A Clubbable Woman

‘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 you?’

The youth smiled at this attack on his own condescension. ‘Not yet. But I’m ready. I’m just waiting for the selection committee to spot me.’ He grinned, a little (but not very) shyly, at Connon. ‘Didn’t you like my line-out work today, Connie?’

The boy had never called him Connie before. In fact, he couldn’t recollect the boy’s ever having called him anything. This was the way with these youngsters – noncommittal or familiar, there was no earlier formal stage. Not that I mind, he admonished himself. This is a rugby club, not an office party.

‘I didn’t see it, I’m afraid,’ he replied.

Hurst stuck his head through the hatch which led into the social room.

‘Right, Sid,’ he said. ‘All clear.’

‘Your order, gentlemen. Marcus, you’re on tonight as well, aren’t you?’

‘Christ, so I am. I could have been legitimately behind the bar all this time. Are you staying, Connie?’

Connon shook his head.

‘I’m late already. Mary’s expecting me for tea.’

‘She doesn’t know you were playing, then?’

‘How could she? I didn’t know myself till Arthur grabbed me when I got here and wept Welsh tears all over me.’

‘Best of luck, then. See you tomorrow.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Come on, Marcus!’ came a cry from the bar. The room was now full and the social room hatch was also crowded with faces. Marcus barged his way through the crowd and was soon serving drinks from the other side of the counter.

Connon held the last of his whisky in his mouth. He felt reluctant to move though he knew he was already late. In fact he tried to catch Arthur Evans’s eye but the little Welshman either missed him or ignored him. Connon smiled at himself, recognizing his own desire to be pressed to stay. A group of young men with their girls crowded round his table and he stood up.

‘Thank you, Mr Connon,’ said one of the girls as she slipped into his chair. Connon nodded vaguely at her, suspecting he recognized one of his daughter’s school-friends under the mysterious net of hair which swayed over her face. She brushed it back and smiled up at him. He was right. Seventeen years old, glowing with unself-conscious beauty. She had a piece of tomato skin stuck in the crack between her two front teeth.

‘You’re a friend of Jenny’s, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘How’s she enjoying college?’

‘Fine,’ he answered, ‘I think she’s very happy there. She’ll soon be home for the holidays. Perhaps we’ll see you at the house. It’s Sheila, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. It depends where I fit into Jenny’s new scale of friends, I suppose. I’d quite like to see her.’

Connon reluctantly digested another piece of the revolting honesty of the young and turned to go. He heard a burst of laughter as he moved to the door. Arthur noticed him this time.