REGINALD HILL
A CLUBBABLE WOMAN
A Dalziel and Pascoe novel
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s 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
Copyright © Reginald Hill 1970
Reginald Hill asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN 9780586072585
Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN 9780007390823
Version 2015-06-18
For Pat
Contents
‘He’s all right. You’ll live for ever, won’t you, Connie?’ 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 devil’s own job to get it off. Up again. He resisted the next downward stroke.
‘Why do you do that, anyway?’ asked Marcus interestedly.
‘I don’t know,’ said a Welsh voice. ‘It’s what they always do, isn’t it? It seems to bloody well work.’
‘You all right then, Connie?’
Connon slowly got up with assistance from the Welshman whom he now recognized as Arthur Evans, his captain.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘It was that big bald bastard in their second row,’ said Arthur. ‘Never you mind. I’ll fix him.’
There was a deprecating little cough from the referee who was lurking behind Connon.
‘I think we must restart.’
Connon shook his head. There was a dull ache above his left ear. Marcus was rather blurred.
‘I think I’d better have a few minutes off, Arthur.’
‘You 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.’
Marcus slipped Connon’s arm over his shoulder.
‘Come along, my boy. We’ll deposit you in the bath before the rest of this filthy lot get in.’
They slowly made their way to the wooden hut which served as a pavilion.
‘Get yourself in that bath and mind you don’t drown,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ll get back and avenge you. It must be nearly time anyway.’
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 couldn’t face the bath, he decided. He wasn’t very dirty and he hadn’t 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.
‘You all right, Connie?’ asked Marcus again.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good-oh!’