A Clubbable Woman. Reginald Hill

the side. There was a general outcry as Fred Slater settled in. Connon looked at the scene with slight distaste.

      ‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ he said, but his voice was drowned in a burst of singing. He made his way to the door and out into the fresh air.

      He picked his way slowly over the muddy grass towards the distant club-house. The hut the fourth team used had originally been all the accommodation the club possessed, but the present of an adjoining field and a large loan from the Rugby Union had enabled them at the same time to develop another two pitches and build the pavilion. But even here the showers could not really cope with more than two teams, so the Fourth soldiered on in the old hut.

      Connon thought ruefully that he had rather missed out on the development. The season the club-house was opened had been the season he retired. All those years in the first team had been centered on the old hut. Now when he was stupid enough to let himself be talked into playing, it was back to the old hut again.

      He pushed open the glass-panelled door and stepped into the social room. Tea and sandwiches were being served.

      ‘Hello, Connie,’ called Hurst, the club captain. ‘Been over at the Fourths? How did they get on?’

      Connon realized he did not know. He could not even recollect the score when he had left the field.

      ‘I don’t know how it ended,’ he said. ‘I got a knock and came off early.’

      Hurst looked at him in surprise.

      ‘You haven’t been playing, have you? Good lord. You’d better have a seat.’

      Connon helped himself to a cup of tea.

      ‘I’m only thirty-nine,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly thirty yourself, Peter.’

      Hurst smiled. He knew, and he knew that Connon knew, this was his last season as captain.

      ‘They won’t get me out there, Connie. When I finish, I finish.’

      ‘Sandwich, Connie?’ asked one of the girl helpers. Connon recognized her as the girl-friend of the second team full-back. He shook his head, remembering when Mary had used to come down on Saturday afternoon. The catering like everything else had been more primitive then. Once they became wives they stopped coming. Then they tried to stop you coming. Then they even stopped that.

      ‘I won’t do it again in a hurry,’ he said to Hurst. ‘How did you get on?’

      But Hurst had turned away to talk to some members of the visiting team.

      The ache was turning again in Connon’s head and he put his cup down and went across the room to the door which led into the bar. This was empty except for the club treasurer behind the bar sorting out some bottles.

      ‘Hello, Connie,’ he said. ‘You’re early. You know we don’t serve till tea’s done and the girls have got cleared up.’

      ‘That’s all right, Sid. I just feel like a quiet sit down. It’s rather noisy in there.’

      He sank into a chair and massaged the side of his head. The treasurer carried on with his work a few moments, then said, ‘Are you feeling all right, Connie?’

      ‘Fine.’

      He lit another cigarette.

      ‘Make an exception and pass me a scotch, will you, Sid?’

      ‘Well, all right. Medicinal purposes only. Don’t let those drunkards smell it.’

      He poured a scotch and handed it over.

      ‘Two shillings and sixpence.’

      ‘Isn’t my credit good?’

      ‘Your credit’s bloody marvellous. It’s my accounts which are bloody awful. Two and six.’

      Connon dug into his pocket and produced the money. He sat down again and sipped his whisky. It didn’t help.

      The door opened and Marcus stuck his head in.

      ‘There you are, then. I saw your car outside so I knew you must be hiding somewhere. How are you feeling?’

      ‘Not so bad.’

      ‘Good-oh. I see you’ve got a drink. Hey, Sid!’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Right, I’ll have to share yours, Connie.’

      He sat down beside Connon. Connon pushed the drink towards him.

      ‘Have it.’

      ‘Here. Watch it or I’ll take offence.’

      Connon smiled.

      Marcus Felstead was short, bald, and fat. His face was not really the face of a fat man, Connie thought, but of a tired saint. He could not recall the name of the tired saint he had in mind but he remembered very clearly the picture in his illustrated Bible which was the source of the idea. The saint, his sanctity advertised by a dome of light which sat round his head like a space helmet, had been leaning on a staff and looking despondently into the distance which seemed to offer nothing but desert. Perhaps the thing about Marcus’s face was that the fleshiness of it formed a framework round rather than belonged to the thin nose and lips and narrow intelligent eyes which peered at him now curiously.

      ‘Are you sure you’re OK, Connie? You’re not usually knocking the booze back so early.’

      ‘Well, I did feel a bit groggy. But it’s gone now. How did we get on by the way?’

      ‘What do you think? Two men short with one of their reserves playing at full-back. Can you imagine? A reserve for a fourth team. Jesus, he made me feel young. They scored another couple after you’d gone. Thirty-two – three it was at the end.’

      Connon was surprised. He could not recall any scoring at all, certainly not the kind of regular scores needed to build up a total like that.

      ‘Who scored for us?’

      Marcus looked at him strangely.

      ‘What are you after? Flattery? You did, you silly bugger. A moment of glory, like the old times.’

      Connon drank his whisky absently. He had distinct memories of the game, but they bore no relation to Marcus’s account.

      The door burst open and a group of youngsters came in, their faces glowing with exercise and hard towelling.

      ‘Come along, barman, this isn’t good enough, this bar should be open now!’ one cried.

      ‘It’ll be open at the proper time,’ said the treasurer, ‘and then I’m not sure you’re old enough to be served.’

      ‘Me? The best fly-half the Club’s ever had. I’d be playing for England now if I hadn’t got an Irish mother, and for Ireland if I hadn’t got an English father.’

      ‘And for Wales, if you didn’t fancy Arthur Evans’s old woman.’

      Marcus frowned disapprovingly and spoke sharply into their laughter, affecting a Welsh lilt.

      ‘Somebody talking about me, is there?’

      There was an edge of silence for a moment, but only a moment.

      ‘It’s only Marcus!’

      ‘It might not have been,’ said Marcus sharply.

      Unconcerned, a couple of boys strolled over and sat down at the table. They were only eighteen or nineteen. Still at the stage where they were fit rather than kept fit, thought Connon.

      ‘Did you play today, Marcus?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Great! How did you get on?’

      ‘Lost.’

      ‘Pity. We won and the Firsts won.’

      ‘Not playing for the Firsts yet, a young and fit man like