A Clubbable Woman

‘Hey, Connie, how are you there, boyo? How’s the head?’

‘It’s all right now.’

‘Good. I settled that fellow’s nonsense anyhow. Time for a drink?’

‘No thanks, Arthur. Gwen coming down tonight?’

‘Why yes, she is. Always does, doesn’t she? Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. I haven’t seen her for a while, that’s all.’

‘That’s because you’re always bloody well rushing off home, isn’t it? Why doesn’t Mary come down nowadays?’

Connon shrugged. For a second he contemplated offering Arthur a long analysis of the complex of reasons governing his wife’s absence.

‘Too busy, I expect,’ he said. ‘I’d better be off. Cheers, Arthur.’

‘Cheer-oh.’

The car park was quite full now and his car was almost boxed in. He had once proposed at a committee meeting that the club-house facilities be restricted to those who at least watched the game but this voluntary restriction of revenue had not won much support. Finally he got clear without trouble and drove away into the early darkness of a winter evening.

He glanced at his watch and realized just how late he was. He increased his speed slightly. Ahead a traffic light glowed green. It turned to amber when he was about twenty yards away. He pressed hard down on the accelerator and crossed as the amber flicked over to red.

There was no danger. There was only one car waiting to cross and it was coming from the right.

But it was a police-car.

Connon swore to himself as the car pulled ahead of him and flashed ‘Stop’. He drew carefully in to the side and switched off his engine. Its throbbing continued in his head somehow and he rubbed his temple, in an effort to dispel the pain. Out of the car ahead climbed two uniformed figures who made their way towards him slowly, weightily. He lowered his window and sucked in the fresh air.

‘Good evening, sir. May I see your licence?’

Silently he drew it out and handed it over with his insurance cover-note and test certificate.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The gears in his head were now grinding viciously together and he could not stop himself from rubbing his brow again.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘No. Well, no. I had one whisky but that’s all.’

‘I see. Would you mind taking a breathalyser test, sir?’

Connon shrugged. The policeman accepted the negative result impassively and returned his documents.

‘Thank you, sir. You will hear from us if any further action is proposed concerning your failure to halt at the traffic lights. Good evening.’

‘Good evening,’ said Connon. The whole business had taken something over fifteen minutes, making him still later. But he drove the remaining five miles home with exaggerated care, partly because of the police, partly because of his headache. As he turned into his own street, his mind cleared and the pain vanished in a matter of seconds.

He drove carefully down the avenue of glowing lampposts. It was a mixed kind of street, its origins contained in its name, Boundary Drive. The solid detached houses on the left had been built for comfort in the ’thirties when they had faced over open countryside stretching away to the Dales. Now they faced a post-war council estate whose name, Woodfield Estate, was the sole reminder of what once had been. This itself merged into a new development so that the boundary was a good four miles removed from the Drive. Mary and her cronies among the neighbours often bemoaned the proximity of the estate, complaining of noise, litter, overcrowded schools, and the comparative lowness of their own house values.

This last was certainly true, but Connon suspected that most of his neighbours were like himself in that only the price-depressing nearness of the estate had enabled him to buy such a house. Even then, it had really been beyond his means. But Mary had wanted a handsome detached house with a decent garden and Boundary Drive had offered an acceptable compromise between the demands of social prestige and economy.

His gates were closed. He halted on the opposite side of the road and went across to open them. While he was at it, he walked up the drive and opened the garage doors. It was quite dark now. The only light in the house was the cold pallor from the television set which glinted through the steamed-up lounge windows.

When he went back to his car a man was standing by it with the driver’s door open. Connon recognized him as the occupier of the house directly opposite his own, a man named Dave Fernie whom he also knew as a chronic grumbler at work.

‘Evening, Mr Connon. You left your engine running. I was just switching it off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Connon. He never knew how to address this man. He worked in the factory of the firm for which Connon was assistant personnel manager. But he was also a neighbour. And in 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.