The coach had left at 6am from the school car park, oval ball big day out at Twickenham, bagged and picnicked, travel sick pills. Back in the day, toe end kicking by doctors and dentists, wages paid in glory. Rugby school and rugby dad, he never played much on account of his chest, asthma, no National Service either. He’d have loved to come but… I waved goodbye but he was flat out. Anyway, the Boks were waiting.
Everyone sick on the long hot journey. Big crowds gathered, Land Rover picnic hampers and placard protestors in equal numbers. Mandela jailed, match to play, great unwashed versus establishment. Shouting crowds jostled our tickets to the gates. Late start, due to protests, but justice done on the field of play.
Beyond dark when the coach pulled in through the school gates, big day out, time for bed. In the darkness I clearly saw no Mum or little car. Strangely, the elderly neighbours from our old house stood, smiling, beckoning. The Fieldhouses. Why?
“Your mum asked us to come.”
“My mum ?”
“She couldn’t, she asked us to come.”
“Why couldn’t she come ?”
“Because she’s with your dad.”
“Where’s my dad ?”
“He’s…in the hospital. Not well, they’ve taken him to hospital and your mum’s there. Everything’s going to be alright, but you’re to stay at our’s tonight.”
I nodded, then shook my head. It wasn’t good, but I needed to be THERE, where we’d waved goodbye hours before, before….
“Thanks, but I’d like to go home please, I need to be there. Please. In case anything happens.”
They glanced, left, right, eyebrows creased.
They dropped me at the gates, then stayed, watching ‘til I let myself in, turned the light on and turned to wave, smiling, I waved back and pulled away slowly.
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