This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1970
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1970
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN 9780586072585
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN 9780007390823 Version 2015-06-18
âHeâs all right. Youâll live for ever, wonât you, Connie?â said Marcus Felstead.
His head was being pumped up and down by an unknown hand. As he surfaced, his gaze took in an extensive area of mud stretching away to the incredibly distant posts. Then his forehead was brought down almost to his knees. Up again. Fred Slater he saw was resting his sixteen stones, something he did at every opportunity. Down. His knees. The mud. One stocking was down. His tie-up hung loose round his ankle. It was always difficult preserving a balance between support and strangulation of the veins. But it was worth it. Once the mud hardened among the long black hairs, it was the devilâs own job to get it off. Up again. He resisted the next downward stroke.
âWhy do you do that, anyway?â asked Marcus interestedly.
âI donât know,â said a Welsh voice. âItâs what they always do, isnât it? It seems to bloody well work.â
âYou all right then, Connie?â
Connon slowly got up with assistance from the Welshman whom he now recognized as Arthur Evans, his captain.
âI think so,â he said. âWhat happened?â
âIt was that big bald bastard in their second row,â said Arthur. âNever you mind. Iâll fix him.â
There was a deprecating little cough from the referee who was lurking behind Connon.
âI think we must restart.â
Connon shook his head. There was a dull ache above his left ear. Marcus was rather blurred.
âI think Iâd better have a few minutes off, Arthur.â
âYou do that, boyo. Here, Marcus, you give him a hand while I sort this lot out. Not that it matters much when you only get twelve of the sods turning up in the first place.â
Marcus slipped Connonâs arm over his shoulder.
âCome along, my boy. Weâll deposit you in the bath before the rest of this filthy lot get in.â
They slowly made their way to the wooden hut which served as a pavilion.
âGet yourself in that bath and mind you donât drown,â said Marcus. âIâll get back and avenge you. It must be nearly time anyway.â
Left to himself, Connon began to unlace his boots. The ache suddenly began to turn like a cogwheel meshing with his flesh. He bowed his head between his knees again and it faded away. He stood up, fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes. The smoke seemed to help and he took off his other boot. But he couldnât face the bath, he decided. He wasnât very dirty and he hadnât moved fast enough to work up a sweat. He washed the mud off his hands and bathed his face. Then, after towelling himself down, he got dressed.
The others trooped in as he was fastening his tie.
âYou all right, Connie?â asked Marcus again.
âYes, thank you.â
âGood-oh!â said Marcus. âLetâs get into that water before Fred gets in.â
He began to tear his rugby kit off. Within seconds the bath was full of naked men and the water was sloshing over the side. There was a general outcry as Fred Slater settled in. Connon looked at the scene with slight distaste.
âGoodbye, Marcus,â he said, but his voice was drowned in a burst of singing. He made his way to the door and out into the fresh air.
He picked his way slowly over the muddy grass towards the distant club-house. The hut the fourth team used had originally been all the accommodation the club possessed, but the present of an adjoining field and a large loan from the Rugby Union had enabled them at the same time to develop another two pitches and build the pavilion. But even here the showers could not really cope with more than two teams, so the Fourth soldiered on in the old hut.