'Who scored for us?'

Marcus looked at him strangely. 'What are you after? Flattery? You 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 toweling. '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.