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The story Here
Was...
Fiction. Made-up. A total LIE! - Sorry.
The reason it sounded real was because I put the whole story in an actual place in my childhood. When one thing in a story is based on truth, the rest is easy to slip in and make it sound realistic.
The pear orchard is real.
From Google Maps
And the fact that I went there every day (almost) during my childhood is real too.
I never did get to climb those trees and they were spaced too far apart to make it possible (or safe) to try to get from tree to tree across the lofty branches.
I did enjoy making up the story though and thank you for reading it and for commenting.
I was a confirmed Tom-boy when I was a kid (I can hear those gasps of astonishment from here - I know, you'd never have believed it of me...) Even when Trev and I started seeing each other, I was still a feisty, chip-on-the-shoulder brat.
I was brought up in a family of rough-and-tumble, where we played rough and didn't pull punches. If I got hurt whilst playing (even with adults), I'd be scorned for crying (or I'd get in trouble for hurting my younger brother and/or sister, so the lessons were not clear or easy to learn).
I always felt like I was a disappointment to my father. Sort of like he really would have preferred a boy, so he could teach him football and stuff. I always wanted to learn. Unfortunately, he never wanted to teach me or he never had time…
My father had been a potential up-and-coming footballer when he was at school (takes after my great-grandad), but he’d been injured and his career was ended before it began.
I used to badger him to take me to football matches and unfortunately, back in those days, girls didn’t do that kind of thing – I knew that to be false, because my neighbour (sometimes friend, sometimes sworn enemy) went to the matches with her dad.
Still, he only took me a couple of times – with my brother in tow.
Back then, I was often mistaken for a boy and that never bothered me – unless it could be used for shock factor or amusement.
My neighbour is a few months younger than me. Her dad had a good, steady job and mine didn’t.
Her dad worked Monday through to Friday and mine was never at home at weekends – whether by choice or work made no difference. I never remember him at home much on the weekends and when he was, he sat in front of the television watching cricket, football, golf, tennis etc (I wonder why I don’t like sports?)
Her dad bought her a season-ticket and also took her to away matches. Mine went to the football matches on his own rather than take us with him. I’ll say one thing in his favour, he never took just my brother. He always took both or neither of us.
On the bus home from school, my neighbour had spent the week taking great delight in teasing me because my dad couldn’t afford a season ticket for the football (it would be a waste of money because he wouldn’t be able to get to every home match anyway).
She told me about how her dad took her to the matches and that she was a bigger fan of ‘our team’ than I was and I hated it.
Back then, ‘our team’ was doing very well. Top of the league, winning cups and things. Yet I wasn’t a ‘real fan’ because I didn’t go to the matches. The team had just signed a new player and everyone was excited to see how he’d fit in – hopefully winning matches for us.
I badgered my father to take us to the football match.
He gave in, relented, actually took us!
We were late getting there and it was difficult to find a parking space. We heard the roar of the crowd!
“We’ve scored!” I said, despondent that we’d missed it.
“No, that’ll be the team coming out onto the pitch,” he said.
Then we heard a groan of despair and anger.
“Something’s happened!” I said, becoming miserable that the best game of the season and we were so close, yet so far.
“They’ve scored!” he said. “The other team will be winning, that’s why they sound annoyed.”
We got to the football ground, went through the turnstiles and found out what had happened.
Our team had indeed scored.
Then one of our players had been tackled horribly and had been stretchered off with a badly broken leg. The new acquisition. The guy we’d wanted to see – Terry Curran – stretchered off before we even got to see him!
I wanted to swear!
I could imagine the neighbour on Monday gloating at the fact that I’d been to the match, but missed all the action.
After the match, I saw our neighbour and her dad clamouring at the door to the changing rooms where the players would emerge after their shower. I could imagine it now. The players would come out and she’d get the chance to ask for autographs and she’d get them and then she’d have even more reason to gloat!
Damn and BLAST IT!
We were nowhere near the doors to the changing room. We were across an empty part of the courtyard, completely out of the way and in NO danger of getting to the players to get their autograph.
And then, that one magical moment when everything goes your way…
Larry Lloyd, the team captain came out of the changing room door. He signed a few autographs and made his way through the crowd. Then he spotted someone he recognised and changed course. He went over to the man he recognised and took his hand and shook it firmly.
My brother and I stood watching in utter star-struck overwhelmed-ness as Larry Lloyd shook our dad’s hand, slapped him on the shoulder and spoke to him.
I glanced over to our neighbour and she stood there open-mouthed in as much amazement as we had.
Monday morning was not as bad as I imagined it would be and I didn’t even have to protest that I wasn’t lying about it.
So... truth or fiction? Tell me in the comments.