Page 40 of One Last Try

“Oh.” I’m surprised he even remembers. I sit on the dresser pouffe opposite him. “It’s Johnny Cash, ‘I Walk the Line.’”

He smiles. It’s soft and warm, and I want to mash my lips against his. “Is that because you can’t sing? Because he just talks throughout the song.”

“Mate, there are air-raid sirens with better vocal capabilities than me,” I reply.

His eyes are closing again, and he’s drawing small circles with his torso. He needs to sleep this off. I push to my feet, and Mathias—obviously sensing my movements—opens his eyes. They’re slightly unfocused, slightly bloodshot.

“I want to help you again. Not with the pub quiz . . . well, maybe with the pub quiz, but I mean with the ceiling . . . the roof problem. The thatch, that’s the word. I want to help you find a way to get a new thatch. Raise funds or . . . whatever.”

I pretend my insides aren’t doing the Carlton dance. Play it off cool, or . . . at least some semblance of cool. “Thanks. Hey, come to sevens on Sunday morning?”

Mathias blinks his eyes closed, then opens them slowly. “Sure. Call for me on your way. I’m going to sleep now, so . . .” He makes a shooing gesture in my direction and I laugh.

“Ring the pub phone if you need me,” I say, because I realise we haven’t swapped mobile numbers yet.

He nods, but he’s already climbing under the covers.

I go over to the pub only to close everything down and switch the lights off, then I let myself back into Fernbank Cottage and kip on the sofa for the second night in a row.

Just in case Mathias needs me.

16

Sunday 6th April 2025

Mathias

Owen is the type of guy to have a whimsical, musical knock. I know this instinctively, so it comes as little surprise when he plays out the tune to what I’d hazard a guess is “She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain” on my front door Sunday morning.

My cheeks involuntarily pull into a smile.

He’s wearing jean shorts, a Superdry hoodie, a Bath Centurions baseball cap, and black New Balance trainers. Dad shoes. My smilestretches wider.

The sky beyond him is a cloudless blue, and it’s chilly out, but the kind of chilly you know will only last an hour or until the sun has had a chance to wake up and get to work.

“Morning, Wild Card,” he booms. He’s not dropping his holdall on the ground, which means he’s expecting me to come right away.

“Let me grab my stuff a sec.” I pop back inside the house to collect my bag, and my boots, which I keep in a separate bag so I don’t get mud on everything else. Not that I’ll leave without mud on everything, but I’d rather not start the session that way.

“Have you got a towel?” he calls through the door. “Or you could always come here to shower. Most of the other guys do, to be fair. Well, to their homes. We all live just round the corner, and the shower block at the club is . . . a bit minging, in all honesty. But I’ve got shampoo you could borrow.”

I’m back at the porch.

Owen see-saws his hand. “Actually, it’s not shampoo, it’s like five-in-one hair and body wash, but . . . I don’t really have a lot of hair . . . not up there, anyway. Everywhere else is like a yeti took a bath in regrowth serum.”

He’s babbling, and it shouldn’t be as cute as it is.

“I’ve got shampoo,” I tell him. “And a towel. We don’t have to share anything. So, where’s the grounds?” I close the cottage door, lock up, and chuck the key in my bag.

“Literally behind the pub,” he says, already marching down the path and looking either way at the roadside for oncoming traffic.

Around the back of The Little Thatch is a beer garden I had no idea existed. It has about eight wooden picnic tables with adjoining benches and branded pub umbrellas slotted into holes in the centre. Difficult to tell what brand because they’re all collapsed. At the end of the beer garden is a kids’ climbing frame, with a slide, a fireman’s pole, and a set of monkey bars.

Beyond the boundaries is farmer’s field after farmer’s field, flocks of fluffy sheep, and what appears to be an ocean of oilseed rape. It’s just beginning to flower. In a couple of weeks it’ll be a stunning carpet of sunshine yellow, but right now it’s mostly lime greens with dappled yellows.

“There’s the pitch,” Owen says, pointing to a patch of brilliant green about five or six fields away. I can make out the goal posts and a little concrete hut. There also seems to be a small car park where a few cars wait. There’s no form of spectating area, not that I expected there to be.

We cut through the fields, climbing over styles, dodging sheep shit and stinging nettles until we get to the rugby grounds. Over a dozen people loiter outside the shack, including Tom and Bryn from the pub quiz, and Orlando, the drunken teenager who broke into my house. Thankfully, there’s no Roger, but there are a few other faces I recognise from quiz night. Daisy’s here too. She spots her dad and runs over for a hug. She’s not the only woman either. There are two others about Daisy’s age or perhaps a tad older.

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