The Footballer's Wife Read Free Page B

family. He took great pride in his work. As the club steward of Bolingbroke Lane Working Men’s Club, Len had a fair amount of responsibility. He oversaw the draymen, making sure they delivered the right amount of beer – a shortage of bitter on a busy night could easily lead to a riot. He booked the turns, and more importantly turned people away that he didn’t think were suitable. That woman who pulled light bulbs out of her whatnot who turned up to audition the other week, for example; he had sent her packing, but not before asking her how on earth she thought that passed for family entertainment. He cashed up and made sure that no one had their fingers in the till: he could tell a thief a mile off, coming as he did from a long line of them. Len’s brothers were bothin prison doing a long stretch and his dad had spent more time inside than out by the time he died five years ago. Len himself had spent two years in Strangeways when he was in his early twenties. He had believed his dad’s stories about the camaraderie in prison; how everyone looked after one another. But he found out first-hand that these were just stories that his dad made up so that his boys weren’t worried by the truth. Len’s two years had been long and violent, although he’d managed to keep himself to himself. He tried not to think about those times. It was nearly thirty years ago and since then he had kept his nose clean and made sure that he didn’t spend any more time at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
    Len was cleaning the optics and checking the drinks invoice for that week. He liked the order and routine of his work. It kept him focused and calm. All in all, Len was very proud of what he did. It wasn’t Caesar’s Palace but it was alright, and although it was named Bolingbroke Lane, it wasn’t actually in Bolingbroke, which was a godsend. Bolingbroke might be where Len lived, but he didn’t need the hassle of running a place there; it’d be easier to run a bar in Basra. It was on the outskirts between Bolingbroke and the marginally more upmarket area of Bilsey, so it drew a moremixed crowd than the Beacon, the hell-hole of a pub perched on the top of the estate.
    Len liked being defined by his job. He liked to be thought of as The Steward. The title felt right, like it had some weight behind it; some responsibility. But lately he wasn’t known for what
he
did, he was known for what his daughter did, and it was beginning to trouble him.
    Yesterday’s display wasn’t something he was particularly proud of. But he didn’t think the punishment fit the crime. He wasn’t Joel Baldy, he was plain old Len Metcalfe and he’d never seen himself in the paper before. Had he been presented with the scenario, he would have hoped that his tabloid debut hadn’t seen him frothing at the mouth. He had avoided getting his usual
Sunday Globe
today. It was one of his small pleasures: a coffee, a smoke and a scan of the Sunday rag. But he just had a feeling that he might be making a rather unpleasant appearance in it today and, as such, had avoided the newsagents. It didn’t matter, though, there was no shortage of people who wanted to show him today’s issue. Marge the cleaner had been the first. ‘Bloody hell, Len, you look like a madman!’ she had said gleefully as she threw the paper down on the bar that morning. Len had looked at it withabject mortification. She was right; he looked like a man possessed. Marge read the opening lines aloud: ‘Madman Metcalfe, father of Joel Baldy’s WAG Charly, was chomping at the bit yesterday moments after being released from police custody without charge after a fracas at the Manchester Rovers game . . .’ As Marge went on, Len hung his head. The rest of the day saw a steady stream of punters coming in armed with the paper, ready to tell him something he already knew: he was a national laughing stock.
    Charly had called