Our Beautiful Game (eBook)

Lou Kuenzler (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2021 | 1. Auflage
400 Seiten
Faber & Faber (Verlag)
978-0-571-36501-2 (ISBN)

Infos

A stand-out novel inspired by the incredible true stories of female football legends like Lily Parr and Alice Woods. They can take our ball, but they can never stop the game. Polly Nabb is no stranger to trouble. When her brother Joe is sent to serve in the trenches, all Polly wants is to kick a ball about and forget the war. Mam has other ideas, and makes her stay home to help with endless chores. But football is something Polly is prepared to fight for - it's her life! She's determined to do whatever it takes to fulfil her dream and show the world that football is not just for boys . . . The war years: a time of trailblazing female footballers, like the legendary Lily Parr, who played to sell-out crowds. Polly's dramatic wartime story celebrates those bold young players who changed attitudes to women on the pitch and salutes the unsung heroes on the Home Front too. 'Absolutely magnificent! A glorious tale of football, friendship, feminism and social history.' Emma Carroll 'A very entertaining and enjoyable read.' LoveReading4Schools 'A powerful story.' Sophie McKenzie 'A gripping read.'School Reading List

Lou Kuenzler grew up on a windy sheep farm in Devon. She is the author of numerous books for children, including My Digger is Bigger, Eat Your People, the Shrinking Violet series, the Princess DisGrace series, the Bella Broomstick series, Not Yet, Zebra, Calm Down, Zebra and Our Beautiful Game. She lives in London with her family.

Textauszug

CHAPTER ONE

Lowcross, Lancashire July 1917

Polly charged across the back yard, flicked the football on to the toe of her left boot and eyed up the goal. All that stood between her and victory were three fat piglets, the washing tub and a gaggle of chicks.

She darted forward, weaved between two of the chicks, and thundered down the right-hand side of the yard. Polly was about to take a shot at goal, which was a narrow slit between two clean sheets hanging on the washing line, when out of nowhere the fattest of the piglets blocked her path. She almost lost control of the ball in a puddle of slops and slippery potato peel.

‘Oh no you don’t!’ She slithered sideways, flicking the ball upwards in the nick of time, before skidding to the ground. Her nostrils filled with the familiar stench of pig muck and rotting veg, but it was worth it. The ball sailed through the air. ‘Goal!’ She smiled as it disappeared between the sheets, then waited, expecting to hear the satisfying thud of leather on wood as it hit the back gate

But the thud never came.

Instead, Joe, the eldest of her five brothers, appeared.

‘Hello, Pol. You lost something?’ He smiled down at her, holding the muddy ball.

‘Give it here!’ said Polly, sitting up and trying not to gawp.

Joe was in his new army uniform. She’d never seen him look so smart. She couldn’t remember a time when anyone in their family had ever had new clothes.

‘What do you reckon?’ Joe beamed as he took one hand off the ball to salute her.

‘Not too shabby, I suppose.’ Polly heaved herself up off the filthy ground.

Her fingers were covered in muck but she wanted to reach out and touch his jacket. It was brown, like the colour of strong tea, and so stiff it looked more as though it was made of cardboard than cloth.

Polly was twelve years old and tall for her age, especially for a girl, as people never tired of telling her. She was nearly the same height as Joe, even though he had just turned eighteen and had shoulders as broad as a bear. Yet, all trussed up in his fancy clothes, he seemed young somehow, like a little boy. His big ears were sticking out from under his cap and his bristly chin was shaved clean. Apart from the thick soldier’s belt around his middle, he looked as if he was off to church, not away to fight a war.

Polly made a swipe for the ball, waving her grimy paws at him. ‘Hand it over then, unless you want to get muddy,’ she said.

‘Get away, Pol.’ Joe marched past her, dunked the leather football in the pigs’ water trough and shook it dry. ‘This old beauty’s coming with me.’

‘What?’ Polly’s mouth fell open in disbelief. ‘You can’t take my ball to the war.’

Joe raised an eyebrow.

‘All right, your ball,’ said Polly, weakly. Joe had won it in a game of poker off a lad at the works, and she knew it. But that wasn’t going to stop her. ‘You’re supposed to be out there fighting Jerry, not playing football,’ she said.

‘Ah! That’s where you’re wrong.’ Joe leaned up against the wall and took out a smoke, with the ball wedged safely under his boot. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of no man’s land?’

‘Course I have,’ said Polly. ‘It’s the scrap of ground that runs between the trenches. The German ones and the ones our boys are stuck in.’ She’d heard enough stories about the war to know that.

‘Exactly.’ Joe pointed to the pigs’ water trough. ‘Say that over there is our lads’ trench, then this here …’ He kicked the long narrow slop feeder with his boot. ‘This here is Jerry’s!’

Polly laughed as the gaggle of chicks waddled merrily between the trough and the feeder. ‘In that case, someone ought to tell those little beggars they’re right in the middle of no man’s land!’

‘They wouldn’t last long,’ said Joe gravely. ‘It’s where you get yourself blown up, Pol.’ She saw him swallow hard. ‘That rotten little strip of land’s what we’re all fighting over.’

‘Like a football pitch,’ said Polly with a shudder.

‘Reckon you might be right,’ Joe agreed. ‘The trenches are like goals and each team is trying to fire their shots into the other’s.’

Except it’s bombs and shells they’re shooting, not footballs, thought Polly. But neither of them needed to hear that said out loud. Not when Joe was shipping off to the battlefield in just a few hours’ time.

He had stubbed out his cigarette but was still chewing his lip.

‘I don’t see what any of that’s got to do with you taking my ball,’ said Polly with a cheeky grin. Inside, she felt all shivery at the thought of Joe going away, but she was desperate to lift the mood. She and Joe had never had a serious conversation in their whole lives. It certainly didn’t seem like a good moment to start.

‘My ball!’ said Joe firmly, but he was grinning now too. Although Joe was the eldest of her five brothers, Polly felt closer to him than any of the others. You could tell at a glance they were related. They had the same wild black hair, deep-set grey eyes and big, wide mouths. ‘The point is this, Pol.’ Joe kicked the ball lightly from one foot to the other. ‘If you’ve heard of no man’s land, then you must have heard of the Christmas football matches.’

Polly had. But she let him tell her anyway. ‘It was 1914, the first year of the war,’ Joe said. He always told a good story and his eyes sparkled as he spoke. ‘The two sides decided to call a truce. Just for a few hours, they all stopped fighting because it was Christmas time and they probably missed home like billy-o.’ Joe’s voice was sing-song, as if he was telling some magical fairy tale. ‘There was frost in the air and the lads on both sides sung carols between the trenches. Then someone lobbed a ball into no man’s land and they all had a bit of a kick-about …’

‘That’s as may be. You still can’t have my ball,’ said Polly, folding her arms, when Joe was finished. ‘From what I hear, lads aren’t larking around out there playing football these days. They’re too busy killing each other.’

The moment the words were out, Polly wished she could stuff them back in again. She saw Joe’s face turn white as the sheets on the line. She’d only meant to tease him, hoping he’d let her keep the ball. But now she’d said that awful thing about killing. And it was true – Joe wasn’t going to be playing football for a very long time. He’d be too busy fighting in the endless, horrible, stupid war.

Me and my big gob, she thought. Why did she never think before she spoke? ‘Keep the rotten ball, Joe.’

‘Why?’ He glared at her, his grey eyes dark. ‘Out of pity? Cos you figure I might go out there and die?’

‘No!’ said Polly quickly. Her tummy flipped over and a hot blush burned her face. She couldn’t let Joe see that was exactly what she had been thinking.

‘There’s only one way to settle this,’ she said, standing tall and pushing back her shoulders. ‘I’m a striker and you reckon yourself a great goalie. Let’s shoot it out! Winner keeps the ball.’

‘You’re on.’ There was a glint in Joe’s eye again. He unbuttoned his smart new jacket, took off his cap and hung them on the back doorknob. ‘Let’s be clear, though,’ he said. ‘To be a goal, the ball needs to go under the washing line and if it touches the sheets on either side then it doesn’t count.’

‘I know!’ Polly felt a flash of irritation. Why did her brothers always treat her as if she didn’t understand the rules? She’d played more football in this back yard than any of them.

Joe pushed the sheets apart like curtains and stood between them, his arms outstretched.

‘Wait!’ cried Polly, running hither and thither, scooping up chicks and putting them in an empty bucket, as they cheeped and tumbled over each other like a swarm of angry bees. ‘I don’t want to squish any of this little lot with my great, clod-hopping feet!’ She glanced down at the enormous pair of tatty, hand-me-down boots she had inherited from her second eldest brother, Walter. He was fifteen but Polly had nearly outgrown them already.

‘Fair do,’ said Joe. He wasn’t really listening. His eyebrows were knitted together and he had the serious, tight-faced look he always had when he was in goal.

Good, thought Polly. If he was concentrating on winning the ball, at least he was no longer dwelling on the war and the dreadful thing she’d said.

Although she’d finished moving the chicks out of the way, there was nothing she could do about the piglets. They would just have to take their chances – or more likely she would have to take hers. She’d been tripped up by piglets more than once while playing football out here, and had the scars on her knees to prove it.

Polly hitched up her skirt and tucked it into her knickers. ‘Stupid thing,’ she mumbled. Boys didn’t know how lucky they were. No one could take a serious shot at goal if they were wearing a skirt. Then she flattened herself against the wall of the house. It was nothing like...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 29.6.2021
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch ► Jugendbücher ab 12 Jahre
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch ► Kinderbücher bis 11 Jahre
• Themenwelt: Kinder- / Jugendbuch ► Sachbücher
• Schlagworte: books about football • childrens books age 9-11 • emma carroll • historical fiction • historical fiction for children, Letters from the Lighthouse, When We Were Warriors • horrible histories books • horrible histories books, lionesses, women's football, female football • Jaz Santos vs. the World • kids books • Our Castle by the Sea • The Valley of Lost Secrets
• ISBN-10: 0-571-36501-9 / 0571365019
• ISBN-13: 978-0-571-36501-2 / 9780571365012