12th June, 2010; London, England
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17:00
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England had bought himself a set of car flags a week or so back, but, in the end, hadn't been able to summon up the courage to affix them to his Bentley for fear of damaging its windows.
Instead, he'd gone up into his attic, and after a great deal of sweating, swearing and sneezing, managed to unearth the large St George flag he'd bought for the 2006 World Cup. It looked a little dingy and a lot crumpled, but it would have to do in a pinch.
Afterwards, whilst he was sweating, swearing and rocking precariously atop a stepladder, trying to attach the recalcitrant flag above his living room window as it flapped energetically in the breeze and made repeated bids for freedom by slithering through his fingers, his next-door-neighbour appeared at their shared fence and cleared his throat noisily several times.
England bit back the next explosive, "Fucking hell," that wanted to escape his lips as the far corner of the flag shimmied free of its hook yet again, and managed an, admittedly rather brusque, "Good afternoon, Mr Featherstonehaugh," instead.
Mr Featherstonehaugh's tidy little grey moustache quivered as his top lip stiffened into a firm, disapproving line, and he made a small, guttural noise that, although wordless, nevertheless spoke volumes of scorn concerning England's appraisal of the state of his day. He leant a little further over the fence, and glared at England's flag with as much intensity as his watery blue eyes were capable of mustering.
Although they'd been neighbours for over ten years, England knew very little about Mr Featherstonehaugh beyond the fact that he had been a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces – he had always remained tight-lipped on what rank he'd achieved before he'd retired, or even which branch he'd served in – and that had been evident even before the man had seen fit to grudgingly impart that particular scant piece of information in the second year of their little better than nodding acquaintance. His garden was as military neat as his moustache, not a blade of grass out of place, not a single dead leaf or withered flower to be seen, and he always stood 'at ease' rather than easily whenever his and England's paths crossed and they felt compelled by the rules of politeness to share stilted conversations about the weather.
His obvious predilection for order extended beyond his own smartly painted fence to encompass the entirety of their quiet, leafy street: he was the self-appointed head of the local Neighbourhood Watch, and had very definite ideas about what constituted acceptable neighbourly behaviour. Any sort of 'excessive and ostentatious' outside decoration 'not in keeping with the period aesthetic' of their Georgian houses was a particular bugbear of his, as Mrs Harris at number four had discovered to her cost the Christmas before last when she installed an inflatable snowman in her front garden.
To England's eye, his flag was neither 'excessive' nor 'ostentatious' nor even 'un-Georgian', but it was clearly a step too far for Mr Featherstonehaugh, who always had a raised eyebrow at the ready whenever he passed number seven and caught sight of the cheerful little garden gnome crouching half-hidden beneath the rhododendron bush at the side of the driveway.
"Maybe you'd have better luck if you hung it inside your living room, Mr Kirkland," Mr Featherstonehaugh said, the command barely concealed within a wafer-thin coating of solicitude.
England wanted to tell Mr Featherstonehaugh that he could stuff his faux-concern up his arse, and that he would hang his flag wherever he damn well pleased, but couldn't quite manage to push the words past the barrier of his stubbornly clenched-shut teeth, the conscious part of his brain ceding control to the subconscious, which clearly had a greater sense of preservation. Mr Featherstonehaugh did not brook dissent, and, once riled, was more than capable of rallying the might of the Neighbourhood Watch against transgressors with a viciously worded leafleting campaign. England had been skating on thin ice since Boxing Day as far as Mr Featherstonehaugh's good will was concerned, and it doubtless was in his best interests not to push his luck any further.
"You're probably right," England said with a sigh, stretching up to unhook the other side of his flag.
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18:45
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England swayed a little as he got up from his sofa, and then his legs trembled as he staggered towards the kitchen in search of more beer.
He choose to put his unsteadiness down to the three cans of lager he'd downed in quick succession whilst waiting for ITV's coverage of the match to start, rather than the nerves which had suddenly shivered back into life after being carefully being kept in check all day once it finally got underway. The nerves that made it feel as though a hard lump of ice had settled at the bottom of his stomach, and set his hands to shaking as he raised the third can to his lips, splattering his crisp new football shirt with droplets of lager before he drained it in four long gulps.
The front doorbell rang as he made his unsteady way back towards the lounge clutching the six pack of Stella which he hoped would see him through to half-time at least. He ignored it at first, reasoning that it might well be Mr Featherstonehaugh, complaining that he could still see England's flag where it was hanging on his lounge wall if he stood at a certain point in his garden and used binoculars, and returned to his sofa and the telly. The ringing was soon replaced by knocking, and then knocking and ringing, and finally, gravel thrown at the lounge window, spurring England into a headlong rush to answer the door before his strangely persistent visitor decided to up the ante even further and lob a brick instead.
He had every intention of giving whoever was standing on his doorstep a loud and virulent piece of his mind, but the wave of his righteous indignation broke and flowed away leaving behind nothing but bewilderment when he wrenched open the door to discover that it was Scotland and Wales.
"What the hell are you two doing here?" he eventually managed to ask after a moment of shock in which he could summon up no reaction beyond opening and closing his mouth silently like a landed fish whilst a suitable response failed to occur to him.
Wales looked a little sheepish, and took a couple of steps back until he was mostly shielded behind Scotland's bulk, but Scotland grinned back unrepentantly, opening his clenched left fist to let the handful of pebbles he was holding rattle to the floor.
"We were just in the neighbourhood," Scotland said, nonchalantly, as though his turning up at England's house unannounced was an everyday occurrence that should come as no surprise whatsoever to England. "Thought you might like a bit of company for the match."
"Just in the neighbourhood," England repeated slowly. The words seemed just as ridiculous coming from his own mouth as they had Scotland's.
Scotland nodded, ignoring the sceptical slant of England's eyebrows when he raised them to continue undaunted with: "Aren't you going to invite us in, then?"
"We brought beer," Wales added, holding a bulging Tesco's bag outstretched like an olive branch.
The offer was a tempting one, but, then again, not really worth the strings attached to accepting it, and England did have more than enough alcohol in the house already to send him into peaceful oblivion for the rest of the weekend if he paced himself carefully.
"I don't care," he said. "I know what this is really about, and you can both just fuck off."
England's last few words were spent uselessly on the back of Scotland's head as he strode into the house regardless, saying, "That's not very brotherly of you. And here we thought we'd be doing you a favour seeing as though you'd be stuck here on your tod otherwise, given you can't go to the pub."
That much was true, as England games were even worse than St George's Day for going straight to England's head and causing him to make a complete and utter fool of himself in public, but that was quite beside the point.
"I don't believe for a second that you're here to lend me any moral support, Scotland."
"Who said anything about moral support?" Scotland unzipped his hoodie, and turned around slowly as he shrugged it from his shoulders. He smirked at England. "Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy competition, you know."
The first thing England noticed about Scotland's T-shirt was that it looked a lot newer than those his brother usually wore; its blue unfaded and the design printed upon it still bright and uncracked. Only after he'd wondered at that did he notice what the design actually said.
"Anyone but England," he read aloud. "What a wonderful, brotherly sentiment."
"Healthy competition, England," Scotland repeated over his shoulder as he disappeared into England's lounge, where he would no doubt proceed to help himself to England's Stella and put his dirty great feet all over the furniture.
England briefly contemplated trying to oust him from the house, but only very briefly, as he knew that any such attempt would inevitably devolve into a shouting match at best and a fistfight at worst. Mr Featherstonehaugh would no doubt then take great delight in phoning the police on them yet again, and England would consequently spend the rest of his night apologising profusely to senior officers of the Met instead of watching the football.
"I suppose you'd better come in, as well," he told Wales resignedly.
"Thank you," Wales said, sounding slightly apologetic.
He handed England the bag of beer, and then dithered in the doorway, the fingers of one hand clutched tightly around the slider of the zip on his thin jacket, seemingly unwilling to commit to actually pulling it down.
England could only think of one reason for his hesitancy, and he groaned. "Et tu, Wales?"
Wales' cheeks became suffused with colour. "It's nothing personal, Lloegr. It's just…" He trailed into silence and stared down at his shoes as though they were the most fascinating thing that had ever happened into his line of sight.
Even though a hot flash of anger jolted through England, it seemed pointless to remonstrate. No matter how fervently he supported Wales and Scotland's teams (just so long as they weren't playing his own), his brothers had never seemed to be able to bring themselves to return the courtesy and he doubted they ever would. Scotland had always insisted that it was nothing more than a 'light-hearted dig', anyway, so any protests on his part always ended up making him seem humourless on top of bitter and had been the start of many an argument in the past. He really didn't have the energy for that on top of everything else.
"It's okay," he said, ushering Wales towards the lounge to join Scotland.
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19:00
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England's heart was beating so hard and so fast that he could feel it reverberating through his entire body, jumping at the base of his throat and even pulsing at the very tips of his toes. When he reached out for his can, he couldn't quite get a strong enough grip to lift it his sweaty palm slipping ineffectively across the cool metal. He swore under his breath, and wiped his hands on his trousers before trying again.
"Got a lot riding on this, have you?" Wales asked him, raising an eyebrow in casual interest as England sank back down into his seat.
"Of course I fucking have," England snapped reflexively, before realising that his brother was more likely referring to any bets England might have made on the match's result rather than its relative importance in the scheme of the World Cup itself – something that Wales was well aware of – or its impact on England's pride.
Somehow, during the six months since the draw, England's cocksure belief that his boys would trounce America's without even breaking a sweat had gradually eroded until he found himself here, this day, uncertain and nervous, and shouting at the ITV pundits not to 'bloody jinx it' as they pontificated on just how many goals England would win by.
He couldn't help but wonder whether America was feeling the same churning in his stomach, the same lightness in his head, as he anxiously counted down the minutes before kick-off. He doubted it, as America had never seemed to be subject to the numbing doubts that England himself was sometimes prey to, and there was also the very real possibility that he'd forgotten the game was on. And that, England thought, was the most galling thing; he'd never quite decided whether America's continued ignorance of football was true disinterest or exaggerated solely to annoy (which it did), but he certainly didn't want this – need this – victory in the same way England wanted it.
Forty-four fucking years, which he didn't need reminding of, no matter how much the TV, radio, papers and even bloody adverts seemed to think he did.
"That is to say," England added, when Wales' expression shifted into one that more closely resembled concern, "the loser has to buy the winner a pint. Our bosses promised each other that, and America seemed think it would be a splendid idea if we followed suit."
"Okay," Wales said, shaking his head, clearly a little perplexed as to why shelling out for a pint would provoke such vehemence. "Hey, if you do win, I'll buy you a pint, too. I'll even see if I can get Scotland to cough up for one, as well. Granted, he might not even remember how…"
Wales' broad grin begged that England return it, and he attempted to, though he wasn't entirely sure he was successful. Wales chuckled, and then returned his attention to the TV, whilst England concentrated on the sound of Scotland crashing around in the kitchen as he attempted to strip it bare of everything edible as he always did when he visited, so he didn't have to listen to yet another solemn prediction of a four-nil victory or Nestlé informing him that the future of the special relationship rested on the outcome of the forthcoming ninety minutes.
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19:25
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England stood up from the sofa, and gestured for his brothers to do the same. They ignored him.
"It's your anthem, too," he hissed at them, as the first bars of 'God Save the Queen' echoed around Bafokeng stadium.
"Aye, that's as may be," Scotland said, crossing his arms firmly over his chest, "but it's not for all of us right now, is it? It's just for you."
England didn't have time to argue, or even glare at them some more, as the crowd began to sing. Even through the impersonal medium of the television, their pride surged through him, swelling his chest, and belief coursed in behind it – we can do this, we can do this, wecandothis – smothering some of his doubt, if only for that one moment.
He sat back down between his brothers as the song faded and segued into cheers and whistles, his heart pounding with something other than fear for the first time that day. Scotland rolled his eyes, and then, when America's anthem started playing, he licked his lips and took a deep breath.
"Don't you dare," England warned him, wanting to hang on to his euphoric feeling for just a little while longer.
Scotland grinned sharply and said, "Come on, England, he's one of our weans. Why shouldn't I show him my full support?"
"In case it's escaped your notice, I am your brother, and you've never –"
"O! say can you see," Scotland belted out before England could finish, one hand clenched over his heart, "by the dawn's early light…"
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19:34
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"Fucking yes!" England said, erupting from his seat with both hands punched into the air. The tender patch over his ribs where Scotland had elbowed him twinged at the movement, but he barely felt it. "You fucking beauty, Gerrard."
Wales blinked slowly. "Jesus Christ, that was fast."
"Complete fluke," Scotland grumbled. He crushed his empty can in one hand, and then chucked it in the vague direction of the coffee table. It bounced off the edge and dribbled lager all over the carpet as it arched towards the floor, but England couldn't bring himself to care.
They could do this, they could, theycould.
England was going to savour every last drop of that fucking pint, he could almost taste it already, washing away the sharp flavour of cheap, tepid lager.
"It was not a fluke," England said, relishing the sight of every single stark line that Scotland's frown had drawn around his eyes. "It's just a taste of things to come."
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20:10
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"I can't fucking believe it," England moaned, burying his head in his hands. "What the fuck was that."
"That was pretty much an own goal as far as I can see," Scotland said, sniggering. "Is that a taste of things to come, too, England?"
England wanted to tell him to fuck off, but there was nothing in his throat but the faint tang of bile and shuddery breath that refused to form itself into words. If America gloated about this later, then… Actually, England would rather he gloat if the alternative was complete apathy, because the thought of him not giving a shit about any of it made England feel almost as sick as the score.
"Ball's slippery," England eventually managed to spit out coherently. "Lots of the players have said so."
For a moment, his brothers said nothing, and all England could hear was the ear-splitting buzz of vuvuzelas and the shocked voices of the commentators as they replayed Green's fumble over and over again.
Their silence was finally broken by Scotland's loud snort of laughter. "Is that what you're going to tell everyone," he said, slapping England roughly in the centre of his bowed back. "Sorry we lost but America's ba–"
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20:20
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England couldn't bear the thought of listening to yet another painfully in-depth dissection of America's goal, so he spent the next quarter of an hour outside, aggressively pruning his roses.
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21:25
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"At least you didn't lose," Wales said, which was no doubt meant to offer some small measure of comfort, and was certainly the most pragmatic way of looking at it, but England just felt empty. Empty, a little jittery from the flood of adrenaline that had kept him perched on the edge of his seat throughout the second half, and drunk.
But nowhere near drunk enough.
And, perversely, because his body always saw fit to subject him to it in front of his siblings and America and pretty much nobody else, on the verge of tears as the commentators started up their mostly subdued post-match analysis. He rubbed the prickly sensation out of the corners of his eyes with his knuckles, reminding himself firmly that it was just a game, and there was every chance that his team would go through to the next round exactly as they'd (hoped) expected. Wales was right, they hadn't lost, even though it felt as though they might as well have done, after all the hype. He could almost see the next day's Sun headlines already: 'TOO GREEN BY HALF', maybe, or 'WE WERE ROB-ED'. That poor lad; he must be devastated.
"What's this going to mean for your bet, then?" Wales mused, when England failed to acknowledge his previous statement.
"What bet's that?" Scotland asked, head cocking to one side, interest obviously piqued.
"Oh, whoever lost was meant to buy the other a pint," Wales replied before England had a chance to reply that it didn't matter and he should mind his own business.
"Well, I guess they'll have to buy each other pints." Scotland grinned, and nudged England in his bruised ribs. "It'll almost be like a date."
England's skin tightened and flushed with heat. Scotland had been harping on about this sort of thing for months now, and no matter how often England told him he wasn't interested, and would never be interested, it never seemed to deter him.
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21:30
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"Aren't you going to answer that?" Scotland asked as England's mobile started ringing for the second time.
With distance, and after that result, England had come to realise that just about anything was preferable to listening to America gloat, after all. "Wasn't planning on it," he said.
Scotland grabbed England's phone off the coffee table before England had chance to react and reach it himself. "Don't worry," Scotland said, after glancing at the display. "It's Australia, not America."
England's smile of relief was genuine but short-lived. In the whirlwind of excitement, anticipation and despair over the football, he'd managed to forget the result of that morning's rugby game.
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Notes:
- The Australia vs England rugby game that was also broadcast on Saturday, 12th of June, 2010 was won by Australia, 27-17.