We met in The Matchstick Man, cos it’s close to all of us and right by the tram. Being a Saturday, there were the usual gangs of lads there, we knew most of them, and there were some groups of lasses, some on the prowl, some out in big gangs. A group of lasses at the next table were noisy – they all had pink sashes on with someone’s name on it, and they were done up to the nines. 

‘Where we going then?’ 

We decided in the usual way, all of us chipping in and then Tommy deciding. So the Baa, then Gorilla’s, it was. In the tram, we spread ourselves out, a double seat each, but just as the doors were closing, in charged the hen party. 

‘Budge up, lads’ ordered one of them, a hefty sort who looked as if she could handle herself in a bare knuckle contest. We moved into two seats. There were four of us and about a dozen of them. One that came in last sat across the aisle from me – the nicest looking one, certainly the quietest, dressed quite simply compared to the purple and gold excesses of her mates. She caught my eye, gave me a small, quick smile, as if she was apologising for the rest of them, or maybe I just thought that. 

The tram trundled on, with the mandatory five minute wait by the canal. The canal’s pretty scummy, with all sorts of stuff on top of the water, but a narrowboat was gliding along, and seeing it underneath the green canopy of the trees, in the slanting evening sun, it was almost magical. It could have been anywhere, France even, and the old chap standing on the deck at the back, steering, was smoking a pipe, which completed the picture. The tram lurched into life and we were on our way again. I followed the narrowboat until it was out of sight, craning my neck, and caught the eye of the quiet one sitting near me. She had been watching it too. I smiled, but she didn’t respond. 

The pubs and clubs were full of the usual nutters, mingling without meeting, like Lowry’s crowds of matchstick people, only occasionally coming into contact. Our contact that night was with a group of prats from Oldham, spoiling for a fight, and naturally Eddie obliged, leaving him with a split lip and a bruise under his eye that would be a source of pride when he got back to work on Monday. He’d make up his usual exaggerated tale of being jumped by five City supporters, leaving two on the ground while the other three ran away. Nobody but his mum believed him of course.  

We ran for the last tram home, just got it, fell laughing into the seats by the door. A couple of old guys sitting in the next seats gave us a bit of a look and went back to their argument. Tommy and Nick started one of their own arguments, the usual one, was Tupac better than Biggie Smalls? It would never end, could never end. They were  both crap as far as I was concerned. The old guys got into it too, and it became one of these late night tram arguments, old music versus new, who was better, Tom Jones or Robbie Williams. My eye wandered along the tram, looking at the faces – and stopped when I came to a pair of eyes looking right back at me – it was the quiet one, still with her mates, still looking pretty good, better than most of her mates anyway. She was sat beside a particularly overweight one in a purple dress, way too short, fast asleep, head bobbing with the motion of the tram. 
 

The argument beside me was getting louder – who sang Downtown? The old guys said Petula Clark, Nick was sure it was Sandie Shaw. Tommy called me to settle it: ‘Barry’ll know – who was it sang Downtown, Barry, Sandie Shaw or Pet Clark?’ I told them it was Petula Clark. ‘Who was Sandie Shaw, then, what did she sing?’ So I got dragged into the drunken argument, and by the time it was finished, she was gone; must have got off at the last stop. I was suddenly sad, felt as if I’d lost something I’d never really had in the first place. We all got off at the Quays, went our separate ways, the volume of our goodbyes dependent on our particular stage of drunkenness. 

When I got home I went straight to my bed, dropping my clothes where I took them off. Next morning, my mum clucked around picking them up, making as much noise as she could manage. ‘What’s this in your shirt pocket, that’s not your handwriting?’ She was squinting at a slip of paper that had been in the breast pocket of last night’s shirt. She laid it down on my bedside table, and later, when I surfaced for a second time, I had a look at it. 

A mobile number, and a name, Tracy. It must have been her! She must have dropped it in my pocket when she left the tram! A thrill ran through me and I was instantly awake. I had a shower, some breakfast, came back to the room, the piece of paper looking me right in the eye. Eventually, later on that day, I plucked up my courage, and called the number. 

I looked at the small person sitting on my knee. ‘And that, Louise, is how I met your Gran. Our eyes met across a crowded tram. Long time ago now, when Sir Alex was still in charge at United.’ Louise’s mum laid a cup of tea down for me. ‘Not that old story again, Dad’ she said. ‘You should write it down so you don’t forget it.’ 

Perhaps I will, one day.