Written in collaboration with Andy Freeman
A short story partly based on historical fact. The factual part is the more unlikely, some might say.
I
Reykjavik, Iceland. Saturday 31 March 1934
‘Mariners are we! Champions! Champions! Mariners are we – cham-pi-ooons! C’mon you scabby Scrobs! Join in! Sing with me! Mariners! Champions! Mariners! Champions! I caaaan’t hear yooooou!’
Sixteen-year-old deck-hand, Billy Pratt is making himself unpopular in the Kool Katz club behind Reykjavik’s main street, Bankastraeti.
‘Grimsby Town and KR! KR! Mariners and KR! KR!’
Temporarily ashore while a crew-mate is hospitalised with a broken arm, he has, earlier in the day, taken in a pre-season friendly football match between KR and Valur, the city’s principal teams. Because their black and white striped shirts resemble those of his own Grimsby Town, he has been loud in his support of the victorious KR.
Drunk, now, on strong bootleg-beer in this smokey, underground, speak-easy, his voice is flat and loud as he wanders the room, imposing himself on drinkers in dark corners who either laugh at his slurred chants or try to ignore his insults of Valur and of Iceland in general .
‘Far þú, strákur,’ mutters an irritated young man.
‘Speak English, Scrobbo, I can’t understand you,’ Billy slurs. ‘Maar-i-neers!’
‘You have too much drunk, enska strákinn. Go home. Farðu heim,’ says the man’s girlfriend.
‘KR! KR! Grimsby Town and KR! KR! KR!’
‘Like you English say, “Too much sniff the barmaid’s apron,” ’ chuckles a red-faced, heavily bearded old man.
‘Bes-tall! Bes-tall! Bes-tall! Bes-taaaaaall!’
As he weaves between tables to the exit, two young men of Reykjavik, Elmar Guðjohnsen and Heidar Sigþórsson follow him. From a corner of the room, Frank Sage, Mate of the S.T. Kingston Warrior of Hull, watches with interest.
Outside, the Icelanders set upon Billy, drag him into an alley, and begin to pummel his stomach and ribs.
‘Hættu!’
They are disturbed, briefly, by the imposing figure of Frank, but they carry on.
‘Setja hann niður,’ Frank growls.
‘Piss af enskumaður,’ answers the shorter man who is holding Billy by the arms.
Frank knows what this means but his Icelandic does not stretch to a reply so he holds out his hands at his sides, unthreateningly, smiling.
‘He insult my team. He is rude about our country. He deserve this,’ says the taller one, halting the beating to speak.
‘Yes. You’re right. What he said was wrong. But he doesn’t know Iceland like I do. I’m sorry he said those things.’
They stand their ground as if daring Frank to intervene further. He too stands firm, unblinking, calm, speaking plainly. ‘Just let me take him back to his ship. He’ll be gone by morning and I’ll let him know what an idiot he’s been and tell him what he’s done wrong.’
Realising Frank has no fear, they accept his apology on behalf of the drunken boy and push Billy towards him.
‘Farðu heim, Englishman. Go home,’ says the taller youth. ‘Farðu heim.’ And they watch as Frank guides the boy down the midnight street toward the harbour.
A weak Northern sun wakes young Billy Pratt. Cuts on his face sting. His ribs throb and his mouth and throat are dry. He is stretched out on a coil of rope on the deck of a ship that is not his own.
‘You’re alive then, young Grimmy,’ Frank laughs, offering him a chipped enamel cup with a brew of Camp coffee. ‘And I think you’ve me to thank for that.’
‘Where am I ?’
‘You’re aboard the Kingston Warrior. I’m Frank Sage, her Mate. Get that coffee down you, then you might be sober enough to get back to Pride of Lincs. Tide turns in an hour and she’s ready to sail.
‘How did …’
‘Plenty in Reykjavik will be glad to see the back of you, son. You made a bit of a twat of yourself last night. I might even have saved your life, who knows?’
‘What did…’
‘You upset our Icelandic hosts. They’re good folk, kind and proud. And they’re full of hospitality. And you insulted that. They’re hard as well, they have to be to put up with all this wind and fire and ice. Considering their warrior history, only an idiot would expect ‘em to put up with behaviour like yours last night. And if you are not shamed of yourself, then you should be.’
‘They’re not much good at football though, these Scrobs, are they?’ Billy tries to laugh, wincing at the pain in his sides, memory returning in fragments.
‘And you’re not much of a fighter. You’d have been in hospital with your ship-mate if I hadn’t persuaded them to leave you alone. Or in jail.
Either way, you’d have missed your ship.’
Billy sits up painfully. ‘You know that KR side, they’re not a patch on Town. They’ve no-one like Glover or Bestall. No Dyson or Betmead or Buck.’
Frank smiles.
‘And Iceland, have they even got a national team? If they have, they won’t be good enough to play England will they. It’s not as if that’ll ever happen.’
’Never say, never, young Grimmy. Who knows what’s in store for the kids and grandkids of those lads you upset last night?’
Billy has recognised Frank’s accent.
‘You’re from Hull,’ he says. “TheTigers”. They’re not very good at football either, though they might beat the teams I watched yesterday, just. Hull City? It’s not as if they’ll ever make it to the First Division is it? They’re already punching above their weight as it is. And anyway, they’ve no tradition. They’re just a bunch of “Johnny come latelys.”’
‘Who knows?’ Frank says. ‘Just now, that’s true, but it doesn’t always have to be.’
‘But WE…THE TOWN, we’re going to be in the First Division next year. And when we beat you in Hull on Saturday we’ll be champions.’
‘You might. But nothing’s certain, lad. Success…failure, nothing lasts for ever. We just have to keep faith and trust in hope; and fill our nets while the weather’s fair, cos there’s usually a storm somewhere over one horizon or the other. Will you be coming to Anlaby Road for the match?’ Frank asks.
‘Aye, if we land in time.’
‘Then if you make it, remember it was a Yorkie what kept you out of hospital and jail; and behave yourself in Hull.’
‘I owe you,’ Billy mumbles with some humility, putting down his empty cup and reaching out, painfully, to shake Frank’s hand.
‘Now, off you get. Your Skipper won’t thank you for stopping his ship. And I’ll keep an eye out for you on Saturday.’
Spurn. Thursday 5 April
Two trawlers round Spurn, entering the Humber. Billy Pratt, at the bow rail of Pride of Lincs, looks back on the starboard side to see a grinning Frank Sage offer a slack salute from the bridge of the Kingston Warrior. The muddy waters of the estuary are seared scarlet in a cloudless sunset as one ship pulls to port and Grimsby Roads, while the other pushes onward, for Hull.
II
Kingston upon Hull, Saturday 7 April
The P.S. Brocklesby gently kisses the wooden decking of Corporation Pier. A mighty roar drowns out the squawking of seabirds as the army of Mariners’ fans on the paddle steamers deck, and in its lounges and bars, cheer and shout. The friendly invasion of the seaport of Kingston upon Hull begins.
It is a joyous Spring morning for the patient supporters of Grimsby Town Football Club. It is a day of celebration – two points for a win in today’s match against a mid-table Hull City and the coveted Second Division Championship trophy is theirs – with still four more games to go before the season ends.
A couple of hours earlier, folk had woken with grins on their faces. The first of five packed, two-shilling, special trains had steamed out of Cleethorpes, New Clee, Grimsby Docks and Grimsby Town to cross the flat Lincolnshire fields to New Holland’s gaunt wooden pier with its distant views of the Humber’s North bank.
The mighty river has never looked calmer or more sparkling, the sky never bluer as they sail in style to the match; paddles churning, throwing early champagne spray into the air.
Brocklesby is a mass of black and white, full of excited chatter, bursts of good-natured chanting, singing and high jinks.
‘Maa—aa—rriners’.’Maa-ri-ners’.
‘Up! The Mariners up the field and score.
Up! The Mariners let’s have goals galore!’
It will be like this also, shortly, and throughout the day, when the P.S. Killngholme, joins her sister-ship in the Humber Ferry Football Shuttle.
It is a wedding, a christening, a works’ beano, a day out at the seaside all rolled into one.
A mouth organ plays a jaunty tune; tin whistles; the harsh machine-gun sound of rattles; full-throated foghorn voices warning the North Bank of their impending arrival. And everywhere, black and white; black and white hand-knitted scarves; black and white rosettes and caps and top hats; black and white flags and banners; black and white home-made berets. Black and white.
It is their time.
On board, some talk of figures, pointing out well-thumbed copies of last night’s Grimsby Evening Telegraph: nearly 90 goals scored, 37 matches won, only 8 defeats. Relegation candidates last season…surely, Champions this?
Others talk of the men, local heroes. ’Ginger’ Hall, a joiner for Wilkinson and Houghton during the week, tough-tackling half-back on Saturday. Boston’s Charlie ‘Swerver’ Craven. Fearsome Teddy Buck. Handsome Harry Betmead, Meggies-born majestic centre-half. And the others, their strength, their speed, their fitness; their qualities as men:- modesty, courage, grit.
Voices hush when talking of two men in particular. Ernest Matthew ‘Pat’ Glover, tough Welsh goal machine, hat-tricks against Oldham and Manchester United…40 goals so far this season and, of course…Jackie Bestall, ‘our Jack’, their leader. The finest inside-forward in the country bar none, a magician with the ball.
Giddy already with excitement and anticipation, some study the First Division table…mighty Arsenal, glamorous Tottenham Hotspur, Sunderland, Huddersfield, Portsmouth….
And in one corner of the deck a battered-looking Billy Pratt, sporting a black eye and numerous cuts and bruises, tries to sleep. He’s made it. Just.
Hull glows, a pale yellow mass of low buildings in the sunlit distance. Almost exotic. A foreign country.
The gangways are positioned but the Mariners fans hold back politely as the mayors of Grimsby and Cleethorpes, their fashionable wives and assorted club dignitaries are greeted by Hull’s equivalent, mayoral chains, bowler hats, elegant fashions. Smiles. Handshakes.
‘That’s a touch of class from the Hully-gullies, a proper civic welcome.’
‘A brass band would‘ve been nice!’
And then the invasion begins. They launch themselves onto dry land. The tidal wave of black and white, rushes, pushes, clambers, then saunters and strolls towards the waiting city.
They fill the pavements, fill the trams with their broad grins, their cheekiness, their larking, their fun and games, their dancing jigs. The buildings here seem finer, more polished, the streets wider; Anlaby Road, Ferensway, Kingston Street, Wellington Street; the pubs larger and shinier with more glass, more brightly painted than the pubs in Freemo, Riby Square and Meggies.
Shoppers stop. Traffic halts. Drinkers outside The Polar Bear shout good-naturedly: ‘You’re gonna lose today, you Grimmies!’
’Three nil to the Tigers!’
‘Tigers? Pussy-cats more like!’
’The Welshman’s injured. Who’s gonna score for you, now?’
From The Vauxhall Tavern, ’Longden hat-trick today’.
‘4-1 to us back in November. Easy!’
The whole of Hull is swamped by a black and white flood. The City belongs to Town today.
And the match itself?
Anlaby Road is crammed with 20,000 fans,mingling amber and black and black and white. Stands are full, the weather gloriously fine, a bright sun streaming down.
They search through flimsy programmes, looking for the team. ‘Rocket’ Read in goal; Kelly and Hughie Jacobson, full backs; who else but ‘Ginger’ Hall, Betmead and Buck, in mid-field, their fiftieth straight match together; Dyson and Jennings the wingers; Charlie ‘Swerver’ Craven’, brilliant inside-forward; skipper Bestall. Then a pause… The rumour is true… No Pat Glover…
‘W.T.Ponting! Who?’
‘He’s a young lad. 20. He’s scored plenty for the ressies.’
‘Policeman. Used to play for Humber United. He won’t let us down.’
City run out first but there’s twice as much noise for the Mariners. White shirts; black shorts. Change kit…Tigers in stripes.
Bestall wins the toss. City to face the sun in the first half. Clever.
A nervous opening.
Craven foot up. Free kick. Save from ‘The Rocket’.
Bestall wins the ball. Up to Jennings. Cross. All the way across the six-yard box.
Dyson tricks Woodhead. Tries to play it to Bestall but Speed clears.
‘Come on, Town’
Fast, end to end. Breathless. Eight minutes. Jennings to Craven who’s run to the wing. First time pass into the path of unmarked PONTING. Side –foots it past Maddison.
‘GOAAAALLLLL!’
1-0 to The Mariners.
‘First Division here we come!’
‘Maa-ri-ners! Maa-ri-ners!’
The match passes in a noisy, blurry dream. Crammed into those small stands it’s sometimes difficult to see. Boys on shoulders. Thousands pressed tight against barriers and fences. Billy Pratt feeling sore.
Craven flashes the ball over the top of the goal. Good work from Bullock beating Hall and Kelly.
So far so good. But pinned back. Deep in their own half. Read solid as a rock as three Tigers jump in.
‘It’s not Rugby League tha knows!’
No sign of a second goal. Ponting hooks it over the top.
‘Division One, next year boys, you’re knocking at the door.’
Cheers at half-time. More goals in the second half?
And Billy Pratt walks round to get behind the Hull goal. He thinks he sees Frank, his saviour, half a dozen times in the crush. The shape of the jaw, an arm held up, a way of walking but the ‘Hello, Frank,’ remains on his lips.
What should they do? All out for a second goal? Defend?
And defend it has to be. Tense, heavy and sustained pressure from The Tigers. Half-backs and inside-forwards ordered to back really deep, often in the penalty area. Only Ponting and the two wingers up front.
Some muttering about the tactics.
‘Let’s see.’
City desperate for an equaliser. Town blocking crosses.Hullpumping high balls into the box.
‘Ale-house long ball stuff !’
Betmead heads away. Jacobson heads away. Betmead off the line for a corner. Balls kicked high into the stand by Kelly and Hall.
‘Rocket’ dives full length to save a fierce drive from McNaughton. The minutes tick away, slowly. Hughie Jacobson, cool.
‘Mariners Are We!…Mariners are We!’
Even the old Abbey Park Chimes – ‘Hello…Hello… Hello…Hello.’ – anything to relieve the tension.
The final whistle. Massive cheers of relief all round.
‘Packed defence the right tactics after all.’
Handshakes from the Hull fans. ‘Good Luck next season!’
That’s it. The Championship. Champions. How wonderful that word sounds.
The black and white tide slowly ebbs. The Brocklesby is waiting, steam up.
But young Billy Pratt stays in Hull for the evening : The Black Boy; The Star and Garter; The White Heart.
No sign of Frank amongst the Tigers fans.
‘Another season in Division 2.’
‘We’re really a Rugby League area, aren’t we?’’
‘We’ll never get to the First Division.’
It is night when Billy Pratt boards the brightly lit Killingholme. More cheering and shouting as she pulls away from Corporation Pier for the last time that day. And then,through the window of the Minerva bar, Billy sees the smiling face of Frank Sage, beer glass in hand, offering a final, respectful salute.
More animated talk on deck about next season. Ted Drake, Raich Carter, Everton’s Dixie Dean. Arsenal, Molineux, Sunderland, Leeds Road…Stanley Matthews coming to Blundell Park.
The ferry zig-zags its way back south. Lights flicker down river. When she grounds on tiresome shifting sand, her engines whine and paddles stall. ‘Plain sailing, hey Frank?’ Billy laughs. Then his imagination quickens, sore ribs and stinging cuts forgotten. Years of success ahead? Blundell Park bursting at the seams. League Champions? FA Cup Finals?Betmead for England? ’Swerver’s only 25, Pat Glover’s even younger. And ‘Our Jack’ will play for ever.
III
Highbury Stadium, London. 1 May 1948
Warrant Officer Bill Pratt reflects on what he has witnessed this afternoon at Highbury Stadium. His beloved Grimsby Town’s defeat in this last game of the season had been expected, perhaps, but not to the extent of Champions Arsenal’s 8-0 rout of the Division One wooden-spoonists. The Gunners had been gracious to their guests, Captain Joe Mercer wishing the doomed Mariners well, confident that Grimsby’s return to the First Division would not be too long coming, while he held the Football League Championship trophy.
Relegation had been a fact since the defeat at Middlesborough, four games before, but supporters had, like Bill today, coped with the disappointment by remembering the best times of their recent spell in football’s top flight; finishing fifth in that first season, two FA Cup semi finals; England caps for Bestall, Betmead and Tweedy; and the regular visits of Britain’s finest to Blundell Park: Alex James, Dennis Compton, Stan Cullis; Huddersfield, Stoke City, The Wolves. How wonderful it had all been. But all of that had faded with the coming of war.
With the players long gone from the scene, and a few last straggling supporters’ voices echoing around the stadium, Bill leans on the pitch-side fence, his face wet from tears and the spring shower that began as the game closed. Not for the first time today, he is thinking of Skipper Frank Sage RNR, whose name he had successfully sought on the Tower Hill Memorial that morning. Frank had gone down with the S. T. Amber and Black, sunk by enemy aircraft off Norway in 1940. They had served together on the minesweepers for a while before Bill had signed up for the Royal Navy to spend the rest of his war in the Mediterranean.
He had remembered, with affection, those dark nights spent on the North Sea, sipping hot coffee on the bridge. More than once, Bill had acknowledged how right Frank had been about storms over the horizon; and both agreed that neither expected another world war to be one of them. He hears Frank’s voice again now, reminding him how he may have saved his life one night. And he sees, once more, Frank’s patient smile, listening to his crowing about The Mariners feats in the top flight. And he thinks again of Frank’s advice to enjoy the sunshine; and that man’s hopes about his own Hull City’s future. ‘And Iceland might beat England!’ Bill hears himself mocking, once again.
Whatever the future holds for Hull City, Bill is thinking now, poor Frank Sage will never see it. Or maybe he did. In his dreams. And he wonders how long his own Mighty Mariners’ might have to wait for their next turn in England’s top league.
Leaving the stadium, entering the terraced streets of North London, Bill hears, from somewhere nearby, the echoing chant of a solitary Gooner: ‘Ar-sen-aaal! Cham-pi-ooons! Ar-sen-aaal! Cham-pi-ooons! ‘
‘See how long that lasts,’ he mutters to himself as he goes to rejoin his ship at Tilbury.