Chapter 145: I Am Back

It had to be said that Saint’s guess had been remarkably sharp. Big clubs had a way of doing exactly that sort of thing, and over the years it had become something close to a habit.

And so it proved. At Anfield, Liverpool’s sporting director, Hugh Radcliffe, had not been in the directors’ box by accident, and Salerno’s outstanding performance had indeed caught his eye. Even so, the transfer window was still some way off.

"Lads, I’m back."

When Saint walked onto the training pitch and said it, the mood of the players, which had sunk after the losing run, changed at once.

Saint had been there all along. The ban had not stopped him taking training, but he could not appear on the touchline on matchdays, and "I’m back" meant exactly that.

Teale was the first to react. The old centre-half folded his arms, looked Saint up and down, and said, "About time, gaffer. The lads have been playing like orphans."

"Orphans who scored four at Anfield," Reyes said mildly.

"Orphans who conceded five," Teale shot back, and for the first time in a fortnight the training ground echoed with laughter. Even Vacek, who had barely smiled since the Liverpool game, shook his head and grinned into his gloves.

Saint let them have it for a moment. Then he clapped his hands once and pointed to the far goal. "Right. Laugh later. Eleven against nine, now."

The sessions that week were the sharpest Villa had had all season, and by Thursday even the youngsters who had endured the defeats looked taller on the grass.

Seeing the effect Saint had on the players, Cadman was not jealous in the slightest. He was relieved.

In Cadman’s mind, those few rounds had felt like a nightmare. The benefits were obvious too, because they had given him a much clearer picture of himself.

Saint’s return affected more than the players. It reached the whole staff, from Derek Sallow, the director of football, right down to the old groundsman at the training ground.

"The Cloud Over Villa Has Finally Lifted," ran the headline in the Midlands Sports Gazette.

On the end of Saint’s ban, the Gazette had interviewed people up and down the club, from Sallow to the groundsman and then to the fans.

"Victory. Saint can lead us back onto the road to victory." That was what Sallow said, and it was the voice of everybody at Villa.

"Pressure? No. I’m never afraid of pressure, otherwise I would not have taken this job," Saint said in answer to the expectations of the whole club.

"Arrogant." When the other newspapers read the Gazette’s interview the next day, almost every one of them gave Saint those two words.

At the same time, they were a little jealous of the Gazette, because it was the only paper to have interviewed him.

Besides the local press, Saint also agreed to talk to supporters’ groups. The business with Strickland had drawn plenty of attention from fans around the country, and as far as he could tell, most of them were on his side.

So in the interview Saint thanked those fans specially. He even invited a group of supporters’ club members to come and watch a match as the club’s guests, through the Gazette.

The club would bear the cost, of course. As a shrewd chairman, Whitlock could see that the idea was entirely to Villa’s benefit.

"Tomlin, I think you’ve been waiting a long time for this game," Saint said on the training pitch, looking at his striker.

Tomlin was not an arrogant sort, so in front of Saint he did not really answer.

But some things do not need a spoken answer. Tomlin’s eyes said it all, and his work in the following session made sure every teammate knew how much the match mattered to him.

Saint had mentioned Norwich, and it was far more than a name.

Martin Alder, the quiet magician of English football, was a well-known star. The club was so closely tied to the fame of its great veteran that people called it "Alder’s team".

But one man cannot be a team, because football has never been an individual game.

Had Tomlin done badly at Norwich? No. In his first season there he had put together a lovely record of thirteen goals in twenty-eight league games.

Even with a season like that, people only saw Alder, and Tomlin was only worth being his sidekick, or even an optional extra in the side.

So he had chosen to leave. He chose to leave "Alder’s team", to go to a club that valued him, where he could prove himself, and at Villa Tomlin had felt the importance he wanted.

Indeed, after losing Tomlin, Norwich’s attack had started to creak this season. Alder was the focal point of everything, and a man who was thirty-six this year.

A team built around a thirty-six-year-old veteran was destined not to go far.

In the first nine rounds, Norwich had won only once. One win, four draws, four defeats, seven points, five fewer than Villa.

But judging by the last few games, Norwich were steadier. Villa had lost four in a row, while Norwich had drawn two.

Saint was studying Norwich, and Norwich were studying Villa. Compared with Saint, who was untroubled by the losing run, Norwich’s manager, Roy Fenner, was already on the edge. This match would be unforgettable for Fenner, because if he lost it, he might lose his job.

"I know that some of you must have missed me." When the days had slowly passed and Saint appeared at the pre-match press conference, he said it to the hundreds of reporters in the room.

"Pah. I haven’t missed you, you loathsome man." That was the thought of more than ninety-eight per cent of the reporters present.

But whatever they denied in their hearts, the fact that they had missed him could not be changed.

"I’m back," Saint declared, with enormous swagger, in front of the whole room.

"Does that mean Villa will definitely win this game?" a reporter jumped up to bait him.

"Mate, I can’t say that. Football is round, and nothing in this game is ever certain." Saint shook his head at once.

"Besides, Norwich have been a strong side in the Premier League for several years, and Roy Fenner is an excellent and experienced manager." He said it with complete sincerity.

"Loathsome." Seeing that familiar phrase, that perfectly flat face, the reporters swore silently.

"But why does this all feel so familiar? Why do I feel like I missed it?" Even as they cursed him, the press could not help wondering.

"Pah, pah, pah." Before long they forced the thought out of their heads.

"Excuse me?" When a reporter tried to ask another question, Saint was no longer at the table.

"Ah, that cheeky so-and-so!" Finally somebody could not help shouting, but unfortunately, Saint could not hear.

Out in the corridor, Saint walked briskly past the lift, a small, contented smile on his face, and Cadman fell in beside him.

"You did that on purpose," Cadman said.

"Of course I did," Saint said. "Nothing sells newspapers like a man they love to hate."

"And if we lose on Saturday?"

"Then they’ll sell even more." He pressed the lift button and glanced at his watch. "But we’re not going to lose on Saturday, Paul. Not with a back four that’s finally had a proper night’s sleep, and a striker who’s been waiting a year to say hello to his old club."