CHAPTER ONE
On Christmas morning 2024, in Hornet Heaven, Henry Grover — the man who founded Watford Rovers in 1881 — spotted his grandfather in a quiet corner of the Troy Deeney Atrium.
‘Ah there you are, Grampy!’ Henry said. ‘Merry Christmas, old boy!’
Albert Grover — a blustering old man with snow-white whiskers, and sporting a well-worn suit from the 1840s — muttered, ‘Pah! What’s merry about it, by crikey? I’m in a Watford Football Club heaven and I’m not interested in going to watch Watford!’
‘Dear, oh dear,’ Henry chuckled fruitily. ‘Grumpy Grampy Grover has turned into a grumbling old Grinch again, has he? I hope you aren’t one of those Watford fans who haven’t adjusted to life after the Premier League, Grampy, old goose. There’s been lots to love about watching Watford so far this season.’
‘Piffle! No, there hasn’t,’ Albert insisted.
‘All you have to do, old turkey, is reflect on how our players have developed since the summer. Think how we’ve seen Mattie Pollock emerge as a leader amongst men.’
‘Pollock? Poppycock!’
‘In that case, think of Giorgi Chakvetadze on the half-turn, accelerating up the pitch, untacklable.’
‘Chakvetadze? Codswollop!’
‘Goodness… It seems you’re going to take quite a lot of convincing… In that case, think of Kwadwo Baah exploding down the wing.
‘Baah? Humbug!
‘I beg your pardon?
‘I said: Baah, humbug!’
‘Well, well, well, Grampy,’ Henry said with a smile. ‘That’s just given me an idea. Your attitude needs to change, and now I know exactly how to do it… I’ve had the absolute Dickens of an idea!’
CHAPTER TWO
Meanwhile, Bill Mainwood — Hornet Heaven’s Head of Programmes — was in the main part of the Troy Deeney Atrium, at the foot of a huge Christmas tree decorated in Watford colours.
Earlier, Bill had a falling out with Henry Grover over the tree’s exact colour scheme and, in a fit of pique, he was busy removing red baubles from the branches. He would have replaced the red baubles with black ones if he’d had any.
When he heard footsteps, he looked around and saw Henry. He expected to become embroiled in yet another bout of bickering about the optimal colour of Watford’s shorts.
Bill said, ‘Oh, hello, Henry,’
‘Ah, there you are, Bill, old thing,’ Henry grinned. ‘Seasonal greetings, old snowflake.’
‘And seasonal greetings to you, old…. um… old… red-shorted reindeer,’ Bill mumbled unconvincingly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing,’ Bill sighed. ‘That wasn’t very good. Forget it.’
But it turned out that Henry wasn’t here for a quarrel. He was preoccupied with something else.
‘Listen, old cranberry,’ Henry said. ‘I need you to do something for me. It’s both Christmassy and clever. It’s genius, in fact — even if I say so myself.’
The Father of The Club talked Bill through the idea he’d had.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you think, Bill, old brandy snap? Think of it as “A Watford Christmas Carol”. My grandfather, Grampy Grover, is Scrooge and he needs to be made to bally well cheer up.’
Bill thought the idea was ridiculous, but he thought it would unkind to reject it immediately. So he said, ‘Hmm. It’s definitely ambitious, Henry — and I worry it’ll be somewhat difficult to carry off.’
Henry said breezily, ‘Oh, you’ll manage somehow, old satsuma.’
‘Me?’
‘Of course.’
‘But—’
‘I have total faith in you.’
Bill tried to make a stronger case against the idea. ‘I see… Well, there are several logistical difficulties I can envisage, Henry… I mean, to start with, how are we going to get your grandfather to receive a visit from Marley’s ghost in Hornet Heaven? Watford have never had a player called Marley. There was a Farley in the 1970s — John Farley — but I don’t think he’s dead yet.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something, Bill,’ Henry said haughtily, ‘in the same way that I’m sure you’ll think of a way to bring about visitations from the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet To Come. Your task is to execute my superb idea so that grouchy Grampy Grover stops being so awfully crotchety and crabby.’
‘But you’re his grandson, Henry. Surely a simple and personal approach would be better.’
‘But I can’t show favouritism, Bill. As the leader of our afterlife, I have a responsibility to the entire residential population of Hornet Heaven. I very much see my role as bestowing happiness far and wide at Christmastide.’
Bill said sceptically, ‘Do you? You’re the Father of the Club, not Father Christmas.’
‘And the Father of the Club is delegating this little job to you, Bill, old pudding,’ Henry continued regardless. ‘Toodle pip, old thing. Toodle pip.’
Bill watched Henry saunter off.
Henry called out over his shoulder, ‘And don’t think I haven’t noticed what you were up to with the red baubles, Bill Mainwood. Put them back!’
CHAPTER THREE
Reluctantly, Bill got started straightaway. He wasn’t at all convinced that Henry’s “Christmas Carol” idea would work. It struck him as even more bizarre than some of Watford’s player-recruitment in recent years.
Once he’d thought up a solution to the first logistical difficulty, Bill got himself ready and found Henry’s grandfather — Albert Grover — sitting quietly in a far corner of the atrium.
Albert was dozing in an armchair. Bill crept up on him and tried to muster the spookiest voice he could. ‘Whooah! Whooah!’
Albert woke up and shouted, ‘By crikey! What’s going on?’
Bill had dressed himself in chains. He rattled them and moaned even louder: ‘Whooah! Whooah! ‘
‘Are you meant to be a ghost?’ Albert challenged him. ‘Humbug! We’re all ghosts — all of us!’
Bill hadn’t thought of this. He felt it was a fair point. He stopped moaning.
‘Who are you, under that hood?’ Albert asked.
Bill cleared his throat and carried on playing the part he’d come up with to fit Henry’s idea. He adopted a South London accent. ‘In life, bro, I was a prolific striker for Watford — in, like, the mid-noughties.’
‘Marlon King?’
‘Yeah, but you can call me “Marley”, if you like, bro.’
‘What? No, I don’t like. Marlon’s ghost, indeed! And why have you got chains on your arms and legs? I know Marlon served time in prison, but surely—’
‘I’m here to have words with you, bro.’
‘I hope you’re not going to call me what Marlon called that linesman at Wolverhampton.’
Bill wanted to laugh, but he managed not to break character. ‘The thing is, you’ve got to change, bro.’
‘Have I, now?’
‘Yeah, that’s why you’re gonna be haunted by three spirits tonight — to stop you from being so down on Watford, bro.’
‘Right… I see…’
Bill smiled to himself. He’d delivered the message he’d needed to deliver, as the first part of Henry’s plan to cheer Albert up. Things seemed to be going well.
Until, suddenly, they weren’t.
Albert said, ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve got a lot of dressing up ahead of you today, Bill Mainwood.’
Now Bill did break character. ‘Oh, you’ve realised it’s me.’
‘Carry on, though, Mainwood,’ Albert said, scathingly. ‘Maybe I won’t be able to tell it’s you when you come back as the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future.’
Bill gathered up his chains and retreated.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Bill left the atrium, he reflected that his ghostly get-up had suffered the same 100% failure-rate as Watford’s away kits in the early part of the season. He consoled himself that what he’d worn hadn’t involved a lurid purple.
Then he ditched the costume and went to the programme office to ponder his next move in executing Henry’s plan.
Inside the office, Bill’s young assistant, Derek Garston, was sitting at a desk, wrapping a Christmas present. When the thirteen-year-old saw Bill enter, he was caught off-guard.
‘Oh, hello, sir,’ Derek gabbled. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to come in. I’ll just, um…’ Derek hurriedly hid the present beneath the desk. Then he said calmly and sweetly, ‘Merry Christmas, sir.’
Bill trudged over to his own desk and sighed, ‘Merry Christmas, my boy.
‘Crikey, sir,’ Derek said, concerned. ‘You don’t seem full of the joys of the season, sir. Are you OK, sir?
‘Not really, my boy,’ Bill replied — and he explained how he’d humiliated himself while carrying out Henry Grover’s hare-brained scheme to try and make Albert Grover less grouchy. He talked Derek through Henry’s idea of ‘A Watford Christmas Carol’.
Derek burst out laughing. ‘Ha! That’s as ridiculous a notion as Vakoun Bayo scoring four goals in one game, sir.’
‘I know,’ Bill agreed. ‘But, rather remarkably, that did happen.’
‘It’s as ridiculous as Tom Cleverly keeping two left-wingbacks on the bench and playing Festy Ebosele out of position there instead, sir.’
‘I know. And that worked too. So it’s quite possible that a preposterous Charles Dickens themed contrivance might actually pay off handsomely.
Bill sat down at his desk and turned his mind to how he could still make Henry’s plan work.
Derek’s mind, though, was on the present he’d got for Bill that was still unwrapped under his desk.
The boy said, ‘You need to take action immediately if Mr Albert Grover is grouchy, sir.’
‘Do I? Why do you say that?’
‘You need to act straightaway, sir. Just take him on one of your “Magical History Tours”, sir. Just head off and do that, sir.
Bill thought about this. Trips through Hornet Heaven’s ancient turnstiles to go back and watch old Watford games almost always got people seeing the positive side of things — which was exactly what Henry wanted for Albert.
Bill said with a sigh, ‘It’s a nice idea, my boy, but, unfortunately Henry wants his grandfather to be visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past.’
‘But on a Magical History Tour, sir, Mr Albert Grover would see plenty of Ghosts of Christmas Past, sir — it’s just that he would be doing the visiting, sir.’
Bill sat back in his seat. ‘Golly,’ he said. ‘That’s a neat way of looking at it, young man. Very good.
Derek glanced under his desk again and said, ‘Off you go, then, sir. No reason not to get on with it right away, sir.’
Bill stayed seated. ‘Except,’ he said, ‘after making an idiot of myself just now, I want to think about this carefully, young man. I need to decide which old matches to take Albert to.’
‘You don’t need to be here to do that, sir. Just go off to the programme shelves, sir and do it there.’
‘Usually,’ Bill carried on, unhurried, ‘I would aim to resolve the issues underlying someone’s problems, but I don’t have much information in Albert’s case.’
‘Please, sir,’ Derek said urgently, ‘can’t you just—’
‘All I know is that Henry said his grandfather’s grouchiness is down to a lack of interest in Watford these days… Hmm… Thinking about it, Albert’s been in Hornet Heaven since 1882, and he’s a bit of a traditionalist… perhaps he just doesn’t like the modern game.’
‘Well, that makes it easy, then, sir,’ Derek said briskly. ‘Take him back to a really ancient Christmas game or two, sir, and simply show him how rubbish the football was, sir. Go on, sir. Cure his crabbiness, sir. There’s no time to waste, sir.’
Bill grinned. He got up and said, ‘Excellent thinking. Thank you, young man. And I know exactly which game I’ll start with.’
‘Good, sir. I’ll see you later, sir. Close the door on your way out, sir.’
Bill didn’t move.
‘But aren’t you interested to know which game I—
‘Normally, sir, yes, sir. But time is of the essence today, sir.
Bill took a small step towards the door.
‘You see, what I think I’ll do is—
‘Crikey, sir!’ Derek cried out, frustrated. ‘You’re even slower than Mileta Rajovic, and we got rid of him!’
Bill finally made his way to the door.
‘Thank you, my boy,’ he said. ‘With your help, I’m off to rehabilitate Hornet Heaven’s very own Ebeneezer Scrooge. I’ll see you later.’
When the door had shut, Derek sighed and muttered: ‘Slower than Jake Livermore! Slower than Arthur Horsfield!’
Then he lifted Bill’s present out from under his desk and carried on wrapping it.
CHAPTER FIVE
A few minutes later, Bill led Albert Grover out of the Troy Deeney Atrium, past the Hornets Shop, and down Yellow Brick Road (formerly Occupation Road, lest we forget).
Albert said irritably, ‘I wish you’d leave me alone, Mainwood — so I can get on with avoiding Christmas.’
Albert’s mention of avoiding Christmas got Bill remembering how, on December the 22nd 2019, Abdoulaye Doucouré had earned himself a one-match suspension with a yellow card that seemed very conveniently timed if he’d wanted to put his feet up and enjoy a few mince pies instead of playing football. Bill had always wondered if that had been Doucs’s sneaky plan.
Now they arrived at the ancient turnstiles in the wall of the stadium.
As they went through, Albert asked, ‘Has Henry put you up to this? I don’t see why he can’t do his dirty work himself! I’m his grandfather so he’s the one who should be dealing with me.’
Bill just said, ‘Welcome to my “Magical History Tour”. By the end of this, you’ll be full of Christmas cheer!’
They arrived in a meadow on a cold overcast afternoon. The football match about to take place was Watford Football Club’s first-ever fixture at Christmas time.
Bill and Albert joined a handful of spectators dotted around the edges of an extensive patch of mud in the middle of the meadow. Assembled on the mud were two football teams wearing dark-coloured knickerbockers and a disparate range of dark-coloured shirts that were hard to tell apart.
Bill said: ‘Now then, Albert… There are a lot of ‘Ghosts of Christmas Past’ here. It’s a game from not long after you passed away — December the 23rd, 1882. We’re still called Watford Rovers and we’re playing the Oxhey and New Bushey Recreation Society.
Albert scowled and said, ‘Huh! This was back when everything was still alright, Mainwood. When I loved watching our team, Mainwood. The good old days.’
Bill took this as confirmation that — just as he’d suspected — the bewhiskered Victorian gentleman beside him was stuck in the past and didn’t like the modern game. So he got straight to work along the lines young Derek had suggested. He said, ‘I know what you mean, Albert, but were these really the good old days?’
‘Undoubtedly,’ Albert replied. ‘Very much so.’
‘I mean, to be fair, it’s all a bit… well… a bit primitive,’ Bill continued.
‘What?’
‘Look, the pitch doesn’t even have touchlines marked out.’
‘So what?’
‘And the goalposts have tape instead of a crossbar. And there are no nets. And penalties haven’t been invented yet — which means defenders can deliberately foul attackers to stop them from scoring. Like I say, it’s primitive.’
‘Well, that just goes to show how little you understand the original game of football, Mainwood.’
‘My point is—’
‘Ask yourself why you think touchlines and nets are necessary.’
Bill found himself on the back foot. ‘Well,’ he said hesitantly, ‘I suppose it’s to avoid arguments about whether the ball—’
‘Exactly,’ Albert boomed. ‘And there shouldn’t be arguments. True sportsmanship means treating the referee’s decision with respect and courtesy. You don’t see any of that in the modern game, Mainwood. Instead, you see players screaming and swearing at officials, and trying to deceive them.’
Bill couldn’t argue with this. ‘Hmmm, yes, that’s an aspect of the game that I—’
‘And now you’ve got goal-line technology and VAR and all that ballyhoo, when actually all you need is basic sportsmanship.’
‘Yes. Come to think of it, you’re right, actually. It has got ridiculous.’
‘And, as for penalty kicks — they weren’t needed before the advent of professionalism because no one could even conceive that a sportsman would intentionally foul another player.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course! Football was a game of Fair Play!’
‘Golly,’ Bill reflected. ‘A bit of Fair Play would definitely be nice in 2024.’
Bill stood in silence for a while and watched the match kick off. He really hadn’t expected to end up agreeing with Albert that the old days were better. His new tactic wasn’t working any better than pretending to be Marlon King.
How on earth was he going to cheer Albert up?
CHAPTER SIX
Undeterred, Bill took Albert to the next match on his Magical History Tour — to visit more Ghosts of Christmas Past.
They went through the ancient turnstiles and arrived at another Watford Rovers Christmas fixture. It was the home friendly against Champion Hill at the Rose & Crown Meadow on Boxing Day 1887.
When the game started, Bill noticed that Henry Grover was playing for the Rovers — lumbering about, and hoofing the ball around.
It occurred to Bill that the quality of Henry’s play would be a good way of pointing out to Albert the huge difference between ancient and modern football. So he said, ‘Dearie me, Albert. Look at your grandson, playing at half-back. His ball retention is appalling. No one would ever call him “press-resistant” like Tom Dele-Bashiru or Pierre Dwomoh in the current squad. Henry’s charging about like a loon.’
‘Yes,’ Albert said. ‘And it makes me feel proud.’
‘What? These days, Henry’s pass completion-rate would rank in the bottom decile in an under-8s league!’
‘I love to see it.’
Bill was taken aback. He watched one of Henry’s upfield punts sail over the heads of the small crowd on the touchline. He said, ‘Um… I’m, er, a bit confused, Albert… Don’t you care that the standard is awful compared to these days?’
‘Of course not!’
‘But surely—’
‘It doesn’t matter a jot!’
Bill scratched his head. ‘And… um… might I enquire why?’
Albert answered, ‘Because I’m watching my grandson. Simple as that. When you’re watching your kids or your grandkids, quality doesn’t come into it. I loved watching Henry play. Didn’t you ever watch your children or grandchildren play sport?’
‘Well, yes…’
‘Then I’m sure you understand the pleasure it brings.’
Bill stood quietly for a few moments. Yes, he did understand the delight of seeing one’s offspring playing football. And, now he thought about it, he could see that watching professionals isn’t the same thing at all. Maybe he’d made some wrong assumptions about why Albert wasn’t interested in football in 2024.
He asked Albert to talk about it a little more, and they walked around the edge of the pitch as they chatted.
‘You see,’ Albert said, ‘when I died, I found myself in Hornet Heaven because I loved the team Henry and his pals had started— the Rovers. It was marvellous — because I could carry on watching my grandson. But, after a few years, Henry gave up the game. And, before long, I was watching people I didn’t know. Then the club turned professional; then it joined the Football League. Everyone had forgotten it was Henry who started the whole thing. The name Grover meant nothing to anybody in Watford. My family connection to the club was long gone.’
Bill asked, ‘So did you stop going to games?’
‘No — but only because there was nothing else to do in Hornet Heaven.’
‘That doesn’t sound a good situation.’
‘Things did improve though… My spirits lifted when Henry arrived up here in 1949. It was wonderful. Now I could go and watch Watford with my grandson. Football was a family thing again.’
‘Ah, that’s lovely.’
‘It was indeed — but only for a while. Then things changed again — for the worse.’
Albert stopped walking. He looked as if he was trying to hold back his feelings.
Bill stopped too and gave Albert time to say what he wanted he say.
‘The whole Founder of the Club thing seemed to go to Henry’s head,’ Albert said. ‘He stopped going to games with me. I think he thought he was too important to sit with his old granddad. And now… Well, I miss him — as my grandson. He’s someone else now — or thinks he is… And I feel it most keenly at Christmas.’
Bill watched Albert pull out a handkerchief and dab at his eyes.
Albert said: ‘I… I must apologise if it makes me act in a curmudgeonly fashion.;
Bill put a gentle hand on Albert’s arm.
Bill got it now.
This whole Charles Dickens-inspired plan of Henry’s to get Albert to change was misconceived.
It wasn’t Albert Grover who needed to change.
It was Henry.
CHAPTER SEVEN
At the same moment, Henry was in the Gallery restaurant inside Vicarage Road stadium.
The Father of the Club was sharing a booth with Alderman Ralph Thorpe — the club’s Chairman for most of the first two decades of the twentieth century. Both men considered themselves VIPs — Very Important Persons — and today they were engaged in an importance contest.
Henry said, ‘To sum up, Alderman, old honey-glazed parsnip, my Dickens of a plan for Grampy will prove to be the greatest-ever Christmas transformation at this club.’
‘Twaddle, Henry William,’ the Alderman replied in his deep booming voice. ‘It scarcely compares to the impact of my arrival as Chairman in 1903. That Christmas, the team were inspired to beat Queens Park Rangers twice in two days: 4-2 at home on Christmas Day, and 3-0 away on Boxing Day.’
Henry hesitated for a moment. He wasn’t sure how to counter this. He couldn’t truthfully claim to have had any personal impact on the club since its very earliest amateur days. His designation as ‘The Father of the Club’ was merely a courtesy title given to him by his friends after he was already dead. So he decided to go for one of the Alderman’s weak spots.
‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘I notice you’re not mentioning that, at Christmas in 1909, you “inspired” the team to three defeats in four days.’
‘Nonsense!’ the Alderman countered. ‘You can’t blame me for those.’
‘Which you topped at Christmas in 1913 with three defeats in only three days.’
‘Hmph! That wasn’t—’
‘And, of course, old nutcracker, we mustn’t forget that, between 1905 and 1908, under your chairmanship, we endured three Christmas defeats to — ahem — Them Up The Road. To put it mildly, Alderman, you visited shame and disgrace upon the Club.’
The Alderman stood up, offended. ‘Shame and disgrace? How dare you!’
Henry watched the Alderman march out of the restaurant. He was left wondering whether he might have overdone his posturing a little. He’d caused a lot of upset and he wasn’t feeling any great satisfaction at having put down a rival dignitary.
After the Alderman had gone, Henry felt a little lonely and a little sad.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A few moments later, Bill Mainwood arrived back at the programme office. Derek was still there.
‘Oh, hello again, sir,’ Derek said brightly. ‘Did your Magical History Tour with Mr Grover Senior have the desired effect, sir?
Bill was in a rush. He said, ‘Hello, my boy. I’ll tell you about it in due course. The whole thing’s taken a bit of a turn.’
Derek pointed to a wrapped present on his desk and said, ‘While you’re here, sir… Look, sir.’
Bill was too busy to look.
Derek said proudly, ‘I’ve got you a present, sir.’
‘Sorry, my boy, I haven’t got time.
‘Merry Christmas, sir.
‘I just came back to pick up a—
‘Slow down, sir. I think you’ll like what I’ve got you, sir.’
‘Ah, good — I’ve found what I was looking for. I’ll see you later, my boy.’
‘Please, sir, it’s a lovely present, sir, I really want you to open it and—‘
The door closed as Bill left the office. Derek sighed and muttered, ‘Faster than Kwaadwo Baah! Faster than Ikechi Anya!’
CHAPTER NINE
After learning the real reason for Grampy’s grouchiness, Bill had come up with a plan for getting Henry to spend time with Albert. He found the Father of the Club in the atrium. He said, ‘Hello, Henry.’
Henry had managed to suppress the sadness he’d been feeling after his spat with the Alderman. He was feeling bullish again. He replied, ‘Ah, Bill, old brussels sprout! How are you getting on in executing my sublime strategem to cure my grandfather’s peevishness? How is “The Watford Christmas Carol” coming along?
‘Well, I can report that Albert has now met up with the Ghost of Christmas Past,’ Bill answered. ‘Several of them, in fact.’
‘Excellent, excellent. And what’s next, old chestnut-roasting-on-an-open-fire?’
Bill set out his plan for Henry in a way he knew would appeal to the Father of the Club’s vanity. He said, ‘Next, Henry, as part of your Grand Plan, he’s due to meet the Ghost of Christmas Present.’
‘So I would hope, old pig-in-a-blanket!’ Henry said. ‘And who do you have in mind to play the role?
‘Well,’ Bill said, with well-rehearsed sincerity, ‘I’m thinking that the Ghost of Christmas Present should be the person who best represents our blissful existence in Hornet Heaven today and every day.’
‘Hmm, yes, interesting… And who would this admirable person be?’
‘Hornet Heaven’s esteemed leader, of course — the Father of the Club… You, Henry.’
Henry chuckled with false modesty. ‘Moi?… Little old me?… I’m the poster boy for eternal joy?… Yes… Well, I suppose I am… I suppose I definitely, definitely, definitely, am.’
‘And I believe it would transform your grandfather’s mood if the most important man in our afterlife — i.e. you, Henry — were to honour him with your company at the Hornet Heaven Christmas Carol Concert this evening.’
Bill had collected a flyer for the concert from the programme office. He showed it to Henry.
Henry wrinkled his nose.
‘Well, I’m not sure,’ he said sniffily. ‘My company is much in demand, as I’m sure you realise.’
‘Which is why it would be so special for your grandfather.’
Henry couldn’t argue with this. ’Yes, but… But…’
‘What’s the problem?
Henry moaned, ‘But it won’t be fun, Bill. No fun at all. Grampy’s such a killjoy these days. That’s why I asked you to sort him out, old eggnog.’
‘I see… Except, you did say you saw your role as bestowing happiness far and wide at Christmastide — and ‘far and wide’ includes close family.’
Henry was losing the argument. ‘Yes, but—’
‘Plus — even more to the point, Henry — Christmas is a time for family, and we’re the original family club.’
‘I know… It’s just that…’
‘Indeed, the wording of your extremely well-deserved title — the ‘Father’ of the Club — shows how much family matters to us all up here. So, to set an example—’
Henry had to accept defeat. ‘Gah! Curse you Bill Mainwood! Very well… I suppose it’ll have to be Carols with boring old Grampy. Fiddlesticks! How annoying!
Bill smiled and decided he’d go and tell Albert the good news straightaway. He walked off, leaving Henry muttering crabbily, ‘Bah! Bah, humbug!
CHAPTER TEN
On Christmas Day evening, Henry and Albert Grover entered the Troy Deeney Atrium for the carol concert. Bill Mainwood went with them — to make sure Henry didn’t pull out of spending quality time with his grandfather.
Albert announced to the other two, ‘This is splendiferous, by crikey!
Albert’s mood was much improved. As soon as Bill had told him he’d be spending time with his grandson, he’d perked up. He spent the afternoon catching up on Watford’s season so far by going to a couple of the early string of home wins — so he could impress Henry with some up-to-date football chat.
Albert had excitement in his voice as he said to Henry, ‘I say, Henry, my boy. I wonder what fresh lyrics we’ll hear worked into the carols this year. I’m hoping for “I’m your biggest fan, I’ll follow you around the country — Chakve, Chakvetadze!”… or maybe… “Baah, Baah will tear you apart again!”’
Henry muttered, ‘Baah, humbug!’
Henry’s mood had deteriorated as much as Albert’s had improved. He turned away from Albert and complained to Bill, ‘This is humiliating. I’m operating way below my station here. I should be hobnobbing in a hospitality suite… In fact, as Father of the Club, I should be being hobnobbed… I insist you sort this out, Bill — take me somewhere I can receive a thoroughly merited hobnobbing.’
Bill ignored this. He wanted to keep spirits high, so he said, ‘Well, gentlemen, this is lovely. We call Watford “the original family club”, and here you are — the original family — the Grovers — spending time together at our afterlife’s annual festive concert.’
‘Absolutely, by crikey!’ Albert agreed. ‘What fun! I say, Henry, why don’t you and I try and come up with a new carol? How about something that uses the new Tom Cleverly chant “Tom Cleverly olay olay!”’
While Albert started musing on this, Henry glowered at his grandfather and grumbled to Bill, ‘Well, it’s alright for him. He’s cheered up.’
Bill tried to smooth things over with flattery again. ‘Yes, Henry, he has. And it’s all down to you. Well done.’
‘But I’m losing out,’ Henry said bitterly. ‘As Hornet Heaven’s greatest grandee, my presence has an extremely uplifting effect on everybody — whereas Grampy has the opposite effect on me.
‘But we’re simply putting into action the brilliant plan you devised, Henry. Don’t forget you’re playing the role of The Ghost of Christmas Present tonight.
‘But it’s backfired, Bill! Having to be with Grampy has made me all Scrooge-like! This isn’t me! It’s almost as bad as having to wear black shorts.’
Henry scowled and stared at Albert. His grandfather had laughter in his eyes and a big grin beneath his snow-white whiskers. Albert was chortling to himself like Santa Claus while he tried to make the words “Tom Cleverly olay olay” fit the melody of various different Christmas carols.
As Henry watched, he felt completely out of kilter with the Christmas spirit. He began to feel lonely again — and sad again. He felt even worse than after he’d been beastly to the Alderman.
He heard Bill say: ‘You’re doing a great job, Henry. Your grandfather’s very happy.’
But Henry didn’t need the contrast pointing out. He mumbled sadly, ‘Yes… I know.’ Then, painfully, he admitted, ‘Whereas I’m very unhappy indeed, Bill.’
And now, as Henry began to recognise his own feelings of isolation, everything became too much for him. He started to have something of a breakdown.
‘I’m down in the mouth at Christmas, Bill,’ he cried. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening… Normally, I’m full of bonhomie and joie de vivre… Now I’m like Walter Mazzarri after he was sacked: a horribly crabby man made sad.’
He turned away and said between sobs, ‘I’m… I’m afraid I’m not myself today, Bill… I think I need to… excuse myself.’
Henry trudged despondently towards the exit.
Bill watched his old friend go. Bill felt sad too. Christmas wasn’t meant to be like this, he thought to himself. The day had been ruined by too much scheming — first Henry’s and then his own. He needed to retrieve the situation.
He was about to set off after Henry when he felt an enthusiastic tapping on his shoulder. It was Albert.
‘By Jingo, Mainwood, I’ve done it!’ Albert announced. ‘I’ve created a new Watford carol! Listen to this.’ Albert sang the first line of a sixteenth century carol — the Coventry Carol. ‘Olay, olay, thou lovely Watford boss, Tom Cleverly olay!’
Albert laughed, delighted with himself.
Bill said solemnly, ‘Come with me, Albert. Your grandson needs our help.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Bill and Albert watched Henry slump onto one of the yellow leather sofas at the foot of the huge Christmas tree. Bill thought to himself that he’d never seen Henry look so lost.
Albert, though, had known Henry for many decades longer than Bill. When he saw the Father of the Club moping on the sofa, he saw a grandson who’d once been a vulnerable and uncertain young man — in the days before Henry had founded a football club and given himself a platform from which to approach life with self-confidence.
Albert said, ‘Right. Leave this to me, Mainwood. We don’t need any cunning plans.’
Bill backed away and Albert went and sat down beside Henry. Grandfather spoke to grandson gently and honestly.
‘Henry,’ Albert began, ‘I want you to know that I’m proud of you, my boy. I always have been.’
The Father of the Club was staring disconsolately at the floor. He nodded, but didn’t look up.
‘Back in 1881,’ Albert continued fondly, ‘I was full of admiration for how you got your friends along to that very first kickabout in the park, and grew a football club from there. I always came along to watch. I loved watching your progress. Because I loved you. I always have.’
Henry murmured, ‘Thank you, Grampy.’
Albert continued, ‘For me, the club was definitely all about you. And it still is, in 2024. Only, not in the way you seem to think it is.’
Slowly, Henry looked up. Albert went on.
‘You see, my fine boy, I don’t really care that you were the originator of what Watford Football Club has become. I’m not interested in the club’s status. For me, the important thing is that it’s the club to which I attached myself because you’re my grandson. It’s my family club, and I always want to feel that.’
Henry understood. He nodded as his grandfather continued.
‘And, sometimes, over the years, I haven’t had that feeling. Quite often, the club has headed off in some direction or other — in pursuit of some objective or other — and I haven’t been getting what I’ve always wanted from my club: that sense of connection to people I love. I’ve felt distant.’
Albert paused. It occurred to him that a lot of Watford fans might use the word ‘distant’ to describe their relationship with the club in recent times.
Then he swallowed to prepare himself for what he wanted to say next.
‘And when I’ve felt distant,’ he continued, ‘I’ve wanted to get closer. But that hasn’t always been possible. Sometimes because of the club. But mostly because of you, Henry — because you haven’t wanted to be close to me.’
Henry looked deep into his grandfather’s eyes.
He saw the hurt. But he also saw the love.
He finally realised what this was all about.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Henry sat for a few moments and reflected on the way he’d behaved with his grandfather in recent times. He’d been self-important; inconsiderate; arrogant. He could see it now.
Eventually he said, ‘I’m so sorry, Grampy. I didn’t realise I’ve been pushing you away. I didn’t mean to… It’s just… No, there are no excuses. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
Albert said, ‘And I’m sorry too, Henry. For being a grouch about the whole thing. For being a grumpy Grampy. All I wanted was — like any football fan — to connect.’
Henry and Albert looked at each other. It had become a moment of understanding, reconciliation and love.
Henry said, with a tremor in his voice, ‘Shall we….?’
Albert said, urgently, ‘Yes!’ and leant across and wrapped Henry in a hug.
Henry was shocked. ‘What? No! Get off, Grampy! What on earth are you doing?’
‘But I thought—’
‘I was about to say shall we go to the Portsmouth game together tomorrow.’
‘Oh… Sorry, I…’
‘We don’t do hugging! Goodness, Grampy, we’re Victorians!’
Albert sat back. Henry looked at him. Then Henry relented a little and clasped his grandfather’s hand. He said warmly and sincerely, ‘Thank you, Grampy. For everything, Grampy. I understand and appreciate what you’ve said. Let’s make sure we enjoy each other’s company this Christmas.
Albert smiled. This was what he’d wanted all along.
Henry said: ‘So, Grampy… Pompey, Grampy?’
Albert said: ‘Pompey, Henry… That would be lovely, Henry.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next afternoon — Boxing Day — Bill Mainwood was in the atrium again, by the huge Christmas tree again. He was busy removing red baubles from the branches — and replacing them with some new black ones he’d received.
Derek Garston said, ‘I knew you’d love your present, sir. I knew it.’
‘I do indeed, my boy,’ Bill replied. ‘But no doubt Henry — with his ridiculous preference for red shorts — will insist that—’
He heard a voice behind him.
‘Ah, Bill — there you are, old stuffing ball.’
Bill turned and saw Henry standing happily together with Albert.
‘Oh, hello, Henry. I hope you don’t mind that I—’
‘Black baubles instead of red, old thing? By all means!’
Bill was astonished. ‘Really?’
Henry explained, ‘I’m full of the joys, Bill, old poppet. Aren’t I, Grampy?’
‘By crikey, he is, Bill!’ Albert agreed enthusiastically. ‘Just like the good old days, and hopefully forevermore!’
Bill smiled. It turned out (he reflected) that no convoluted Christmas schemes — no cunning plans — had been required. All it had taken was a little human understanding to grasp why someone wasn’t enjoying their football.
He heard a cry go up from near the programme shelves: ‘Programme’s in! Pompey’s in!’
Henry said, ‘Excellent! Shall we, Grampy?’
Albert said: ‘We shall, Henry!’
And off they went.
Bill smiled as he watched grandfather and grandson head off to spend time in each other’s company at the original family club’s latest match. He hoped that, from now on, Henry and Albert would enjoy going to games together — always.
He hoped he was watching the Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come.
THE END
‘BAAH, HUMBUG’ WAS WRITTEN BY WATFORD FAN OLLY WICKEN.
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