Like me, he grew up near the ocean, in a town called Newquay, which he claims is the surf capital of the UK, but just like me, he says he hates surfing. He tells me he can’t see the sea from his mum’s house, but sometimes in the summer he can hear the lions roaring from the nearby zoo. He does an impression,which sounds eerily similar to my granddad standing up from his armchair and stretching.
When I ask him what his favourite things from home are, without hesitation he says, “The scran. Hundred per cent. Pasties, cream teas, fresh fish, bread pudding, steak . . .”
When he asks me the same question about Perth, I come up short. I have nothing nice to say, but it’s not the city’s fault. If I removed the people from my hometown, namely my family, I guess I’d have a lot more pleasant things to say about it.
Eggo—still feels weird to call him that—tips all the chicken bones onto one dish and stacks the rest of the plates underneath. “Need a beer?”
“I’m seventeen.” I don’t want to be caught drinking and get kicked out of the tournament already. We haven’t even been here a day yet.
“A Coke, then?” But he says it with a wink.
He doesn’t grab me a Coke, not even one with secret spirits that would pass as a soft drink. Instead, he takes two beers from the table next to the bar. “Nobody will care, trust me. It was the same last year in France. My mate Leo got so shitfaced that he took a dump in a bush behind the stadium. As long as you don’t end up that wasted, you’ll be fine.”
“I promise I’ll use the toilet.”
I take the beer from him and sip it. No alarms sound, no police storm through the doors. Not even one adult looks over at me. Tilly is nowhere to be seen, and I’ve forgotten all the other grown-ups’ names.
“Man, I wish there were girls here.” Eggo glances around the hall at a sea of white shirts and black suit jackets. “Wanna see the pitch?”
“Too right, I do. We’re not here to fuck spiders,” I say.
“Oh my god, I love that. I’m yoinking that phrase.”
“You have to be Australian to say it, though, otherwise it’s cultural appropriation,” I reply.
Eggo leans closer, his chest and bare stomach brush my arm, and his gaze flits to my lips. “Pard, I’m about to appropriate the fuck out of your culture.”
The scent of his oceanic shower gel floods my nostrils, and my pulse quickens. I keep my breath even, my voice steady, and fake a laugh. “What does pard mean?”
“It’s like mate, or buddy. You know? Wasson, pard?” he says with a shrug. “That means ‘What’s going on, my good man?’”
We walk through the building, navigating with the Spanish signs, through the bar area and into a special VIP section, and then out into . . .
“Huh,” I say. “Didn’t think it’d be like this.”
It’s a massive racecourse, like the horses’ variety, and the rugby pitch—pitches, actually—are smack bang in the centre. I’ve played at grounds similar to this, but usually it’s an athletics track circling the field. I’ve never seen anything on this scale before. The stands seem so far away.
“Oh my god,” Eggo says, grabbing me by the wrist and rushing us both forward. My beer sloshes over the edge of the glass.
We’re not the only U20s that have snuck off to find the pitch. Some have even produced a ball from somewhere and are passing and kicking it between each other. Eggo downs his pint and watches them with hands on bare hips.
“Do you think you’ll stay in Cornwall? When you’re old enough. Or will you move to a different team?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No idea. If they offer me a place on the main squad, I’ll probably stay. If not . . .” He glances up at the sky, but it’s too cloudy to see any stars. “I’ll go wherever. I’d love to play in the premiership if I can. Bristol looks nice. They’ve got a good team. Or France or Ireland, I literally don’t care. And if I don’tget to play rugby, fuck knows what I’ll do. My stepdad’s a baker, so I guess I could do that. What about you?”
“Um . . .” I hadn’t thought much about where I’ll go after the academy team, though I know that as soon as I pass my driving test, I’m leaving Perth. “I wanna play rugby for as long as I can. Maybe I’ll move to Sydney. My sister lives there.”
I think about Connor Wilson leaving everything behind to play for a team tens of thousands of kilometres from home.
“Maybe I don’t even want to stay in Australia. It’s a really big fucking world out there and . . .” I let my sentence trail off.
“You should come to Blighty,” Eggo says matter-of-factly. “What’s not to love? Bad food, shit weather, homesickness . . . but . . . beautiful countryside, beautiful beaches, beautiful maids. Pubs galore. You’ll make a new family there. Honestly, you won’t find a better bunch of mates, I promise.”
Where do I sign up?
“You could probably start looking into it next year when you turn eighteen, so long as nothing major happens like World War Three or an international plague or something else that stops you,” he adds.
I laugh. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my chest. I could leave home in as little as a year. The potential is right there.
