A Clubbable Woman. Reginald Hill

addition, possibly with malice aforethought, Mary had made of Mrs Fernie the only friend she had from the council houses.

      ‘I was just opening my gates,’ he added, climbing into the car.

      ‘That’s all right,’ said Fernie graciously. ‘I’ve just been down the match. Were you there?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Connon. ‘I mean, no. I was at the rugger match.’

      ‘Oh, that. I meant the football. We won, 3–1. How did your lot come on?’

      ‘Oh, we did all right.’

      ‘Good. Rugby, eh? Here, you used to do a bit of that, didn’t you? My wife saw the pictures.’

      ‘Yes, I did once.’

      He turned the key in the ignition and felt the turn in his skull so that the pain in his head shook with the roar of the engine, then settled down as quickly.

      ‘You OK?’ asked Fernie.

      ‘Yes, thank you.’

      ‘Well, good night then.’

      ‘Good night.’

      He swung the car over the road and into the drive, slamming his foot hard on the brake as the branches of an overgrown laburnum slapped against his wing. He was used to this noise, but tonight it took him completely by surprise. He had stalled the engine and this time it took two or three turns of the starter to get it going again.

      At last he rolled gently into the garage. He shut the main doors from the inside and went through the side door which led into the kitchen.

      In the sink, dirty, were a cup and saucer, plate and cutlery. From the lounge came music and voices. He listened carefully and satisfied himself that the television was the source of everything. Then he took off his coat and hung it in the cloakroom. He looked at himself in the mirror above the hand basin for a moment and automatically adjusted his tie and ran his comb through the thinning hair. Then, recognizing a desire to delay, he grinned at his reflection and shrugged his shoulders, grimaced self-consciously at the theatricality of the gesture and moved back into the entrance hall.

      The lounge door was ajar. The only light within was the flickering brightness of the television picture. A man was singing, while in the background a lot of short-skirted dancers sprang about in carefully choreographed abandon. His wife was sprawled out in the high-backed wing chair he thought of as his own. All he could see of her were her legs and an arm trailed casually down to the floor where an ashtray stood with a half-smoked cigarette burning on its edge. The metal dish was piled full of butt ends, he noticed. The burning cigarette had started another couple of stumps smoking, and Connon wrinkled his nose at the smell.

      ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ still hesitating at the door.

      The music and dancing seemed to be approaching a climax. The trailing hand moved slightly; a gesture of acknowledgment; a request for silence, a dismissal.

      Connon let his attention be held for a moment by a close-up of a contorted face, male, mixing to a close-up of a shuddering bosom, female. The cigarette smell seemed to catch his throat.

      ‘I’ll just get a cup of tea, then,’ he said and turned, closing the door behind him.

      Back in the kitchen he found a slice of cooked ham, evidently his share of the meal whose débris he had noticed in the sink. He slapped it on a plate and lit the gas under the kettle. Even as he did so, he felt his head begin to turn again and this time his stomach turned with it. He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth and moved shakily upstairs. Distantly the thought passed through his mind that he was well conditioned. Being sick in the downstairs toilet might disturb Mary. Now he was on the landing and his knees buckled and he gagged almost drily. Wiping his mouth, he pulled himself up, one hand on the handle of his bedroom door.

      The next time he fell, he fell on to the bed and the wheels in his head went spinning on into darkness.

      ‘Do we have to have that tripe on?’ asked Dave Fernie.

      ‘Please yourself,’ said his wife. ‘You usually like it. All those girls. You must be getting old.’

      ‘Too old for that.’

      Alice Fernie glanced across at her husband with a smile, half ironical, half something else.

      ‘Old enough for what, then?’

      ‘Aren’t you going to switch it off?’

      ‘I didn’t switch it on.’

      ‘No. I did. So you could see your precious football results after you rushed back from your precious match. And when you didn’t come, I even marked them down for you. Don’t you want to see?’

      Fernie reached across and took the paper from the arm of his wife’s chair.

      ‘Thanks,’ he said.

      The singer was off again, alone this time; a ballad; his voice vibrant with sincerity.

      ‘For God’s sake, switch that bloody thing off, will you!’

      Angrily she rose and pulled the plug out of its socket.

      ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you these days. I’m getting pretty near the end of my tether with you. Other women wouldn’t put up with what I do.’

      Fernie ignored her and peered down at the newspaper, but she sensed he wasn’t really seeing it. She stood in the middle of the room and glowered down at him. He was in his early thirties, the same age as herself, but there was a puffiness about his face and a sagging at the belly which made him look older. Normally the contrast to her own advantage pleased her. Now she screwed up her face in distaste. Then, quickly as it came, her anger drained from her and she sat down again.

      ‘Are you ready for your tea yet?’

      ‘No, love. I told you I wasn’t hungry.’

      ‘Is there anything bothering you, Dave? Are you feeling all right?’

      She steeled herself for the irritability her concern for his health always seemed to cause, but unnecessarily.

      ‘No, I’m fine.’

      ‘You were late tonight.’

      ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I got held up. It was a good gate. I met his lordship on my way up the road.’

      He jerked his head towards the window which faced the street. Alice affected not to understand.

      ‘Who’s that you mean?’

      ‘You know who. Connon. Bloody twat.’

      ‘Why? What’s he ever done to you?’

      ‘Nothing,’ he grunted. ‘I just don’t take to him, that’s all. Too bloody standoffish for me.’

      ‘That’s what he was. A stand-off.’

      ‘A what?’

      ‘Stand-off. His position at rugby. Mary told me.’

      Fernie laughed. ‘Stand-off, eh? That’s bloody good. Wait till I tell them on the bench. That fits him.’

      ‘Anyway I think you’re wrong. When I met him he was very nice. Charming. A bit quiet perhaps but he’s just a bit shy, I think.’

      ‘If he’s shy he shouldn’t be a bloody personnel manager, should he? Anyway he’s more than that. He’s a snob.’

      Alice laughed with a slight edge of malice. ‘I’d have thought you could say that about Mary Connon. But not him.’

      Fernie shook his head dismissively. ‘Her. That’s different. She’d like to be better, but knows she isn’t. He believes he is. Bloody rugby club.’

      ‘Oh, Dave, don’t be daft. It’s not like that these days. Anybody plays rugby. Maisie Curtis’s boy next door, Stanley, he’s in the Club.’

      ‘So