Summary: A short piece set during and after 'Secret Santa'. Cal accidentally takes his West Ham scarf with him to Afghanistan and finds it brings back and carries a host of memories.
Rating: T. A little strong language.
A/N: Whenever I watch this episode I can't help but imagine that the scarf went with him and I always knew I wanted to write about it.
A fine mist of sweat coated his hands as Cal took hold of the wide zip on his bag and eased it open. The teeth parted in a fluid motion to reveal the clumsily stacked layers of thin beige t-shirts, cargo pants and shorts. While scrabbling about for the thin cord of a pair of headphones, a quick flash of colour passed before his eyes and his hands met the soft wool of his football scarf.
Unravelling it from beneath the pile, he grinned to himself as the blocks of claret and blue glided out in soft reams. Memories of matches and mischief unfurled as slowly as the material sliding across his palms. Fat lot of use it was in the searing desert heat, he thought, but he felt oddly nostalgic and comfortable as it finally came out of the bag.
His grandmother had knitted him the first West Ham scarf he'd ever owned. It had arrived in a brown padded envelope that had been poked and prodded before it even landed on the doormat, the white protective stuffing spilling out over the patchwork rainbow of stamps in the right-hand corner. In spite of its precarious journey, it had arrived in one piece and had been crafted to perfection. Those neatly woven-together oblongs of scratchy wool had kept many a bitter London winter at bay.
Despite the care and love that had gone into the scarf's production, Terry had been adamant that Cal could not be seen wearing it on the terraces when they first started attending matches as teenagers.
"Imagine what the fuck they'll call you, mate! And never mind what the opposition will make of it!"
Always up for a trick or two, they snapped photos against perfectly pebbledashed walls in the streets leading to the Boleyn Ground so that it looked like the scarf had been to the match, even though it was safely stowed away in Cal's bag, along with their cigarettes and flask full of cider ("It's just tea, mate," they'd protest, all wide-eyed and the picture of innocence, before anyone who bothered to question them) as they reached the familiar creak of the turnstiles.
The 'granny' scarf, as they nicknamed it, soon became a lucky charm, as far as two skinny, fast-talking little rogues could ever believe in such superstition. It was rolled up and packed tightly in the bottom of Cal's bag when they attended their first FA Cup Final in summer 1980.
The Twin Towers of Wembley, all pale concrete and colossal, didn't really leave either of them in awe, most probably because they'd already shared half a bottle of Strongbow and were swaying along the wide road that led the way to the stadium with cheeky grins and a certain shambling swagger that betrayed their 16-year-old selves. Here they were, the second-division scrappers from East London against the first-division royalty from North London. Underdogs – just the way they knew it; just the way they loved it. The 100,000-strong crowd was a pulsing wave of colour and noise and the sun beat down in warm rays.
Cal knew that his taste for danger had probably started in the packed stand when he had been wedged between Terry and Tracey, a barmaid from Barking that they knew through a friend of a friend. Her jaw clicked while she chewed on bright pink bubblegum and her claret-coloured t-shirt was tied in a messy knot just above her belly button. In between the sweat, booze and profanity, she smelled like cherries and fresh air. Ten minutes into the match, Cal felt the blunt dig of Terry's elbow in his ribs, and then heard a gravelly whisper in his ear.
"Her old man's inside for GBH, but I won't tell him if you don't." A wink and a sly grin followed before Terry turned his eyes back to the green expanse of the pitch and joined back in with the singing.
Three minutes later, Trevor Brooking was like a quick white flash as his impossible low header nestled in the back of the net. All the roaring, cheering and swearing became a dull, hollow noise and the young woman, all soft skin and curves, leapt into Cal's arms in the rapture of the celebration. The orange dot matrix of the scoreboard flashed up in confirmation of their joy: 1-0, 13 minutes gone. And 1-0 to the Hammers it remained. Thirteen, that number that was meant to be a curse, somehow turned out to be lucky.
Lucky number 13, he thought, when they sang their theme song as the famous silver trophy went up in the air, the ribbons on its handles rippling in the cloudless sky. Lucky number 13, he thought, as the early-May sunlight bronzed Tracy's hair to a glowing copper while her hands mapped over his hips with practiced ease and the sticky strawberry of her mouth lingered on his tongue.
All in all, it had been a very good day.
Against all protocol, he went out for some precious air after the explosion.
He took deep, cleansing breaths through the thick weave of the acrylic of his scarf (the hand-knitted 'granny' one had finally been lost somewhere in between England and the US); it was tied low enough to keep the swirling sand out of his mouth. All the sounds were harsh and troubling: even the thick cut of helicopters above could not dissipate the ringing in his ears that didn't seem to want to fade. A punishing heat burned at his skin but at least it was an escape from the tomb-like bunker.
It crossed his mind that it could be some sort of mirage when two kids approached him carrying a battered old football and wearing Manchester United shirts (because the whole world loves bloody Man United, right?); they were a quick blip of red on the horizon.
"Aston Villa! Aston Villa!" They chanted at him in unison, pointing at the claret and blue, the sing-song of youthful voices suddenly rising above everything.
In spite of the mix-up, with Villa also playing in the famous colours of his beloved team, he chuckled at the boys and thought only of the sanctuary of home.
Even in the dark and cold of a wintry Washington, Afghanistan was still there. Tiny grains of sand were trapped in the knit of the scarf, scratching his neck as a reminder. No amount of washing would ever purge away the terror of being so close to leaving his daughter without her father.
The end of Christmas Day was always his sanctuary, a necessary quiet, that blissful time when all the nonsense was finally over. It was nearly Boxing Day when he slid a thumb slowly along the neat, Sellotaped seams of metallic paper and finally opened the gift that was from Gillian. Nestled inside a navy blue box was a new scarf, its woven blocks of colour solid and clear in the half-light. Rich cashmere ran beneath his hands and he sucked in a breath as he contemplated not only the expense, but the shipping, taxes and all that bollocks. It felt as impossibly soft as he knew she did, and wrapping it in place around his neck brought a comfort that would only ever remind him of her.
He flicked open the small white card inside the box and laughed aloud at the message inside, written in her flawless handwriting:
I hope this isn't too 'poncey'.
Thirteen hours later, West Ham won 2-0 at home to Portsmouth.
Another lucky thirteen, he thought to himself, the merest hint of a smile playing on his face, the endless softness of the new scarf close and warm.