A Clubbable Woman

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 what? Things don’t change all that quick. What a game. Organized thuggery, then they all sing dirty songs like little lads. Yet they all tut-tut like mad if one of our lads runs on the field and someone shouts “shit” from the terraces.’

‘There’s no need to get excited, Dave.’

‘No? No, I suppose not. Here, I think I’m ready for my tea now.’

Alice rose and went into the kitchen.

‘I’ll tell you something about your precious stand-offish Mr Connon, though.’ His voice came drifting after her.

‘What’s that, then?’

‘He’d had a couple tonight. He was swaying around a bit. And I thought he was going to drive across his lawn and in through the front door.’

Alice came back to the sitting-room door.

‘That doesn’t sound like him.’