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.
‘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
