The Match at Half Past Ten

Dad said he would be at the match by half past ten.

He told Toby directly on Thursday evening, after Leila reminded him that maybe had become a difficult word in their family. Toby wrote the time on a scrap of paper and put it inside his football boot, then forgot it was there until Saturday morning.

At nine, Mum received a call postponing the Bellbridge viewing. There was a problem with access. The person with the keys would not be available until Monday. Sonia was trying to arrange another appointment.

Leila was angry before she understood what she was angry with. She could not rejoin the art-school trip; Esme and her mother had already left. She could go to Toby's match, which was a good thing to do and not what she had chosen. The whole morning felt as though someone had lifted a piece out of it after she built everything around its edges.

Mum put the phone down.

“I'm sorry.”

“You didn't cancel it.”

“No. I'm still sorry about your morning.”

Leila took the blue jumper off the chair and put it in her bag. She did not want another conversation about whether to wear it.

At the football ground, Toby's coach was setting out cones. The grass was damp enough to darken everyone's shoes. Parents stood along the touchline holding drinks, comparing weather forecasts that had already become irrelevant.

Janice waved from beside the small clubhouse. She had brought a flask and cups too thin to hold comfortably once filled.

“Unexpected bonus,” she told Leila. “You can help me understand the rules.”

“I know three of them.”

“That's two more than me.”

Toby came over before the warm-up.

“Dad's parking?” he asked.

Mum looked towards the gate.

“He said half past. There's time.”

Toby nodded and ran back to the team.

At half past ten, the match began. Dad had not arrived. At twenty to eleven, Leila's phone vibrated.

Held up with work thing. Be there as soon as I can.

She stared at the message. He had sent it to her, not Mum, not Toby. The familiar position opened beneath her: she could soften the delay, invent a reasonable explanation, make the waiting less painful for someone else and more tiring for herself.

She wrote back: Please ring Mum. I'm watching the match.

Then she put the phone away.

For ten minutes she watched badly, noticing Toby whenever he looked towards the gate and missing the ball whenever it moved elsewhere. He played on the right. He was not the best player on the team, but he kept running after other children had decided the ball was too far away. Once he reached it just before it went out and kicked it back to a teammate who scored.

Janice shouted loudly enough to embarrass several unrelated people.

“That counts as partly his,” she told Leila.

“I think it's an assist.”

“Then I am assisting the celebration.”

Mum's phone rang. She stepped away from the touchline to answer. Leila did not follow. It took effort to remain where she was.

Dad arrived just before half-time, carrying a takeaway coffee. He looked flustered and immediately began explaining the delay to Mum. She listened for a moment, then pointed towards the pitch.

“He's coming off. Tell him.”

Toby saw Dad and ran over, then slowed down as he reached them. His expression held delight and reproach together, neither cancelling the other.

“I helped the goal,” he said.

“I heard. Brilliant.”

“You didn't see it.”

“No. I didn't. I'm sorry.”

Dad crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to Toby's height. He did not mention traffic. Leila was surprised enough to stop gripping the strap of her bag.

“Work overran. I should have left earlier instead of thinking I could squeeze another thing in. That's on me.”

Toby looked at the coffee.

“You had time for that.”

Dad looked at it too.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “That was a poor choice.”

Toby accepted a drink of water from Mum and went back to the coach. The apology had not made the missed goal reappear. It had at least remained where it belonged, between the person who had been late and the child who had waited.

The second half was scrappier. Toby's team conceded two goals, argued briefly about a throw-in and equalised near the end. Dad watched all of it, keeping his phone in his pocket. When Toby came off, muddy and disappointed not to have won, Dad asked about the pass that led to the first goal. Toby explained it using a bottle cap and two stones on the grass.

Leila listened from a little distance. She did not help the explanation. She did not need to.

Afterwards they ate the sandwiches Mum had brought. This time Dad did not buy additional food to make a point. He offered to get drinks and asked what everyone wanted.

Janice went to speak to the coach. Mum took Toby to collect something from the changing room. Dad sat beside Leila on the low wall outside the clubhouse.

“Thanks for the message,” he said.

“Which one?”

“The one telling me to ring your mum.”

She looked at him.

“I wasn't being helpful.”

“You were being clear.”

He turned the empty coffee cup between his hands.

“I keep thinking if I explain it to you, you'll know I mean well.”

“I usually do know.”

“Yes. And then I make you do something with that.”

Leila watched a child drag a kit bag across the grass. The bottom caught on every bump.

“I don't want to be the person who tells Toby what you meant,” she said.

“I understand.”

“I don't think you've understood before.”

Dad nodded. It was uncomfortable to say that to him. It was more uncomfortable to realise how long she had been waiting to.

“I can do better,” he said.

She wanted to believe him. She also wanted not to turn his sentence into a promise he had not yet kept.

“The exhibition's still the twenty-seventh,” she said.

“It's in my calendar.”

“Good.”

When Mum and Toby returned, Dad asked about the gallery job. Leila had not told him yet. Mum must have, or Toby. For once, information had travelled between adults without requiring her to carry it.

She explained the interview and the hours. Dad listened, asking questions that were about the job rather than the fact that she had been good at drawing when she was six.

On the way back to the hotel, Toby fell asleep with his medal from the end-of-season presentation looped around his wrist. Leila drew the medal on the back of an envelope. She could see Dad's car ahead of them for two junctions before he turned towards Westmere.

She watched it go without trying to work out whether the day counted as a success or a disappointment. It contained enough of both to resist a single label.