Munichs, p.16
Munichs, page 16
From under the bare, black branches on Church Road, the cortège turned onto the cobbles outside the Church Inn and stopped before Saint Michael’s Parish Church, where policemen stood before the crowd of silent and respectful, decent folk who’d gathered, waiting there, hats in hand, with collars up, or at attention in their uniforms. But though the National Union of Journalists had called for reporters, sub-editors and photographers to refrain from covering the funerals of the Dead, ‘beyond the mere fact that they have taken place’, as ‘anything more would constitute a serious intrusion into the private griefs of the bereaved’, still between the melancholy sounds of muffled public grief there came the sound of cameras, clicking or rolling, held by men in raincoats stood on the low church wall or leaning back against a tree, snapping or filming as the coffin of Roger Byrne was lifted from the hearse and carried into the church, where his relatives and friends, old schoolmates and a few of his teammates got to their feet.
Because both him and Gordon Clayton were injured, and had not gone, and were still here, Wilf and Gordon had both been doing what they could, what little that they could. Gordon had gone straight round to see Mark Jones’s wife June, had then helped Jackie Blanchflower’s wife Jean as best he could, answering the phone, the door, before she went out herself to Munich. The next day, they’d both gone together to see Eddie’s mam and dad, not that they’d known what to say, what on earth could you say, and had just sat in silence there, awkward and shocked, still stunned. But then Eddie’s girl, Marjorie, she’d come round, had wanted to go out to the airport, to see the coffins when they came back, so Wilf had took her out there, Monday, when they came back, at least it was something, something to do, to try to help. But because they were injured, they couldn’t train or do anything bloody much, Jimmy had asked Wilf and Gordon to make sure they went to every one of the funerals of the players, to go as representatives of the first team, standing in for the ones that could not make it, the ones who were not there. So here they stood, Wilf and Gordon, in Saint Michael’s Parish Church, Flixton, as they carried in their captain, their leader, a player they both looked up to and revered, on and off the pitch, the man who set the standard, though he could be a right old so-and-so, could Roger, wouldn’t half give the young lads some right old bollockings if he saw any sign of a growing, bigger head, a hint that someone thought they’d made the Big Time, that this was Easy Street, and not just with his tongue and all, he’d use his hands, his fists, would Roger, if he felt the need, he’d clipped and clobbered Wilf a couple of times or more, and though Wilf had cursed Roger bloody Byrne, Wilf knew himself he was a cocky little twat, noisier than most, and that each slap and punch from Rog had been one he had deserved, and that was why Wilf was standing in this pew, in this church in Flixton, trying not to see the coffin as it came past him down the aisle, just staring at the back of Jimmy’s coat and Joe’s, the backs of their heads in the pew in front of his, Wilf just trying not to cry.
But in the pew in front of Wilf and Gordon, with Sandy Busby there beside them, too, Jimmy and Joe were struggling, too, racked by the ifs, the onlys and the buts, the might-have-could-have-should-have-beens, as the vicar and the service tried to make some sense of what was and is and will be, and though both Joe and Jimmy knew there was no sense in the ifs, the onlys and the buts, the might-have-could-have-should-have-beens, still they racked, they plagued them both. Joe had seen Brian Statham on the way into the church, one of Roger’s best friends from Gorton, Joe now dwelling on that day, almost fourteen years ago today, when he’d seen Roger and Brian playing for Ryder Brow Juniors in a Lancashire Amateur League fixture. Both were grammar-school boys, smart and good at any sport they played, and Joe had offered them both amateur forms. Roger had accepted, while Brian had turned Joe down, wanting to stick to the sport he loved best, cricket. Brian had gone on to play for Lancashire, had been selected for England and been chosen as one of the Wisden Cricketers of the Year, and though Roger had played two hundred and seventy-seven times for United and had been capped by England in thirty-three consecutive games, Brian was still here.
The thought that bothered Jimmy as he tried to sing the hymns, to still the mind, to heal the heart, their words he knew by heart, but still the thought that troubled Jimmy was that Rog should still be here, should not have gone, might not have gone. He’d had a knock to his ankle on Saturday, in the Arsenal game, a knock that had needed a lot of treatment, and a knock bad enough to make them change their plans, to pull Ronnie Cope off the list and put poor Geoff Bent on the flight instead, only there as cover, cover for Roger in case he was not fit enough to play. But if there was a doubt, and there was a doubt, then why did they risk him? If only he or Matt or Ted had thought things through, then they’d have surely seen it made no sense at all; if they were taking Geoff Bent along, why then bring Roger, too? Why not let Roger stay back home, here with Joy in Flixton, to get himself recovered, to rest up for Saturday, ready for the Wolves?
But then Jimmy smiled, so very briefly, slightly smiled as he thought of who or how they’d have told Roger he was not on the flight to Belgrade, that his services were not required, that he should stay back home in Flixton, rest himself up, ready for the Saturday. No, thought Jimmy, knew Jimmy, that was never very likely; he’d had cuts, he’d had bruises, all manner of aches and strains, teeth knocked out and stitches in his eyes, but he’d only ever missed one match, and even if they’d set his ankle, his whole bloody leg in plaster, Roger Byrne would have still been on that flight. He would have gone along just to see, to watch the game, to be there for the team; he was their captain, they were his team, they were his life.
In the pew at the front of the church, the pew closest to the coffin, Joy was trying hard not to think of what they’d lost, the times they would not have, trying harder to think of the times they’d had. But Joy and Roger had only been married six months. She’d only really known him for two and a half years, all told, and they’d never really seen each other very much, even after they got married. Roger was always either training, playing or studying. If he had a Monday off, he’d go to Salford Royal to study, go in there of an afternoon, if he could, if he had the time, and that was how they’d met, both studying to be physiotherapists. He’d always wanted to be prepared for the day his career, his playing days would end, and for Joy that day could not have come quick enough, the sooner he was out of football the better, she had always thought, that Roger had so much more to offer, and felt still, here in this pew, before his coffin, he had so much more to give, give to the world than this, outside of this.
The sitting down, the standing up, the sitting back down then the standing back up again was over now. Joy helped Roger’s mother Jessie, his father Bill from the pew, back down the aisle again, stooped behind the coffin as they bore poor Roger from the church back out into the air, where still the crowds were gathered, waiting on the cobbles. The pallbearers placed the coffin back inside the hearse, as Joy and Jessie and then Bill got back into their car, the big black hired car, the sound of the hearse doors closing, its wheels on the cobbles, then the road the only sound, followed in procession by the other big black cars.
In the back of the car, the big black hired car, his mother Jessie was trying to be strong, as strong as she could, but there was a bitterness and an anger in her eyes, she knew, not at anyone, the pilot or the club, no, no, but if at anything, then it was at fate itself, the fate that had robbed her of her only son, their only son, that had done this thing to her, this thing to them; her husband, his father Bill, it was as if she’d lost him, too, had lost them both that night, for try as he might, she knew Bill just could not find the strength, could not be strong, this thing, he said, it made no sense, no sense at all. But Jessie didn’t want to, couldn’t think like that, fall into thoughts like that; she tried instead just to think of the times they’d had, the memories she had of when he was just six or maybe seven, and he was playing for the Abbey Hey Junior School team against another little school, and she’d gone along to watch him, thinking many of the mums, even some of the dads, they’d be there to cheer their boys along, it being a Saturday morning and the weather not that bad. But when she got there, Jessie was the only other mum, and apart from her and the teachers, there was just one other spectator, a dad who’d come with the other team of boys, and after a while this dad, he walked up to Jessie and he pointed and he said, See that little lad over there? He’ll be a good footballer one day, you mark my words. And Jessie smiled and said, That’s my son, that lad.
But his father Bill had no such thoughts, good or bad, he could not think a thing, his eyes just fixed upon the coffin of his son in the hearse up ahead, on the road up ahead, Manchester Crematorium coming up ahead.
But on the back seat of the car, the big black hired car, passing through Chorlton, along the Barlow Moor Road, as Joy desperately tried to find the words, to think of something, anything to help poor Bill and Jessie, but knowing there was nothing, nothing that would help, it was then the sudden, unwelcome, most unwanted thought struck Joy that she’d known Roger for just three Februarys, for only three, and that first February she’d known Roger, his car had skidded on some ice and he’d gone and hit a lamp post, then the second February he’d had to swerve to avoid a van coming down the Wilbraham Road, and he’d only gone and swerved into Matt Busby’s neighbour’s gatepost, of all the gateposts to swerve into, then this third and final February he’d only gone and died in a crash, and always around his birthday –
Roger Byrne died just two days short of his twenty-ninth birthday, just a few days short of knowing Joy was expecting their first child.
*
Bill and Teresa, Harry and Mavis, they slipped out of the Russell Hotel and into the enormous Rolls-Royce that Jimmy had booked to take them back to Manchester –
Don’t be putting your foot down, Bill told the chauffeur. It’s not a race, you know, we’re in no rush.
The chauffeur touched his cap and said, Thank you, sir. Don’t you worry, I will go slow.
But in the back of the Rolls, all the way back to Manchester, Bill kept gripping the seat, the inside of the door, straining to sit forward to tell the driver, sometimes even yelling at the man, Slow down, for Chrissakes, will you bloody slow down, man! You’re going too fast.
And the chauffeur would touch his cap again, then again, and say again, I am sorry, sir, I really am, but I promise you, I’m going as slow as I possibly can.
And Mavis glanced at Harry, but Harry could only smile back at Mavis with a smile that said, What can I say, what can I do, I know we’re going slow, I know; we’ll be lucky to get back to Manchester by Christmas, the rate we’re bloody going, but what can I do, what can I say, and Harry then turned, looked across at Teresa, smiled at Teresa with a different smile, a smile that said, Don’t worry, love, don’t worry, just give him time, he’ll be okay, Bill will be all right, you’ll see, and Teresa touched Bill’s hand, his hand that gripped the seat so tight, and rubbed and held his hand with a touch that said, Don’t worry, love, I’m here, you’re safe, we’ll soon, or soon enough, be home, but Bill just shook his head again and said, It’s all his bloody braking, I just can’t abide the braking, thinking but not saying, never saying, It just brings it back again.
*
The first thing to say about it is that no one in Dublin called him Billy. They called him by the name his daddy gave him, the name his mammy called him, Liam. He was always Liam, always, and they were amazed when they read the paper that he was Billy, Billy Whelan, you know, he was Liam, Liam, and never anything else. But when they brought poor Liam back to Dublin, early on the Monday evening, on a freight plane from London, in with the dusk, the light leaving him with them, well, you should have seen the streets, you really should, the city just shut down. It was as if the President of Ireland himself had died, you know? And this in a town of funerals, mind. They had members of Aer Lingus AFC form a guard of honour as they took the poor boy from the plane, with officials from his former club, Home Farm FC, as they put his coffin, his remains inside the hearse, then in their heavy coats, with the black armbands on their sleeves, they walked in solemn step beside the funeral car, and when they got to Whitehall, there was a much larger guard, you know, a guard of honour waiting, made up of two, three hundred players, maybe more, former players and supporters, volunteers, all from Home Farm. But all the way along it was the same, crowds packed the streets, lined the five-mile route, in numbers you’ve not seen before, knelt on the pavement to say the Rosary as he passed by, all the traffic stopped, time and again, all along the weary way, the cortège accorded tributes from workers returning home, all the way the same, from the airport in, down to Whitehall, through Drumcondra, Phibsborough, and out to Cabra and the Church of Christ the King, close to the family home on Saint Attracta Road, number twenty-eight it was, the whole of the northside out on those streets, those roads he knew that were his home, the poor boy’s home, for as his mammy said that night, Least now our Liam’s home.
But his mammy, Elizabeth, she would never forget the nights he was taken from her, twice it was, she said, each time as sudden as the other. The first time was when Liam was playing one night for Home Farm, and so the story goes that Billy Behan, the famous Manchester United scout round here, he had Bert Whalley over from United to run the rule over Vinny Ryan, and Vinny was a great young player, he was all the talk, you know, always in the papers, Vinny going here, Vinny going there, Glasgow Celtic one day, United the next. Anyway, Liam was playing with Vinny that night for Home Farm, against Merrion Rovers it was, but at half-time, so the story goes, Bert Whalley, he turns to Billy Behan and he tells Billy, Forget about that boy Ryan, don’t bother with him, get that lad Whelan, and as quickly as you can.
Now Liam’s oldest brother Christy, who was like a father to Liam, because they’d lost their daddy early on, you know, and Christy, he went to watch Liam where he was playing, wherever it was, with the brother-in-law Michael, on their bikes they’d go, no matter where, no matter when, off they’d go, so he’d been at the match that night, had Christy, but he was already back home in his bed asleep that night, when suddenly the bedroom door flies open, and there’s Liam shaking his brother Christy awake, telling him, Christy, Christy, can you come downstairs for a moment, please? There’s somebody downstairs from Manchester United, and Christy, he opened his eyes and smiled and said, Well, it’s about bloody time, and Christy gets up, puts on his overcoat over his pyjamas like and goes back down the stairs with Liam, and the first thing their mammy said was, Oh, Christy, they want to take him away, they want to take him from us, because there was Billy Behan standing there, you know, the famous scout and all, with Tom Smith, who was one of the main men at Home Farm, who looked after Liam’s team, but cool as you like, Christy looks at Tom and says, Well, hello, Tom, what’s wrong? What’s going on? And Tom said, Well, this man here is Billy Behan, from Manchester United, and Billy, he puts out his hand, and Christy shakes his hand, and as he does, Tom says, They want Liam to go over to Manchester United, that’s why he’s here, Christy. And Billy Behan nodded. That’s right, we want Liam to go over to Manchester United. But Christy looked at Billy, and Christy said, But what way do you want him? What’s he going over for? If this is a trial, I’m not interested. He’s too good for trials is Liam.
No, no, said Billy Behan. No trials. We want to sign him full-time, here and now, this night. He’ll be straight into the youth team, playing Monday.
Well, I have no objections then, that’s okay with me, said Christy, but he turned then to their mammy and said, If you want to let him go, I won’t stand in the way.
Now Christy knew she did not want it, what mother ever does, so the thought of Liam leaving home and her did not sit well with her, not well at all with her, but she wanted it for Liam, if that was what he wanted, and so their mammy turned to Liam and smiled and said, Well, I suppose we’ll have to let you go then.
That was all on the Friday evening, on a Friday night, and on the Sunday evening he was off and gone away, and they cried that night, did Christy and their mammy, and so did Liam, too, already missing home.
Well, they say he cried, and for sure he did, but that first Thursday he was there, over the water at Old Trafford, he was straight into the United youth team, you know, in for John Doherty he was, playing in the first leg of the first-ever FA Youth Cup Final, helping United to beat the Wolves seven–one, the second leg then a two-all draw, but when you think back on that United side that won that first Youth Cup, then what a side it was: Gordon Clayton, Bryce Fulton, Paddy Kennedy, who’d come from Johnville, had he not, Eddie Colman, Ronnie Cope, Duncan Edwards, Noel McFarlane, Eddie Lewis, David Pegg, Albert Scanlon and then Liam, of course.
But, oh, he suffered with the homesickness, did Liam, oh, he really did, you know. He was always wanting to be home. One time he said to Christy, he said, I wish with all my life that this was over and I was coming home again. That stayed with him for many years, you know, the homesickness, it did. The problem he had was how to spend the days, you know, he’d train all morning, but they were done by one, and so then he’d go to the pictures in town, but he soon got fed up with that, you know, so the afternoons were a terrible drag they were. But there were things over there that happened, you know, and one of those things that helped him was when Christy and his good pal Sean Dolan came over on a visit.
Now Sean’s brother Brendan, he was the manager of a canning factory that was owned by Louis Edwards, you know, the fellow who later went on the board, that became the Chairman at United, and Sean’s brother Brendan and his wife Bid and their kids, they lived in a lovely big house out Stockport way, and Brendan and Bid, they invited Sean and Christy and Liam out there to Brendan’s place one night, and they had a lovely big stew which Bid made for them, and Liam, he tucked into it, he really did, and so when they’d finished, when they were going, Brendan’s wife Bid, she called Christy over, and she said, Now, Christy, did you see Liam eating the stew?
