Beatles Read online

  ‘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.

  The girls were offloaded in Uranienborg Park, Urra Park as we called it, and we hung over our handlebars again, looking through each other and waiting for something to fall from the sky, as it were, until Ola said in a deep bass voice:

  ‘S-s-saved a Per P-P-Pett
ersen penalty!’

  ‘Who did?’ Nina asked.

  ‘I did! I saved a Per P-P-Pettersen penalty!’

  ‘Who’s Per Pettersen?’

  Ola looked at us with vacant eyes, begging us for help, but he would have to sort this out himself. He might just as well have said he had saved fourteen shots in a row from Pelé, that wouldn’t have made a greater impression.

  ‘P-P-Per Pettersen! Plays for the Norwegian n-n-national t-team, doesn’t he!’

  ‘So interesting,’ said Guri.

  That was the end of the conversation about Ola’s miracle save. The girls headed for a bench, we let them go and then followed anyway. And the small green buds on the trees were sticky to hold, the darkness swooped down like a huge shadow and enveloped us all. It was cold standing there in shorts with green knees and elbows. Nothing happened of course. In fact, I can remember better what didn’t happen. For what didn’t happen but might have happened was a lot more exciting than what really happened one April evening in Urra Park, 1965.

  You can say a lot of things about Lue, but he had depths he could plumb. Even while he was coming down the corridor we realised that a fresh disappointment had him in its thrall and was wresting derision and sarcasm from his dry, embittered body. He arrived with the pile of essays under his arm, taking quick, incisive steps like the leader of a janissary marching band. His searing gaze went through us like X-ray beams, an insane smile curled beneath his hair-filled nose, and he said not one word. He locked us in the classroom, sat at the desk with the pile of essays in front of him like a menacing tower and there he remained, as mute as a shoe.

  I couldn’t restrain myself, I whispered to Gunnar, ‘He’s lost his voice. Shock.’

  Lue was on his feet at once. He leapt down between the rows and stood over me with his hands on his hips, the muscles in his face contorted knots beneath the skin. For a moment I was reminded of Uncle Hubert, poor old Uncle Hubert who was not right in the head, even though he was Dad’s brother, and I wondered if Lue was not all there. However, mute he was not.

  ‘What did you say?’

  I looked up at him. I had never noticed that he had so much hair in his nostrils before. It protruded like a hairdresser’s black broom.

  ‘I asked Gunnar something.’

  ‘And just what did you ask Gunnar?’

  He seized Gunnar by the neck and yelled, ‘Gunnar! What did Kim ask you?’

  There was no way this was going to turn out well because Gunnar was the type who was unable to say anything except the truth. If he tried to lie he ground to a halt; he simply could not do it. I watched his neck flush red like a glowing clothes iron.

  I spoke up for him, ‘I only asked Gunnar for a rubber.’

  Lue spun round to me, his lips pinched flat to the point of non-existence, then his mouth re-appeared as a quivering finger pointed straight at my forehead. I was glad the finger was not loaded.

  ‘I’m asking Gunnar now, so Gunnar should answer and not you! Do you understand?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who answers if the answer is the same, does it?’ I said, almost stunned by my own logic.

  Lue’s hand loomed larger, it grabbed my shoulder, hauled me out of my chair and dragged me up to the desk. I had to stand there while Lue flicked through the exercise books in his fury. And while standing there I felt some sympathy for Lue because Class 7A was a sorry sight to behold. At last he found my book and waved it in front of my face.

  ‘Since you’re so clever at answering questions, you can tell the whole class, all these inquisitive minds, these intelligent, alert and interested peers of yours what your future plans are!’

  I said nothing, just looked across the heads in the class and out of the window. Someone was working on the roof on the other side of the street. They had roped themselves to the chimney in case they fell. I would have liked to be up there, balancing without a rope, I felt a tingle down my spine and my brain seemed to be on the point of boiling over, balancing like that, on the very, very edge. Then Lue’s voice was there again, a warm puff of air against my cheek.

  ‘You’re always the one with the smart ripostes. Now tell them what you’re going to be.’

  ‘I wrote in my essay that I was going to be a doctor, but I wrote that because I didn’t know what I was going to be. And then I wrote that I would travel to Africa, to pad it out.’

  Lue just stared at me, and I could see the fight going out of him. It would not be long now before he gave up. For a moment I felt sorry for him. I would have liked to help him but didn’t know how.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘And keep your mouth shut unless you are instructed to speak.’

  The atmosphere in the classroom was a bit lighter now. All the signs were that Lue was close to surrender. But he bravely fought on, desperate and short of breath. He even had to go into the corridor for some fresh air. With clenched fists he returned, bent over the desk and blinked.

  ‘There are twenty-two boys in this class, aren’t there. Twenty-two quick-witted, intelligent, polite, clean, honest and, last but not least, ambitious boys. Do you agree?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Of course we agreed.

  ‘Ten of you are going to be priests. All those going to be priests please raise your hands.’

  Hesitant fingers rose in the air. Accompanied by giggles. Dragon was going to be a priest.

  Lue pointed a gentle finger at Dragon.

  ‘So you’re going to be a priest. You’ll have to learn the Lord’s Prayer first. By heart! And then you’ll have to do a better cleaning job on your teeth, otherwise the congregation will expire at the first hallelujah!’

  Dragon looked down at the lid of his desk and the flesh on his neck shook. We knew now he hated Lue, that he could have murdered him on the spot. The other priests didn’t look too well, either. I was glad I was going to be a doctor in Africa.

  ‘So, ten priests,’ Lue said. ‘You can put down your sacred arms now. And then we have five missionaries. Five. That’s a cut above the norm. Could you give us a sign?’

  Five hands went up. Seb’s among them.

  ‘You’re going to be missionaries. In India. Africa. Australia. Tell me, why cross the brook for water. Why not begin at home? Why not bring Christianity to Norway first? Or this class? Why not begin here and now, with Class 7A, class teacher included?’

  None of the missionaries answered. Seb sat with a crooked smirk on his face, leaning back against the wall. Lue had his beady eye on him, he pointed and yelled:

  ‘You! Sebastian! Tell us why you’re going to be a missionary! Eh! Speak!’

  Seb rocked forward on his chair, still with a grin, that grin wasn’t always easy to interpret, didn’t know whether he was grinning at you or himself or nothing.

  Seb said in a quiet voice, ‘I want to travel.’

  ‘And so you have to be a missionary. Do my ears hear correctly?’

  ‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’

  ‘Are you taking the mickey?’

  ‘No. I could have been a sailor, too, but couldn’t find the words.’

  ‘Are you all taking the mickey?’

  Now he turned to the whole class, well, the whole world for that matter. He smacked his hand flat down on the pile of essays and the desk shook. Then he stepped up onto the podium. He stood on the spot where the sun entered the room like a searchlight, but he seemed to have forgotten his lines and there wasn’t a prompter around. He took out a handkerchief, but no doves or rabbits appeared, either, and then he wiped his face. His face was small and the handkerchief was large, a cloth, faded, yellow, not quite spotless. Then he moved from the cone of light and stepped down into the room, to the brain-dead, godforsaken audience. Lue stood in front of Ola. Ola crumpled like a punctured football. Lue patted his head.

  ‘Here we have someone who chose a sensible profession, a choice seemingly commensurate with his abilities. But tell me, why a ladies’ hairdresser?’

  Laughter surged like an oil slick
across the classroom. Soon Ola was gasping for air. He would not be able to get out of this situation without instant assistance. Gunnar and I desperately tried to think of something, but he beat us to it. The football had regained its bounce. Ola sat up and said in a dry, unfamiliar voice:

  ‘My father says that soon b-b-b-boys will stop having h-haircuts.’

  Lue nodded, he nodded gloomily several times. Gunnar, Seb and I heaved a sigh of relief. Ola had coped and the rest of the jessies approved of his answer. They sat pulling their fringes over their foreheads and winding their hair round an ear, and Lue trudged back to his place in the sun.

  ‘And then we have a racing car driver, a couple of pilots, a parachutist and – he settled in his seat – there was one person who wrote about a day at school.’

  The class went quiet and everyone stared at Goose. Of course it was Goose, and he was hauled up to the teacher’s desk. Lue leafed through the exercise book and read aloud:

  ‘Our class teacher’s name is Lue and he is the best teacher in the world.’

  A gasp ran through the room. Goose shrank like a woollen sweater in boiling water and everyone agreed that was the boldest statement ever made since Jesus was said to have walked on water.

  Lue just surveyed the class, his lips formed a thin, bloodless smile and his eyes became deep wells of despair. He slowly turned to Goose.

  ‘Am I the best teacher in the world?’

  7A had never been so quiet. Pulses stopped beating, time lay over us like a huge lid and we were a pot that had to explode at any minute.