making him unhappy. Getting him out and away was the right thing to do.
‘Your football might suffer, if we move. The competition, the leagues, they won’t be so strong in the south-west.’
Jack just shrugged. He spooned ice cream into his mouth.
‘Don’t you care?’
‘In the squad, at South London Boys, we’re told that we have to want it more than anything, or we won’t make the grade. And then we’re told by the very same coaches that we shouldn’t let it rule our lives, because any of us could pick up an injury that could ruin our chances and because almost nobody makes it through to the top level anyway. If I’m good enough, I’m good enough, Dad. I can’t play at all till Christmas, the surgeon said so.’
‘You’ve had a change in attitude.’
‘Not really. I think I’ve got the ability. You know that police officer who came round?’
‘Detective Sergeant McCabe.’
‘We got talking when you were making the coffee. He was an amateur boxer. He represented England. He was undefeated as a middleweight. I asked him why he didn’t turn pro. He said he got the offers, but that he wanted to make a difference, so he became a policeman.’
‘I don’t see your point, Jack.’
‘I think I’m good enough to go all the way. I think that one day I’ll play in the Premiership. But if I don’t, it won’t be the end of the world. I’ll do something else.’
‘You could be a police officer. Like DS McCabe.’
‘Don’t you think that’s cool? Wanting to make a difference?’
‘I think it’s very commendable,’ James said.
They discussed going to the Imperial War Museum a couple of blocks away, but Jack had been there recently with his school and was unenthusiastic. He had tired, too, his father thought. The walk in the sunshine had tired him. He was recovering from his beating but was nowhere near at full strength yet, despite the cosmetic evidence.
They went and looked at Captain Bligh’s grave in the churchyard of St Mary at Lambeth, just across the road, almost opposite the café. Bligh had been buried a hero after the feat of navigation that got him and his few loyal crewmen to safety during a prodigious voyage in an open boat. That was before the family of the mutineer Fletcher Christian began the propaganda campaign that successfully besmirched his reputation.
James explained all this to Jack, who walked around the handsome stone tomb and read the inscription carved there without comment.
‘Won’t you miss all this?’
‘What? Some old guy’s grave?’
‘Not just that, all this history on your doorstep.’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’m sure this place in Cornwall will have a history.’
James held his arms wide. ‘All this, I mean, the river, everything, the whole spectacle of London.’
‘You sound like a tour guide, Dad.’
‘Won’t you miss it?’
Jack smiled. ‘Why would I miss a river, when we’re going to live by the sea?’
That night, the Greers went out for a family dinner. James
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