by Michael Bloor
[first published in Literally Stories, April 25th, 2025]
Big Benny Brailsford was slumped on the couch with a can of lager. More in hope than expectation, he was zapping the TV channels with the remote, it being The Early Evening Viewing Desert. He eventually settled on one of those antiques programmes. The expert on the TV was riffling through some old duffer’s collection of football memorabilia. The collection included an early F.A. Cup Final programme, which the expert reckoned was worth five hundred to eight hundred quid.
Benny’s mind was a coiled spring, awaiting only the release of a mention of easy money. That old git, Andy Somethin’ with the farty dog, had a 1946 Cup Final programme. He’d bored on about the cup programme a couple of times in the pub: the only occasion the local team, Derby County, had ever been cup-winners. Andy Somethin’s dad had been there at the match and passed the programme onto his infant son.
Benny went into the bedroom where he kept his secret stash. He’d once been an apprentice mechanic and now made a bit of money servicing and repairing old cars seized by the local loan shark, before they were sent to the auction mart. There was a hundred and twenty seven quid – should be enough. He considered and discounted raiding Gloria’s handbag. That hadn’t worked out well last time.
As he headed out the front door, he shouted to Gloria in the kitchenette, ‘Off to The Ram’s Head for a couple of pints. See you later…’ Gloria shook her head as she bent down to empty the washing machine.
#
Andy Boulton and Hector the labrador shuffled arthritically up Sevastopol Road to The Rams Head, at the top of the hill. Andy remembered it from back in the days before the bowling green was turned into the car park. It wasn’t up to much these days – hadn’t been the same since the foundry closed – but it was Andy’s ‘local’ and he saw no reason to change. There were only a half a dozen people in the public bar. Andy ordered his ‘usual,’ a pint of bitter, a packet of cheese ‘n onion crisps, and a bowl of water for Hector the dog. Before he could pay, Big Benny came up to the bar: ‘Let me get that, Andy. I’ve been waiting for you to come in. I need a word with you: let’s grab a table.’
Andy wasn’t keen to comply, but he knew about Benny’s reputation, so he and Hector followed Benny to a corner table.
Benny waited for Andy to take a swig of his beer before he laid out his cards. ‘Andy, I’ve been thinking about that Cup Final programme of yours. I want to get my Gloria a special present, for her next birthday.’
‘She a footie fan??’
‘Not really, no. But you see, her grandad was in the team that day. She loved her grandad – he brought her up. It’s sentimental, see?’ Benny was quite pleased with this story, but there was something tasteless about his cheeriness, like a joy-ride in a hearse.
‘Eh? Who was her grandad?’
Benny hadn’t elaborated the tale that far. He took a long swig of his lager. He wasn’t a big fan himself, but everyone in Derby knew a few of those team names. Eventually, he settled on Dally Duncan. He couldn’t remember which position Duncan had played, just the memorable name.
‘Mmm, Dally Duncan. D’ya wanna sell? I don’t mind paying over the odds. Not for Gloria’s special day.’
Andy considered. One day, he’d planned to pass the beloved heirloom onto his son, Kenneth. But Kenneth was living in Dubai and not much interested in football. Not much interested in his dad either. He could do with some cash to put towards a new boiler before the winter set in. ‘What price do you reckon would be over the odds?’
‘Thirty quid.’ Benny pulled out his wallet, a practised gesture to demonstrate his good intentions.
Andy was cautious. ‘It’s a collector’s item, Benny. I think I could get more than that if I advertised it in the paper.’
‘OK. You got me, Andy. I’ll make it sixty. You have a think while I get us another round.’
As well as Andy’s pint and his own, Benny brought back two whiskies “to celebrate the deal.” When he returned he could smell the farty dog. Benny was surprisingly fastidious about smells, but he pretended not to notice. ‘Well, whadya reckon? Sixty eh..?’
But Andy held out for a hundred. He reckoned later that he might’ve got more, but he could see Big Benny’s earlier bonhomie was a thing of rags and tatters. Once they’d shaken on it, Benny immediately drank up and marched Andy and the dog down the road to fetch the programme.
#
The next morning, Benny was up early and heading into the town centre. There was a funny little shop on the Mackworth Road that sold football memorabilia and assorted other junk. When Benny was a kid, it had been a stamp shop. Looking in the window, Benny smiled at the memory: surely, nobody collected stamps these days? He recalled an early Bond film where the villain had carried a few precious rare stamps in his wallet, always ready for a quick getaway. That villain wouldn’t get very far away with those stamps now.
The ex-philatelist still owned the shop. Benny carefully took the programme out of the transparent plastic bag for the old man to examine. ‘The ’46 Final eh? Well, I could probably sell that in the shop alright, if you’re not asking too much for it.’
‘Eight hundred quid. There was another early Cup Final programme on the telly last night, valued at eight hundred quid.’
The old man sighed and carefully turned the pages. ‘Those antiques tv programmes… they give the trade a lot of grief… This one’s badly creased; it’s worn at the edges. The centre pages with the team-sheets have been scribbled over. AND it’s got rusty staples – just look at the rust staining! Terrible condition, sentimental value only: twenty five quid.’