The April light was beginning to fade into dusk as he trudged up the steep road from the shipyard.

“Orright there Beaver?”

Deep in thought, he’d walked right past Sid without seeing him. Though, to be fair, these days Sid looked so apologetic you’d walk right past him even if you were wide awake. Bernie felt a mixture of guilt at having ignored his brother, pity for his unemployed condition, and relief that he’d have a good excuse not to hurry home to Peggy.

“Now then our kid. Fancy a jar?” he said. He was late leaving the shipyard. He wondered if Sid had been waiting for him.

Sid fell into step beside him, shoulders hunched as though still carrying coal sacks. Their boots crunched on the pavement as they climbed the hill.

“I could sup the Mersey, I’m that dry.”

“You always could,” said Bernie, with a chuckle. “How’s Maggie?”

Sid’s shoulders hunched higher. “Well, the babby can’t be more than a few days away. She’s been dustin’ and sweepin’ like there’s no tomorrow. You know how they are when it’s nestin’ time.”

Bernie cleared his throat in embarrassment, and repositioned his cap.

“Ah,” said Sid, looking even more downcast.

“Yeah, well, it’s one of them things.”

They walked on. A few other shipyard workers were still making their way homeward, on bicycles or on foot, and once or twice Bernie called out a greeting. Cammell Laird were building submarines, whose hulls needed Bernie's welding skills. The wages weren’t spectacular, but with Peggy ruling the household accounts with a steel rod, they managed, even with a degree of comfort. On the other hand, Sid’s brood of four were running about in hand-me-downs. He'd given up the beer, could rarely afford a ticket for the match on a Saturday, barely managed to feed and clothe his family and yet he refused to ask for help except from the Public Assistance Committee. There, Sid had not only to swallow his pride about not working, but actively prove his poverty in order to claim the dole. They would check his rent, would check whether he ever did an odd day’s work for anybody, they’d even check whether Maggie was breastfeeding the baby, before decreeing how much money the family should get. Bernie was uncomfortable when Sid referred to the minor grief of his own and Peggy’s childless state.

“The other kids are back at school though,” Sid went on. “Keeps ‘em out from under Maggie’s feet, during the day at least.”

Bernie had recovered his equilibrium now. “I wish we saw more of ‘em. Well, I wish I saw more of them. Peggy gives me hell if I even talk about inviting you all round for a square meal. Says I can't afford to feed all six of you. Miserable cow. What about you, are you all right?”

Sid shrugged again. “Harry let me have a few old floorboards and I’ve been choppin’ ‘em up for firewood out in the yard. Maggie goes mad at the dust. She says it’s a mess, and I’ve to sweep up so nobody knows I do it. But I’ve still got to sell ‘em. I’ve walked all round Rock Ferry and back today.”

“You’ll be ready for a pint then. And you can keep them coppers in your pocket, they're for Maggie."

They stepped in through the door of the “Crown” and into the warm, smoky public bar. Connie, the widowed landlady, put his glass tankard on the bar. Behind her, the grubby Great War notice still admonished him, “No Treating”. She reached, with questioning slowness, towards a second mug. He fixed Connie with a bland smile. “That’s it, love, give us a bottle of pale for our Sid, the rules don’t apply to brothers.” He laid a shilling on the worn mahogany.

A friendly shout came from the group at the corner table. “Hey Beaver, just the lad!”

Connie winked at him. “They want to know how the trip's coming along. The boys are desperate to go to the Final.”

“Give over, woman. Give us time to catch me breath.”

“Good health, mate,” said Sid, as they each took a reverent mouthful of beer. Then, to break the need for gratitude, he gestured at the rim of froth on Bernie’s moustache. “I never can work out how you manage, with that beaver under your nose.”

Bernie wiped his beard, and grinned. “Leave it to grow long enough, it even keeps Peggy at bay.”

With the beer lowered to a safe level, they carried their glasses across to the corner table. “Orright Bill, Charlie, how you doin’ Joe?”

Charlie, the local grocer, offered them a Woodbine. Sid nipped his in two and stuck one behind his ear before lighting up. They all sat quietly for a few moments, enjoying the smoke and the beer. This was the way it should be with your mates: relaxed and thoughtful.

Charlie turned over the copy of the Echo and slapped his knuckles on the article about Everton FC and their preparations for the FA Cup Final.

“Still haven’t found a manager, eh.”

“A gentleman,” said Bernie. “Honest as the day is long.”

They all nodded in agreement with his accolade.

“What colours are we playing in? Anybody heard?” asked Sid.

“White, it says here,” said Charlie.

“White!” Joe spluttered over his beer. “Like a lot of bloody girls!”

“Well, City play in blue, we play in blue, you can’t expect the ref to know t’other from which if we don’t change to something neutral. It’s only fair. City are gonna play in red.”

They contemplated the adrenalin rush that would be generated by the colour, usually worn by their arch-enemies, Liverpool FC.

“Mind you,” said Charlie, “City won’t enjoy playing in Man United’s colours; that’s bound to put ‘em off.”

“We don’t need to put ‘em off. We’ve got the best team and we’ve got Bill Dean.” Sid drained his glass defiantly. “Did youse hear the story about the night of the Liverpool Derby?”

They'd all heard it. They'd all told it, come to that. But they'd let Sid tell it again. “Bill Dean was on his way home from the match and he met Elisha Scott.” He didn't need to describe Scott, who had defended the goal for Liverpool for over twenty years. “Bill said Good Night and nodded, and Scott dived into the gutter.”

They all chuckled comfortably.

“Must be seventy or eighty thousand supporters goin’ to Wembley,” said Joe. “Between the two teams, like. Trains’ll be packed.”

“Hah! Whole bloody island’s gunna sink southeastwards dhat weekend. Liverpool’ll be ten foot higher and dhe Mearsey’ll run backwards.” 

Charlie, and Bill, and Joe all turned to Bernie. “Did you ask Crosville about booking a sharra to go by road?” Sid said nothing.

“I did,” said Bernie. “I had an answer from them yesterday, and they’re goin’ to put on a twentyfive seater for us. All the way to Wembley, lads!”

“Better have a look under the mattress then and see if I can scrape up the fare,” said Charlie, leaning back with an easy smile and his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.

Bill shook his head. “Dhat’ll be too rich for me. I’ll go on one of dhe specials.”

“Look, be the time you’ve gone through the Tunnel and changed trains, and then got yourself across London on the Underground, you might as well have come with us. If we can fill all the seats, it’ll work out miles cheaper.”

Bill snorted. “You think Crosville are gunna sell us a cheap trip out of rev'rence for Dixie Dean? Don’t you believe it!”

“I’m not that daft! I got them to guarantee the trip door-to-door for the same money as the regular day coach. If we fill every seat, they’ll knock us off ten per cent.”

“Well, dhat’s more like it.”

Everton were on a winning streak. They had been promoted back up out of Division Two only a couple of years ago, and won the League last year. The team were a major source of pride to a Merseyside full of depression and unemployment.

Charlie puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette.

“Y’know, I reckon the shop could make up a couple of baskets to take with us. If we all chipped in, same as we do for the sharra, it would work out cheaper than everybody making up their own butties.”

Another silence as they all salivated over thoughts of Charlie’s well-known ham and home made pickles. Then five hands raised five beers in unison. Sid sucked at the dribbles in the bottom of his glass.

“I’ll ask Connie to let us have a crate of pale ale,” added Bernie. “Maybe two.” He was acutely aware of Sid, sitting next to him, twirling the empty glass that he was too proud to fill again, reserving the coppers in his pocket for his wife and kids. And everyone else knew that. They were not much better off than he was; they had bought their own beers and nobody else’s. It was just the way times were.

“I’ll listen to the match on the wireless,” said Connie encouragingly from behind the bar. “You never know, Sid, I might even bring the set in here.”

“It says here that they’re going to wear numbers on their shirts,” Charlie added, “that'll make it dead easy for the commentators to tell you who’s got possession. So if you've got your diagram of the pitch, and that other bloke giving the numbers to say where the ball is, well, it’ll be as good as being there.”

Sid nodded. He knew the others had all made up their minds to go. They had been scraping money together since the Fifth Round win, back in February. To miss their inevitable glorious win at Wembley? not to see Dixie Dean lifting the FA cup? not to sing and shout and chant and drink with your mates on the epic journey south and the victorious journey home? – it was unthinkable. But he couldn’t afford it. Even with the little jobs he didn’t tell the Public about, there were no spare pennies once the rent was paid and the basic housekeeping was done.  And he should see to Maggie and the children before his own pleasures.

“Yeah,” he said faintly. “The wireless’ll be just as good as being there. Better, probably.”

Bernie drained his glass, and stood up abruptly.

“That’s my lot, lads. Come on, our kid,” he said. “Let’s get you home. Good evening,” he added to Connie, as he manoeuvred Sid to the door. “Peggy will never forgive me if her scouse is burnt cos of me and my thirst.”

Sid, knowing how little Bernie cared whether he was in Peggy’s good books or not, said nothing. Outside, the sharp, familiar reek of coal-smoke drifted across the darkening streets. Gas lights flared softly behind thinly curtained windows. A woman called from her doorstep to the last group of children playing out.

“Sid,” said Bernie, when they reached the street corner.

“No,” said Sid at once. “You’re not to offer. I got me wood money. Thanks to you, I've had me beer, and I can give that money to Maggie untouched. I don't need no more.”

“Shut up, our Sid. I'm tellin' you, not offerin'. There’s a seat for you on that charabanc, and food and drink, and a ticket for the Cup Final. Peggy gives me hell if I ever mention helping out you and the family, but by God Sid, no judy's gonna stop you seeing the lads win at Wembley. Now piss off home, and for God’s sake look a bit more cheerful for the kids.”

Bernie gave him a friendly shove, and set off up the hill towards his prim, ungenerous home. If Peggy had ever discussed her pregnancy with him, he'd have told her to keep the baby, and faced down the disapproving stares at their wedding. As it was, she had come to him thin and ill from a back-street abortion, and he had gone through with it all out of pity. Perhaps, if she had been a hard-worked mother of five, as Maggie soon would be, things might have been different for them all. But after fifteen years with Peggy, he doubted it.

There was no doubt in his mind, though, that the Toffees were going to lift the FA Cup. He was going to see Merseyside thrust its ability under the noses of the nation. And he was going to make sure Sid got his share of that pride. He would be there.