Gibson, fighting down a feeling that his day had been spoiled before it had properly started, but troubled by a nagging suspicion that his leg had somehow been pulled, settled in his seat, took a silver hip flask from the pocket of his heavy overcoat, and prepared to enjoy the match as best he could. He made a mental promise to himself, however, that he would make some pretty vigorous enquiries afterwards; and if his leg had been pulled, he told himself, it would all go on the score to be settled later on.
Considering that within minutes of the kick-off the ground bore a strong resemblance, in both appearance and consistency, to Passchendaele Ridge, the game was a remarkably good one. Gibson’s invitation team had a sixteenth player in the first half, in the fierce, gusting wind, which was behind them and swept them again and again into Stephen’s team’s half of the field. Stephen’s team had the heavier pack, with a superlative engine room in the mighty Bridges and his fellow second-row, who, though he stood a mere six feet five, was built on the lines of the Sydney Opera House. But even this advantage was cancelled out, partly by the wind and partly because Stephen himself was not the best choice for loose-head. Accordingly, after twenty minutes, during which he found himself being popped up out of the pack as easily as if he had been a child, he called a hasty conference with Turner, Lister and one or two other notables. The result was that for the next scrum he and the heavier of the two flankers changed places.
All the same, Gibson’s team scored first — and second. After a very few minutes’ play they made a swift break down the left flank and after a dazzling, open piece of play their left winger squeezed himself through a gap too small to let a large rabbit through, slipped a couple of desperate tackles, and scrambled the ball over five yards to one side of the posts. Their former Wasps full-back converted it. Ten minutes later their ex-Harlequins fly-half, who was left-footed, put a penalty right in the middle from the left touchline, and, for good measure, almost from the halfway line as well. The score at the interval was thus nine points to nil, though it should have been 9-3, had not Stephen’s full-back missed a sitter of a penalty, blown wildly off course by the gale. All things considered, Stephen’s side reckoned as they sucked oranges at half-time, they had done very well to restrict the score to that; and they would have the wind with them from now on.
As it turned out, they had taken the lead within five minutes of the restart. They won a scrum, against the head, just inside Gibson’s team’s 22, and for the first time in the match their considerable superiority in pack-weight took effect. They pushed their lighter opponents almost to their own line before the scrum half plucked it out, feinted, went the other way and fell on it just over the line, a fraction ahead of the defending pack’s falling on him. A minute later their right centre intercepted a pass near his own corner flag, ran eighty yards without being touched, passed the ball backwards over his own head as he fell to a perfect tackle from the defending full-back, and was able to sit up just in time to see Stephen Hill patting it down between the posts with no one near him. Both were converted without difficulty.
After that it was even, deadlocked in the middle of the field, with neither pack getting dominance and the line-outs and scrums going as expected and every move being broken up within a few yards.
Then, with seven or eight minutes to go, Gibson’s team scored a sudden, unexpected breakaway try which left their opponents standing thirty yards from the scorer; and although their full-back missed the conversion because of the same kind of freak sideways gust from the treacherous wind that had caused his counterpart to miss an identical kick in the first half, things were immediately made worse by a penalty which he did score, this time being helped by the same wind, which sent a clearly misdirected effort swerving late and deadly between the posts. Stephen’s team drooped a little, the stuffing knocked out of them. It was temporary, but there was very little time left for them to pull themselves together.
And then, when all seemed lost, with the referee looking closely at his watch — though he later told them that there had been three minutes left — the pack again set up a move. Awarded a scrum far over to the right ten yards into the opposition’s half, they set up a fine rolling maul that took them to within ten yards of the line. The scrum-half picked it up, dummied to the left and darted off round the right side of the heaving pack, and flicked it in the direction of his waiting fly-half, who fluffed it and knocked it on. The referee had his whistle in his mouth when he saw Gibson’s full-back gather it perfectly and set off like a hare. He had covered ten yards when he mysteriously lost his footing and squirted the ball forward, straight into the arms of the opposing fly-half, who, scarcely able to believe what he saw, nevertheless did see a neat straight line for him to run down, and went for it. He shot through the opening like a rat up a drainpipe, and was finally helped over the line by a crashing tackle from behind by one of the enormous opposition props that lifted him clear off his feet and thrust him the final three yards to where he crashed to earth, a foot over and only ten yards from the right-hand post.
As the full-back prepared to attempt the conversion the whole team stood with their eyes anywhere but on his slender, mud-covered form. They had forgotten the icy wind, forgotten the freezing, drenching rain, and forgotten everything else. They were not even aware that the entire crowd watching had gone silent until the thud of his boot hitting the ball sounded like a thunderclap round the ground. Then they all jumped, and became aware of the hush, and all looked up to follow the ball… which soared high, higher, carried on the treacherous, swirling wind towards the uprights. Not one of them could have said truthfully whether it had gone between them or not; but the two flags went up unhesitatingly, and fourteen hearts returned to their normal stations from the throats they had been climbing, while about them the crowd gave vent to a single, full-throated howl, of relief from tension as much as of applause for a truly magnificent kick.
As for the full-back himself, asked about it afterwards he claimed to have felt no tension at all; but when his nonchalant answer had been drowned in hoots of derision, he added the postscript that he had been so terrified that his entire body had been numb, and his entire mind blank. That part of it they believed.
A minute or so later the referee blew a long, long blast on his whistle, and the game was over.
The players streamed off the field, their hair and kit plastered to them in the torrential, sheeting rain, chilled by the razor-edge on the wind off the sea, and smothered, to a man, in mud. They were wearing mud like a garment. Their eyes peered from white, mud-surrounded circles that made them look like the negative of a photograph of thirty giant pandas. Their legs, hands and faces were caked with it and their colours were all reduced to a uniform dun-brown drab.
It so happened that the visitors ran in on Gibson’s side of the stand; and just occasionally, as they came sprinting off the field, eager to get to the baths, he saw a bright pink triangle, shining through the cloaking, caking mud like a small, triumphant beacon to commemorate their triumph.
* * *
The Crown was fuller than Stephen and Richard had ever seen it. They stood in their usual corner of the bar, with the Major, Alfie and Tom, who had given himself the evening off, and a number of huge men from their team, listening to the roar of several dozen different conversations. All were on the same subject: the match was the only topic. Many were on the same lines: was a replay a possibility, and how soon?
Pat Gibson stood miserably with a crowd of his usual mates, most of whom were too busy enthusing about the match to offer much in the way of consolation. A latecomer pushed through the door and forced his way through the scrum to his party. It chanced to be the man who had left him on the steps just before the start. “Nice change to see a few real men round these parts,” he said, grinning maliciously at Gibson. Gibson gave him a sickly smile in return. Finally, however, he remembered his position as the man who had personally initiated the match, indeed suggested it. And slowly, reluctantly, and with a hatred of Stephe
n Hill, who he felt sure was at the bottom of his humiliation, that could have been expressed in no known language, he had to accept the false position in which he had been placed.
Mentally squaring his shoulders, steeling himself, he rapped loudly on the bar for silence.
“Ladies and…,” he began. Then he stopped, looked theatrically round, and started again. “Sorry,” he said. “Gentlemen — and one or two friends…” There was a chuckle. “He’s doing it well,” murmured Major Sealey, and his party nodded.
“I’m not going to keep you from the urgent matters in hand for long,” went on Gibson. “I’d only like to say two things. First of all, my sincere, personal thanks to everyone here. To the players, of both sides, for putting on such a tremendous game in conditions that could hardly have been worse. It really was a tremendous show. And to everyone from the village and elsewhere, for turning out and standing in those same diabolical conditions to watch the match. Thank you, all of you. And second, I’d like to add my own congratulations to all the plaudits they’ve had already to the winning side. I’m sorry my own side couldn’t quite pull it off, but I’m delighted to have seen how very nearly they managed it, and how superbly they played.
“So, congratulations to the gallant victors — I’m sure the celebrations will be the gayest of affairs…” — this time his sally was greeted with a roar of laughter — “…and that they’ll be in the pink before they escape from here tonight…” — another roar — “…congratulations next to the equally gallant losers…” — more thunderous applause — “…and finally, congratulations to everyone else, for the simple gallantry of having stood out in weather like that for an hour and a half to watch.” The applause for this was louder still. Gibson beat on the bar again, and there were roars of “Order, order”.
“I’ve nearly finished,” he went on when quiet was restored. There were cries of ‘boo!’ and some of ‘hooray!’
“As most of you know, I’m a dentist, and of course everyone knows, we dentists haven’t got much money — we live hand to mouth…” — this got the best roar so far, but it was dwarfed by the next one, that greeted the end of his short address. “But I’ve scratched about down among the moths and spiders, and I find I can just about manage to set em up for the house. So that’s it, gentlemen. Thanks for playing, for making it such a magnificent match in the most impossible conditions, thanks for watching, thanks for listening, and now, the drinks are on me. Thank you.”
The last couple of words were lost in the tumult of cheering and clapping that engulfed the pub. Gibson himself was acclaimed, clapped on the back and congratulated till he was giddy. And all the time at the bottom of his mind was the burning, scorching realisation that he had been duped, manipulated like a marionette. The moments of his apparent triumph were some of the bitterest moments of his life.
“That was pretty handsomely spoken,” said Alan Bridges softly to Stephen. It was Bridges to whom Stephen had been directed when he had begun making enquiries in Brighton for rugby enthusiasts among the gay community, and Bridges with whom he had arranged the entire affair, from the careful baiting of the hook, the playing and eventual landing of Gibson, the design of the strip, and the match itself. “Are you sure he’s the ogre you make him out to be?” Bridges went on.
“Oh, yes,” said Stephen. “It was a very good speech, I’ll grant him that. Very convincing. But don’t kid yourself.”
“No, don’t,” put in Lister, the hulking prop who had assisted in the hooking of Gibson. “Don’t forget what he said when we met him here before. And don’t forget what a mean eye he’s got.”
“He did it very well,” commented Major Sealey. “But the man’s a bounder for all that. Always said it, and I’m not changing my mind on the strength of a pretty speech. Should have been a politician. Mealy-mouthed enough. Man’s missed his vocation.” The rest of their little group chuckled. It so happened that it fell into a brief, unaccountable pool of quiet, and several of them happened to glance in Gibson’s direction. They thus chanced to see his face as he turned to glance across in the direction of the chuckle. “I see what you mean,” murmured Bridges as the hubbub resumed its normal level and Gibson’s red, glaring face was hidden behind the shifting mass of people once more.
At that moment the doors opened and the bikers came in. This was the result of Stephen’s third meeting in Brighton. They immediately began mingling with the rugby crowd, and in minutes arm-wrestling contests and other bar sports were going on all round the bar.
Time passed. Bikers, rugby players — Gibson’s invitation team as well as the victorious gay fifteen — spectators and villagers gradually attained their own chosen degrees of uproarious behaviour and of drunkenness, and the atmosphere became one of general drunken friendliness. People who had never met before that day swore drunken oaths of allegiance and friendship in perpetuity. A number of liaisons were made on the spot, and several couples slipped off into the residential part of the hotel to make use of the empty rooms. Tom, observing this at one point, glanced
interrogatively at Stephen, who grinned, a little vacantly, at him and shook his head. When Gibson, after staring round and seeing that everyone but himself was enjoying life hugely, slipped off to go across the triangular green to his home to nurse his bitter meal of gall and wormwood, no one even noticed that he had gone.
* * *
“Well, that’s it,” said Stephen quietly as they got fragilely into their clothes the following afternoon. They had had Tom be sure to secure their own room before the match, and when they had finally crawled to bed at four in the morning they had fallen straight into bed, in their clothes, and slept the sleep of the very drunk indeed. It was after one in the afternoon when they surfaced, and neither of them felt very well. They lay there, talking quietly, until they were able to reel off to the lavatory to be sick. Stephen won by a short head, with Richard following a couple of minutes later. Then they both felt much better, and also began to notice how hungry they were. “How d’you think it all went?” he went on.
“It was fine, Stevie,” said Richard. “I haven’t enjoyed a day as much for yonks. If only… if only I hadn’t had quite as much to drink last night, I’d have enjoyed it even more…”
Stephen sketched a pale, shaky version of his usual robust grin as he looked at his beloved friend. “Well, love,” he said, “we’ll get some grub down you and you’ll soon be okay again. I don’t feel so hot myself, actually…” He stopped speaking to make a sudden precipitate dash for the bathroom once more. Richard stood trying to suppress the heaving of his stomach by sheer will-power alone, but after a few moments the sounds of woe issuing from the lavatory were too much for him, and he, too, had to make a run for it. Then they went down to see what they could find in the way of breakfast.
They found Tom, reliable and capable as always, still methodically clearing and cleaning the aftermath of the night before. There were quite sizable damages, mostly cigarette burns on carpets, his beloved highly-polished bar and even, mysteriously, one on the ceiling. “Must’ve been a second row man,” said Stephen, looking up at the unmistakable burn mark. “Nobody else could reach up that far.”
“Get away with you, Steve,” said Tom, not sounding as if he cared very much who had done the damage. “It coulda been a midget on stilts and nobody woulda noticed last night, would they?”
“No, I s’pose they wouldn’t,” said Stephen with a grin. “How are you feeling, Tom?”
Tom awarded himself a break from his labours, went and got them all a drink, and sat down heavily on a bench seat. The boys sat down on chairs, sipping their lager uneasily. “I feel flat, I suppose is the word,” said Tom, after a long pull at his drink. “I mean apart from feeling pretty bloody wrecked after last night — though nowhere near as wrecked as you two look,” he added with a faint smile. “Just lookin at you two makes me feel a good deal better.” They gave him twin shaky, rather sheepish smiles. “But I’m also feeling a bit upset about what’s been going o
n, and even more about what’s going to happen. I know what you’re going to do tonight, don’t forget, and I don’t like it much. Not that I blame you for what you’re doing. I don’t think you had a great deal of choice in the end, as things were going. But I don’t like change much, and now I’m going to have to face a bigger change than I’ve ever faced in my life.”
“It keeps you young, so they say, Tom,” suggested Stephen.
“That’s just it, Steve,” he said wearily. “I’m not young. Not any more. A lot less than a year ago I was drifting happily through middle age, getting older, a bit fatter and a lot lazier, and thoroughly enjoying the process. Then you arrived, and it’s been hurly-burly and hustle and hassle all the way. Now I’ve got to make a bigger adjustment than any before. Not that I’m not grateful to you for securing my position, don’t think it. I am, very grateful indeed. There’s a lot wouldn’t have even thought of it. But I don’t know if I can cope with this sort of upheaval at my age.”
“Course you can,” scoffed Stephen. “I think you can, too, Tom,” said Richard quietly. “I see how you feel, and I can quite see that it must feel a bit… intimidating to you. But I’ve got a great respect for your qualities, Tom, and adaptability’s one of them. I think you’ll be all right. The new man’s a decent type, too. Fair, and pleasant. You’ll be okay, I’m certain.”
Tom looked gratefully at him. “I’m glad you think so, Richard,” he said sincerely. “Because I’ve got a great respect for your judgment, too. Anyway, there’s not much help in worrying about it, because it’s going to happen whatever I say or think.” He sighed.
“It’s not definite, you know,” said Stephen thoughtfully. “I haven’t given any guarantees. I could kill it stone dead right now, with one phone call.”
“You won’t, Steve,” said Tom. “You know you won’t. Nor should you. It’s in your own best interests to go ahead and do what you’ve been planning. And you’re tough, too, Steve. There’s a very hard streak in you, which’ll always keep you on top. It’ll always make sure you keep one eye very carefully on what’s best for you. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You’ve got more than most people to guard against, and it’s good that you’ve also got this tough streak in you to make sure you guard against it. So I know that you’ll do what you’ve planned to do. I just wish somehow you didn’t have to do it. Not that you’re not going to do it, but that the necessity for it didn’t arise. I s’pose I just like security. I like things to carry on the way they are, and I spose I’ve got used to you. Still,” he said, his tone becoming brisk and normal suddenly, “you can’t have everything you want in this man’s world. I’ll get by, I dare say.”
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