“I’ve arranged for ye to go on the football pitch before the match. One of the lads from the accounts department wants to be a stand-up comedian, so he’s having a go first. Then ye’re on.”
“So...” Martha’s voice shook as she spoke. “We just walk out on the pitch, and Zelda reads aloud?”
Harry nodded. “She’ll have a microphone, so the crowd can hear her.”
“How many people are there?”
“Usually around two thousand.”
“Two?” Martha pressed a hand to her neck.
“Sometimes three, for a big match. For a wee football team they attract a lot of supporters.”
Zelda shoulders shrank. She fingered the blanket on her lap. “My throat is a little croaky,” she said, glancing away. “I hope I’ll be okay.”
Martha fixed her with a glare. “Yes, you will,” she said.
The accounts-person-come-comedian stood in the center of the pitch. From the tunnel, Martha couldn’t hear his words properly. She could see him gesturing with his hands, waving them around and standing with them on his hips. The rhythm of his patter stopped for a while as he waited for a response to his last joke. Martha listened out for laughter but there was only a mild titter.
Her stomach churned as he finished his set and shuffled past her, his back hunched. “I think I’ll stick with invoicing,” he said.
Will and Rose had opted for a tour of the grounds, offered by one of Harry’s workmates, and Zelda and Harry were deep in conversation a few meters away. Zelda had a copy of Blue Skies and Stormy Seas set on her lap.
As she waited for their turn, Martha found that her feet wouldn’t stay still. With a life of their own they shuffled and danced on the spot. She kept checking her watch and a sense of dread flooded over her as the seconds ticked away.
Giggles filled the corridor and a team of cheerleaders appeared around the corner. Slumping against the nearest wall, they chewed gum and stared at each other’s phones. They all wore the same white satin shorts, heavily penciled-in eyebrows and hair in bunches.
One of them stared in her direction, slowly running her eyes over Martha’s curly hair, her coat and then shoes. “Is she going to sing?” she whispered loudly to her friend. “Not exactly Beyoncé, is she?”
“More like Susan Boyle.”
Martha looked for the exit but the girls had blocked the corridor, obscuring her view of Zelda. She stood on her tiptoes and her breathing quickened. Harry squeezed through the plethora of pom-poms toward her. “Don’t be nervous. Ye’ll be fine,” he said, patting her arm. “It’s a shame about Zelda’s sore throat, but I’ll tell ye what to do.”
Martha’s entire body stiffened. “Me?” she exclaimed.
Harry shrugged a shoulder. “She said that ye’ll be doing the reading.”
Martha shook her head wildly. “No. Definitely not. Please wait a minute...” She excused her way through the cheerleaders to where her nana sat, smiling sheepishly in her chair.
“What is this about?” Martha gestured with her hands. “Harry says you’re not doing your reading. You claimed it was your dying wish.”
Zelda looked up through her sparse eyelashes. “It is. I want to share the stories from the book.” She glanced towards the pitch.
Martha narrowed her eyes. “Harry said you have a sore throat.”
“I do.” Zelda licked her top lip. “And there’s more people than I thought, out there.”
“You should have thought about that before you set this up.” Martha lowered her voice to a hiss.
“Three minutes, ladies,” Harry said as he joined them. “Time to get into position.”
Martha rubbed her forehead. “I cannot do this on my own,” she said.
“Please, Martha,” Zelda said. “‘The Tiger and the Unicorn’ is an important story to me.”
“Then you do it.”
“I can’t. Not today. I’m sorry.” Zelda took hold of her hand and stroked the back of it. “To other people, our book might be just a few battered old pages, words and pictures. But when we read the stories, we remember how we felt when we told them. It may sound crazy, but the more people who hear them, the less I connect them to our family history. Do you understand what I mean?”
Martha clenched her teeth. She looked out at all the people in the crowd. and the blood running through her veins felt cold. She gave the slightest nod. “I think so...but...”
Zelda pursed her lips. “Please do this, and I promise I’ll tell you the story behind the book.”
Martha met her nana’s eyes and blinked. “What? Everything? You’ll tell me how and why it came to be?”
“Yes,” Zelda said. “Absolutely everything.”
Martha’s heart thumped so loudly she was sure the microphone would pick it up. Her chest was tight and she could hardly breathe. As she walked out onto the pitch, the turf felt bouncy beneath her feet, and she concentrated on taking one step forward and then another, as she followed the cheerleaders. She blinked as she left the dark of the tunnel behind and squinted against the hazy white sky and emerald-green grass. She held one hand up against the weak sun as the noise of the crowd singing crackled in her ears.
Harry walked at the side of her. He turned this way and that, waving with both hands as if he was washing windows. Martha kept her own hands pressed to her sides. She could feel vomit rising in her throat and she swallowed it away.
Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick, she chanted to herself.
She reached under her coat and plucked at her sweater as she and Harry neared a microphone stand. As she swayed a little, he reached out a steadying hand. “Are ye okay?”
Martha glanced over to the side of the pitch, to where her nana sat in her wheelchair. With every nerve in her body, she sensed Zelda willing her to do this. Martha stood stiffly, her body trembling, before she gave a short nod. “I’m fine,” she squeaked.
The football team stood in a line with their hands behind their backs. One yawned and there were a few sets of glazed eyes.
“Ye just take hold of the microphone. I’ll switch it on. Good luck and enjoy yerself.” Harry smiled at her.
Martha gave a rictus grin back. She took a few deep breaths and blew out through pursed lips. She glanced back at her nana one last time before she stuck out her chin and reached for the microphone. Her fingers fumbled and it slipped through them, as if it was coated in butter. Electronic feedback screeched around the arena and ripples of laughter rang around the ground. Martha scrunched up her shoulders against the noise.
“Get her off. Get her off. Get her off,” a chant started. It gathered momentum until it echoed and surrounded her. “Get her OFF.”
“Ignore them. They even sing that to their own team,” Harry said beside her. He bent down, picked up the microphone and repositioned it. “Ye go for it. And I have some cake for ye and Zelda afterwards. A new fruity recipe.”
Martha nodded. She touched the microphone lightly and cleared her throat a couple of times. “Um, hello,” she croaked.
“Get her off. Get her off,” the crowd sang in reply.
“Speak up. Ye’re talking to two thousand people,” Harry said and he moved away.
Martha massaged the back of her neck and felt her bottom lip wobble. She was on the verge of bursting into tears. Useless. That’s how she felt. As useless as Clive Folds insinuated she was, as useless as her father often made her feel. Panic took hold of her legs, making them bow and wobble. She shuffled closer to the microphone stand but her feet were leaden. She stood still for a long time, wishing the football team would forget she was there and start the match without her. Then she could slink away and flee from the ground.
She peeked around again at Zelda, and her nana leaned forward in her wheelchair, giving her a double thumbs-up. “I love you, Martha,” she shouted, cupping her hands to her mouth. “You are glorious.”
Martha looked away quickly as tears sprang to her eyes. Glorious was something she was when she was with Joe, before she looked after her parents. Glorious was something she was when she wrote her stories.
Not now.