3. Polly Serves Crackers

Polly sneaked a mother’s-little-helper before she got down to brass tacks. After the party had fizzled, Bonnie had volunteered her to wipe dishes in the suite’s kitchenette. At home Polly’s kitchen was a no-go area. This by contrast was the Taj Mahal. Reluctantly she selected a towel from the oven rail, hoping it was indeed a dish towel not a hand towel, wiped a few plates then stacked them in the cupboard. She fore went washing any of them. Hey, it was late, her shift was winding down, so she stowed them away regardless. In the parallel universe that accompanies this account things are the reverse. The greasy plates there would be clean as a referee’s whistle, so what was the problem? Preparatory to knocking off for the night, Polly removed the bunting, flags and numbered team shirts that were strung across the suite. Just as she pulled down shirt Number 6, the team’s equipment manager showed up. He announced he was there to collect the Scotland team jerseys. These he had laundered after the game and hung from the suite’s ceiling to dry, apparently not for reasons of decoration. Now they were to be collected then stashed, dampish, on the plane in anticipation of the flight home.

The team streamed across the tarmac and poured onto the plane, literally, as the Jack Daniels in their guts sloshed about a bit. Whoever said that Scotch was better than the potent Jack Daniels distillation from Dolly’s Tennessee mountain home? Angus McAngus and the three Daryls jostled down the non-existent aisle in the two-seater Sopwith. They all wished to be first to grab the back seat. Their soccer training in defensive tactics naturally inclined them to desire everything to unfold before them, not behind. It was quite a squash on board. Before take-off the pilot went through the safety rigamarole. With his staccato voice over the intercom (really a few muttered words over his shoulder) he required the team to attach its one and only seat belt. Then he requested that passengers batten down the hatches. This expression emanated from his days as a British Columbia Ferries captain and drew blank stares from the assembled players. They all likely put their failure to comprehend down to the haze in their noggins caused by too many imbibed wee drams. What the captain was requiring was that the luggage overhead bin be closed. His future with the charter company outfit was up in the air anyway so he really cared little for compliance.

Once airborne, Arsenal settled back in his recliner, taking care not to bash anyone’s knees in the imaginary seat behind. Abby, Valerie and whoever else were fast fading into mere memories. He rearranged the French lace doily on the back of his seat and selected “Winterror: The Movie” from his onboard entertainment console. Little did he realize that as the flight progressed towards Glasgow, along the Great Circle Route, they were about to witness from thousands of feet up just what havoc a weather bomb could visit upon an earthbound city. Here it was Boxing Day in July yet the evidence from the window suggested snow was still deep on the ground over Newfoundland. Labrador had not been heard from for a few weeks and the rest of the country was beginning to get a tad anxious. Hearts Content, Come-By-Chance and Dimwittie came then gradually fell behind. Next came the beacon emitting from a prominence on Joe Batt’s Butt. Everything aligned for smooth transit in the direction of paradise. And there it was, emerging from the fog, St John’s, looking like at any moment it would fall off the eastern extremity of North America. Straining his neck, Arsenal could see heavy equipment lumbering about like mastodons. To all intents and purposes they appeared to be still clearing the remnants of January’s blizzard.from the highways and byways.  Quidi Vidi Lake which normally at this time of year was choc a bloc full of toy sail boats and swimmers (several practicing for their attempt at the English Channel), now glistened in dazzling sunlight reflected off the transparent ice. Maybe summer would be by-passed this year, an eventuality which had come to pass on multiple occasions in these sub-Arctic climes. Tiny shoved in to glance at what lay below and figured through gaps in the cloud cover he could identify Water Street parallel to the harbour. He determined there was the flashing red neon light of Kay’s Mart and the bright marquee of the Roxy Theatre. He reported to his companion that “Come From Away,” the musical fresh from Broadway, was on the bill.           

Tiny in turn settled back. He ordered his favourite Mexican beer, Corona, from the air hostess, as it turned out the all-purpose pilot in an ill-fitting uniform. Tiny hoped he would not succumb to any strange virus by consuming the beverage. To crown it all too, he indulged in a little reverie concerning the Jackdaws. Closing his eyes, he savoured the brew’s flavour notes meanwhile replaying in his mind last game’s highlights. In slow motion he could see the floated cross spinning over from the wing, the ball skimming tantalizingly over the outstretched hands of the goalie to land on the forehead of Neil whose headed strike crashed into the net. The crescendo of silence as ball hit twine was heard around the world, well the postage-stamp stadium at least. The Yankees in attendance met this unforeseen and unwished for development with the consternation of Washington watching the White House burn. The Tartan Army, all three of them (Bertie having gone to The Gents at that inopportune moment) were of course ecstatic but the overpowering silence drowned out their deep throated roar.  

The flight path continued out over the forbidding North Atlantic. As the mist and ice floes bobbing on whitecaps receded, the pilot, having served in-flight refreshments, banked the airplane into the midriff of a looming cloud. He mused that this was where he had saved his personal photo collection and spent a minute or two admiring an image of his twin girls and another of Spike the family turtle. He subsequently aired on the side of caution by taking the plane to 35,000 feet, well above the worst of the inclement weather. Arsenal happened to glance down below just as they passed over an offshore oil rig. “Look, Tiny, Hibernia Field.” Tiny, not twigging, assumed he meant Easter Road and queried that they were indeed over Scotland (or did he mean rural Ireland) already? He simply said he had to officiate at Hibernian first week of the coming season. Arsenal meanwhile mused at the prospect of getting back home. He pondered his reunion with wife Lilliput. Knowing as always he would have to go through a battery of questions he prepared himself for a customary session of man-splaining.

Around 5 am a pale pink light infiltrated the cabin as the emerging day dawned. The plane was subject to tolerable turbulence as it traversed the soggy mountain range of the mid-Atlantic Trench. The stratosphere over Iceland was predictably chilly so the cabin crew passed out extra blankets. Soon the outer isles of the Hebridies were on the horizon. As the far flung reaches of the Old World approached a ping reverberated through the tin can, calling for everyone to return to their seat and prepare for landing. As it turned out that was unnecessary, the pilot overshot the runway at Glasgow. Unfazed, he counteracted his error by implementing Plan B. As taught in pilot exigency training he selected another airport and so punched in the GPS coordinates for Edinburgh Turnhouse. Landing then egress from the plane occurred without incident this time. Well that is not strictly the case. A baggage handler was seen to have accelerated his weighed down baggage buggy in a beeline for Big Angus McAngus, presumably having wanted to send a message to the Glasgow Jersey Boy that he was not welcome in Eastern Scotland. After all it was the happy hunting ground of Hearts and Hibs but certainly not any player associated with Govan. Tribal loyalties ran deep in these parts and national team members were not exempt from harassment if they belonged to a rival club. Jersey Boys, the Jers to their fans, had recently been reinstated in the league after scandalous seasons of management’s fraudulent transfers and deficit financing. Bovver Boys in fan bases around the country considered the Jers as canon fodder, witness the heavy foot on the gas. Angus was a tad shaken by the proceedings, accustomed as he was to stand tall, erect as the Houses of Parliament (made famous by their inclusion on bottles of HP sauce). It was a close call, nearly having his bell rung à la Big Ben but he pulled through to play another day.

Once disembarked, Arsenal took the moving sidewalk (moving pavement). He approached Customs and Immigration with some anxiety. In medical terms he had para syndrome rebound. In layman’s terms that simply meant he was fearful. Since Brexit Ejexit French nationals and most continentals no longer had any special standing in the U.K. The “Welcome Back Scotland” banner draped across the air terminal entrance had at first seemed reassuring given his inclusion with the Scottish official party, that is until a passenger in line ahead of him happened to say the banner was in place to honour the Scottish Girls 14 and Under National Ringette team which had just returned from Wales. There they had placed fourth in the home countries championships. Not to worry, my status as manager (foreign though it be) of Anstruther FC will stand me in good stead he thought. I think the garlic in my luggage is cleared by the Department of Agriculture to be imported. Surely the bling is not banned? When it was his turn to approach the booth Arsenal was taken aback when the lady officer’s first question was “Who are you wearing?” Flummoxed, Arsenal by instinct reverted to French and mumbled something resembling “Dior” and that seemed to be fully acceptable. It transpired to be the sole question posed so his passport was duly stamped and Arsenal free to proceed. There had been no questions asked concerning visits to PARS affected territory. Tagged by many as the “golfers disease,” Pennsylvania Acute Respiratory Disease was impacting a grander and grander portion of North America and had almost led to the cancellation of Scotland’s game in the steel city. A wee birdie, well smaller than an eagle at any rate, told Arsenal that evidently the team had snuck back home just in time to beat an inevitable WHO travel embargo. They had avoided quarantine by the skin of their teeth.