God of Small Things

I'm on a bus heading south. Sitting across from me is a woman, perhaps 20 in age, with a small son who has no hair. She wants US dollars, I want Belize, so we swap and start talking.

She wants to know where I've been, and why I don't want to marry and settle down in my own country. I give her the standard spiel. The spanish rattles out freely and I enjoy the surprise on her face. 


***

Once upon a time, I watched football. I shamelessly supported the Mancs because they were the best and because my boyfriend did. We used to ritually tramp to Brixton's Elm Park Tavern, sun illuminating the pub in dust rays, pint of cider on the table, to pass a Saturday afternoon esconsed in drama and delight.

These days, although I love the game, I have no time and no patience for the delicate advertising-machines running the pitch. These are the glorified soap stars, paid sickening wages and supported by self-righteous masses. Without the pub and the boys I find it hard to take an interest.

***


The conversation moves over to her. She is Honduran, married to a Belizean. She doesn't speak English but is trying to learn for her son; given that they live in Belize, English will be his first language. She hasn't been home for four years because she doesn't have the money.


He is three years old and has cancer. The hospitals in Belize don't know what to do with him, so she's been taking the five hour round-trip border-hop up to Chetumal in Mexico to get his treatment.


I ask her how often she goes.


"Every day," she replies, with a smile. "Every day for a year."


My heart aches for them and I feel like a fool for my indulgent life and naïve cries for freedom. I feel desperate to help. I want to fly them to England and make him better. But I can't. That is the lesson I learn every day - that everyone has their own agenda. You can only ever give so much.

***

Going through my belongings, shapeless lumps in the attic of my father's house kept for reasons unknown, I uncover a Manchester United strip. I pause for a minute, pondering how to get rid of it. It's too small for any of my fellow fans to get away with. It would be a shame to send it to a charity shop.

Although now, to me, it symbolises the Dirty System, it once represented comraderie, love and a shared passion. And it might one day mean something else for someone out there.


So I bring it with me. They love football where I'm going. I know I'll find a home for it somewhere.


***

When she climbs down from the bus, halfway to Belize city, I pull the earrings from my ears and press them into her palm. With my other hand I give the Manchester United strip to the boy. He looks up at me with big eyes. He is huge for a three-year old but the t-shirt is still so big he will drown in it if he wears it right now.

Maybe she will sell it.


But maybe, if he grows older, he will play football in it one day.