A Funny Old Game

By Pete Randall

Who are the mysterious children who meet up periodically to play dazzling, almost magical football? Why do they never seem to age – and why do they turn up not only in different places but in different decades, sometimes different centuries? And who is the boy with the mysterious hawk-like eyes who wanders the ages without ever getting any older? This intriguing work of imagination follows the subtle link between a group of youngsters, a football and the passage of time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mereo Books
• Release date: Apr 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781861514417

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PETE RANDALL

A FUNNY OLD GAME

A timeless soccer match, between friends who never grow old…

Copyright ©2015 by Pete Randall

Smashwords Edition

First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Mereo Books, an imprint of Memoirs Publishing

Pete Randall has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and except in the case of historical fact any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover, other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The address for Memoirs Publishing Group Limited can be found at www.memoirspublishing.com

The Memoirs Publishing Group Ltd Reg. No. 7834348

Mereo Books

1A The Wool Market Dyer Street Cirencester Gloucestershire GL7 2PR

An imprint of Memoirs Publishing

www.mereobooks.com

ISBN: 978-1-86151-441-7

Dedicated to my wonderful father, Johnny Randall (28th January,

1936 - 10th September, 2003) and my dear mother,

Brenda Rosemary Randall (6th March, 1938 - 8th May, 2013).

Always on my mind, and forever in my heart.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 1

WEDNESDAY 30TH OCTOBER, 2311 AD

Royston Lane had finished dropping in the preset for the matinee show and was routinely checking the brail-lines along the flyrail, 35 feet above the stage. He settled in the big, threadbare armchair at the end of the flyfloor and remembered that he’d been given something by a little girl as he’d been about to walk into the stage door. Leaning to his left, he picked up the rectangular package and sat it in his lap. Peering through his spectacles as he unwrapped the plain white plastic carrier bag, he held his breath as the timeworn, faded green book came into view.

It was a thick, heavy volume with no lettering on its binding or elsewhere on the cover. Discarding the carrier bag, Royston carefully opened the book and read the title page. The musty smell sprang from the thick white sheets like the dust of a fabulous elixir or the promise of adventure. He was already captivated. It read:

MYTH, MAGIC and LEGEND

by L. d’Altabar

The glare reflected up from the stage was dimmed as the working lights made way for the preset. The aged Anglepoise already at his shoulder, he scanned the first few pages, searching in vain for a date and failing also to find the printer’s or publisher’s mark. Strange, he thought to himself, already itching to read the introduction.

He cast his mind back to the little girl who had nonchalantly handed him the carrier bag only half an hour previously. There was something unsettling about her eyes, he remembered, causing him to avert his gaze while he formulated some sort of word of thanks, by which time she had vanished into the crowded street. Being slightly behind schedule, he had dashed straight up to the flyfloor. Only now did he begin to realize the seemingly random nature of the event. Why would a little girl give him this book and then just walk off without a word?

But something was drawing him back to the book. He had it open on the brief introduction but couldn’t bring himself to start reading it yet. He knew that he’d become too engrossed in the thing and didn’t want to miss any of the show’s many flying cues. Taking one last sniff of the book’s mysterious odour, he replaced it in the bag and prepared himself for another three hours of hauling ropes up in his lofty gantry, supplying everything from blue skies to castle walls for the show down below. Putting on his headset, he got up from the chair and grabbed hold of a rope that disappeared into the gloom above him, speaking softly into the headset microphone.

Yeah, flys standing by cue one.

Easing off the handle of the brake and looking up at where a red light glowed on a small box on the end wall, he sniffed the air; it was rather like the smell from the book. The Nottingham Playhouse was hundreds of years old, built at the beginning of the twenty-first century and before mechanization was able to interfere with its overcomplicated hydraulics and advanced electronics. The flying tower was equipped with a centuries-old single-purchase counterweight system, lovingly maintained and entirely independent of computers. Despite being on a low wage, Royston and his fellow stagehands were fiercely proud to be working in one of the last surviving traditional theatres in the country.

The small band in the orchestra pit was nearing the end of the overture. Royston tensed, keeping his eyes fixed on the cue-light. Pulling down on the weight cradle when the green light came on, Royston whizzed the house tabs out super-fast, holding on to the ascending rope and using his weight to prevent the flying bar from crashing into the underside of the grid. Dropping lightly back to the floor, he put the brake on and tried to concentrate on how long it was till his next cue, while listening to the girl in the prompt corner telling everyone about the lovely restaurant her boyfriend had taken her to the previous night.

He looked down the long row of ropes and the cracked linoleum floor, imagining ghosts of previous flymen leaning on the flyrail and watching over everyone from the shadows upstage. Subconsciously he was certain they still lingered in the dusty recesses of the theatre, an entire backstage crew of guardian angels, no longer on the payroll but never missing a performance. Consciously, he would solemnly testify to anyone the same, though he would never be the one to broach the subject in the first place. For Royston Lane, it was all just part and parcel of the wonderful world of the stage; an invisible system of spiritual cogs within the physical wheels.

After curtain-down on the matinee show, he sat back in the chair, opened the mysterious book and read the introduction.

There are many who dismiss magic as nothing more than so much ‘hocus-pocus’; there are those who explain away myth and legend as ‘stuff and nonsense’. Thankfully, the large collection of ancient papers, scrolls and documents that verify the contents of this volume have been safely stored in Pudding Lane, London, so those who still choose to scoff can see for themselves the authenticity of the chapters contained herein. MYTH, MAGIC and LEGEND is the culmination of a lifetime’s study of these divers and astonishing documents, presented, with full-colour illustrations, for children of all ages.

Somewhat puzzled by the text, Royston turned to the outline of a full-page picture on the other side. Carefully turning the page, he revealed a scene from an ancient city. There were men and women smiling and living in comfort and peace, fruit trees, children chasing after a ball. He read the title of the first chapter and shook his head in disbelief.

Atlantis? No! he muttered. Flicking back to the introduction, he wondered at that reference to Pudding Lane. Wasn’t that where the Great Fire of London had started in the mid-17th century? And if it was, and the fire hadn’t started yet, then when had this been written? Who was this L. d’Altabar anyway? Did the last scraps of evidence that these legends existed actually perish in the conflagration of 1666?

Surrendering to his curiosity, he went briefly through the book from front to back, only pausing to admire the faded colours of the illustrations and their scenes of heroism and derring-do. He decided to read it right through when he got home after the evening show. He spent the rest of his break eating his sandwiches and perusing the pictures, amazed at the atmosphere and sense of drama they conveyed.

The following morning, Royston’s eight-year-old son, Mark, found the book on his bedside table. Thumbing through and becoming entranced by the book almost made him late for the school bus, and he made it with only seconds to spare. He spent the rest of the day with his imagination in overdrive, counting away the hours to the time when he would return home and devour the book greedily from beginning to end. This was unusual for the boy, as he normally reserved such excitement for football and had never, until now, had any feelings at all about books - even football books. But this was like no other volume he had ever seen before. It had elicited a thrill of wonder from him the moment he first saw it.

Mark completed his homework as soon as he returned from school. Having sat down for his evening meal with his brother, sister, father and mother, he swallowed the last mouthful of stew and asked to leave the table. Royston gave his permission and stood up himself.

I’d best be off to work or I’ll be late he said. "Where are you rushing off to, Mark? You’re not actually going to read that book I left out for you, are you?"

The boy paused at the foot of the stairs and grinned back at his father.

Yes, Dad! Can I? I’ve already done all my homework.

Mary verified this with a nod to her husband. Seven year-old Will and ten-year-old Sarah exchanged baffled looks as they continued eating their meal.

Of course you can, son, said Royston.

Twenty seconds later the boy was already wondering where Pudding Lane in London might be. His brother and sister were playing a football game on the large screen in the lounge downstairs; his father had gone out in the rain to work another show at the theatre, while his mother washed up the dinner dishes.

The rain pounded against the window of Mark’s room as the book took him from Atlantis to Babylon via Lyonesse. His eyes shone as he drank in the wonderfully dated pictures, and his mind began to fill with visions of King Arthur, Robin Hood and heroes from thousands of years before.

He was halfway through the chapter on magic when his mother appeared at the door. Hot milk and biscuits, Mark?

He looked up at her for a fraction of a second before re-immersing himself in the book. Yes please, Mum.

Mary walked over and looked at the picture of the boy in the temple foundations, framed by bolts and flashes of lightning.

Don’t be up all night reading this, sweetheart. If you don’t get your sleep…

I know. If I don’t get my sleep I’ll be tired in school and I won’t learn anything.

She ruffled his hair and left the room, smiling.

Magic, said the book, was mostly being in possession of some knowledge that no one else was aware of, and using it to your advantage. When it went into all the various ways of foretelling the future, Mark’s eight-year old brain, despite its thirst for knowledge, began to boggle. He skipped the rest of that particular section and managed to read about a strange thing that had happened in the First World War, back in the early part of the twentieth century. He would read the whole of the magic chapter again when he was a little older, he decided.

The biscuits and milk consumed, Mark fought to keep his eyelids from closing. He breathed in the smell and tried to focus on the huge number of soldiers running to safety behind