A Clubbable Woman. Reginald HillЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 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.