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Authors: David Roberts
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rest – cigarettes and alcohol had destroyed his wind. On one such occasion, Hawthorne was thundering down the pitch with the ball at his feet when Guy, sitting on the ground attempting to regain his breath, thrust out his leg and sent him sprawling. The curate chose to believe Hawthorne had tripped and refused to admit the foul, crying falsetto, ‘Play on! Play on!’
Hawthorne got up, looked round like a half-dazed bull, saw his enemy still on the ground and kicked out at him. While the Old Etonians were dressed in football shirts and shorts and wore boots, the opposition possessed no such special clothing. They played in ordinary shirts and trousers and, instead of football boots, wore the working man’s hobnail boots. To be kicked by a foot encased in one of these was no light matter and Edward winced as he saw Hawthorne’s boot connect with Guy’s nose. There was plenty of blood but Guy mumbled that his nose was not broken. After a short pause when the wounded man was hauled off the pitch, the game resumed – though now it resembled not so much a game as a full-scale war. Edward doubled up as he received an elbow in his stomach and then, allowing his bad temper to get the upper hand, tackled a young man with a small moustache and bad teeth with such ferocity that he fell to the ground squealing. Conscience-stricken, Edward stopped to help him up and received a fist to his eye that made him cry out in pain.
It was an altogether disgraceful performance, as Tommie said afterwards, but somehow the match ended in an almost palpable sense of camaraderie. It was as if the artifical politeness in which the game had begun had been replaced by mutual respect. Hardly a player had escaped injury of some sort but even Guy seemed not to bear a grudge and insisted on joining players and supporters at a local public house. The atmosphere was further brightened by the attitude of the spectators who appeared to have enjoyed seeing their loved ones assaulted. Any reserve there might have been between friends of the Old Etonians and supporters of the Hoxtonites had been broken down as, one after another, the players had been dragged off the pitch to have their wounds tended. A great deal of laughter was generated by the state of the players – ripped shirts, bloodied noses and mud over everything.
Unexpectedly – or perhaps not so unexpectedly – Guy Baron had struck up a particular friendship with the man Hawthorne who had put so much effort into reducing his face to pulp. Tommie looked suspicious when the two of them – after a mumbled conversation – waved goodbye and disappeared, no one seemed to know where.
‘You were marvellous,’ Gerda said kissing Edward. ‘Your poor eye! Here, let me put some balm on it. I brought it knowing it would come in useful.’
‘Ouch! That hurt. Where’s Verity?’ he asked. Surely it was reasonable to expect his girl to be there and cheer on his efforts, applaud his goals and wipe the mud off his wounds.
‘At the last moment she could not come,’ André said. ‘Such a pity! She would like to have seen your eye.’
‘She had a last-minute emergency,’ Gerda confirmed. ‘She sent her love.’
‘Huh,’ Edward said, enjoying having a grievance. ‘I suppose she had to cover a dog show for the
New Gazette
. But what can one expect?’
‘No, it was a real emergency,’ Gerda said loyally, though sounding not displeased at his irritation.
‘I took some wonderful photographs,’ André said excitedly. ‘You English are quite mad. In my country someone would have pulled out a gun and shot at his opponent. But see – you are all friends. It is magnificent!
C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas le sport
.’
Tommie came over clasping a pint of bitter and said apologetically to Edward, ‘I am sorry, old boy. You have a ripe one there. Get Fenton to put a raw steak on it.’
Edward went with him to examine his eye in the broken mirror which adorned the urinal wall. ‘Oh
Hawthorne got up, looked round like a half-dazed bull, saw his enemy still on the ground and kicked out at him. While the Old Etonians were dressed in football shirts and shorts and wore boots, the opposition possessed no such special clothing. They played in ordinary shirts and trousers and, instead of football boots, wore the working man’s hobnail boots. To be kicked by a foot encased in one of these was no light matter and Edward winced as he saw Hawthorne’s boot connect with Guy’s nose. There was plenty of blood but Guy mumbled that his nose was not broken. After a short pause when the wounded man was hauled off the pitch, the game resumed – though now it resembled not so much a game as a full-scale war. Edward doubled up as he received an elbow in his stomach and then, allowing his bad temper to get the upper hand, tackled a young man with a small moustache and bad teeth with such ferocity that he fell to the ground squealing. Conscience-stricken, Edward stopped to help him up and received a fist to his eye that made him cry out in pain.
It was an altogether disgraceful performance, as Tommie said afterwards, but somehow the match ended in an almost palpable sense of camaraderie. It was as if the artifical politeness in which the game had begun had been replaced by mutual respect. Hardly a player had escaped injury of some sort but even Guy seemed not to bear a grudge and insisted on joining players and supporters at a local public house. The atmosphere was further brightened by the attitude of the spectators who appeared to have enjoyed seeing their loved ones assaulted. Any reserve there might have been between friends of the Old Etonians and supporters of the Hoxtonites had been broken down as, one after another, the players had been dragged off the pitch to have their wounds tended. A great deal of laughter was generated by the state of the players – ripped shirts, bloodied noses and mud over everything.
Unexpectedly – or perhaps not so unexpectedly – Guy Baron had struck up a particular friendship with the man Hawthorne who had put so much effort into reducing his face to pulp. Tommie looked suspicious when the two of them – after a mumbled conversation – waved goodbye and disappeared, no one seemed to know where.
‘You were marvellous,’ Gerda said kissing Edward. ‘Your poor eye! Here, let me put some balm on it. I brought it knowing it would come in useful.’
‘Ouch! That hurt. Where’s Verity?’ he asked. Surely it was reasonable to expect his girl to be there and cheer on his efforts, applaud his goals and wipe the mud off his wounds.
‘At the last moment she could not come,’ André said. ‘Such a pity! She would like to have seen your eye.’
‘She had a last-minute emergency,’ Gerda confirmed. ‘She sent her love.’
‘Huh,’ Edward said, enjoying having a grievance. ‘I suppose she had to cover a dog show for the
New Gazette
. But what can one expect?’
‘No, it was a real emergency,’ Gerda said loyally, though sounding not displeased at his irritation.
‘I took some wonderful photographs,’ André said excitedly. ‘You English are quite mad. In my country someone would have pulled out a gun and shot at his opponent. But see – you are all friends. It is magnificent!
C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas le sport
.’
Tommie came over clasping a pint of bitter and said apologetically to Edward, ‘I am sorry, old boy. You have a ripe one there. Get Fenton to put a raw steak on it.’
Edward went with him to examine his eye in the broken mirror which adorned the urinal wall. ‘Oh
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