Only a Game

by J M Gregson

  Jim Capstick stayed for a little while longer, sitting behind the big desk to conduct his own silent review of the evening. His secret was still his own; that was the most important thing. He hadn’t come even near to revealing his plans for the next few months.

  TWO

  ‘We need an au pair.’

  ‘Do we? I thought it was going to be easier for you now that they’re both at school.’

  ‘It is. But we can afford an au pair and I think we should have one.’ Debbie Black put her empty cup back on its saucer beside the bed and rolled over to make sure that her request was treated seriously. She was not an easy woman to shrug off. But then not many people chose to shrug away Debbie Black’s attentions.

  Debbie had been the British number two at tennis, though her dark-haired beauty and willowy figure had enabled her to make more from modelling contracts than from a sporting career which had been much publicized without ever quite reaching the greatest international heights. She had enjoyed rather than endured the trappings of success and the racy tabloid lifestyle which went with it. Debbie had quickly become that vague but lucrative modern phenomenon, a ‘personality’. By the time she retired from tennis at twenty-eight, she felt that there was little she did not know about life in general and sex in particular. Her early experiences on the international tennis circuit had taught her that her own gender held no physical attraction for her.

  Within a year, Debbie had married Robbie Black, then a Scottish international football player. Robbie’s looks and talent meant that his lifestyle had been subjected to the same sort of lurid tabloid coverage as her own. Although she was by then twenty-nine and he was thirty, it was a first marriage for both of them. Against the odds and what many had openly forecasted for them, the union had now lasted fifteen years.

  Black was no fool, as Debbie had known from the start. He had played until he was thirty-five, then made a promising start on the hazardous but now handsomely paid career of football club manager. After success in the lower divisions, he was now one of the few British managers in the lucrative world of the English Premier League. The large and beautifully fitted modern house they lived in was tangible proof of his success. Debbie Black had found against her expectations that she enjoyed being out of the limelight and merely a glamorous presence in her husband’s shadow. Even more to her surprise, she had grown to love the surrounding country and the blunt, friendly people of the North Lancashire area.

  Robbie Black sighed theatrically as he felt her lithe body against his. ‘I can’t see that we need an au pair.’ He was probably going to concede, he thought, but the persuasion might well be interesting.

  Debbie lifted her head so that her large hazel eyes could look down into the darker brown of his, smiling the wide, half-mocking smile which was still as attractive as it had been twenty years ago. ‘We may not actually need one, darling, but think how much more we’d enjoy life if we had one.’

  He grinned back, enjoying the knowledge that they both knew they were playing a game of which only they knew the rules. ‘I’m not here that much, am I? When I’m not checking up on the behaviour of my own players and watching them training, I’m sitting in the draughty stand of some God-forsaken second division or non-league team, watching the latest wonderkid and trying to pick up a bargain for Brunton Rovers.’

  ‘You poor creature. Dedicated to his calling and going out to obey the call of duty in those long johns that no woman could resist.’ She snuggled a little closer. ‘It’s a wonder that you retain any libido at all.’ She slid a little further down the bed, checking on the evidence of that libido and allowing her loins a small anticipatory quiver of excitement.

  He let his hand run down her back to the division at the base of it, stroking it expertly, preparing to enjoy the unhurried, confident enjoyment that comes from mutual physical knowledge. He began the teasing which was all part of that; the little, non-aggressive argument which would climax in the uninhibited joys of coupling. He muttered into the ear which was suddenly available, ‘But suppose I get attracted to the au pair? Suppose her firm young Swedish body is thrust upon me and I am unable to resist?’

  There was a small giggle, then a quick gasp of excitement as he entered her. ‘What makes you think she’d be Swedish, or have a firm young body, Robbie? I’d be doing the shortlist and selection.’

  ‘My God! A Romanian pensioner with no teeth, then.’ He enjoyed her giggle as it shook her body delightfully, excitingly. There was no need to hurry, but he might not have that choice.

  ‘There are no corn flakes and no rice crispies!’ A high, childish, accusing voice from the doorway of the bedroom. She slid away from her husband, exciting a little involuntary cry of pain from him.

  ‘All right, James. I bought some yesterday. They must be still in the boot of the car. I’ll be there in a minute.’ Debbie slid across and out of the big bed, pulling her nightdress down and hurrying to the door to give the boy a hug. But her son had turned indignantly away and was already halfway down the stairs, his small back a picture of righteous indignation.

  Robbie Black stared at the ceiling and delivered an emphatic, ‘Bugger it!’ to no one in particular.

  ‘There you are,’ said his wife with triumphant female logic. ‘Now you can see how desperately we need an au pair!’

  Six miles away on the other side of the town, a very different woman from Debbie Black was also stirring herself into morning life. Helen Capstick was the second wife of the chairman of Brunton Rovers Football Club.

  At forty-seven, she was ten years younger than Jim Capstick and she knew what she was about. It was her boast rather than her admission that she had been round the block a few times when she married him. That was her way of saying that she knew the male psyche intimately and that the men around her should be aware of it. Jim Capstick might know his way around business, might know more tricks of finance and manipulation than the other fish in the dangerous ponds in which he swam. But in choosing a wife – it was better to leave him with the illusion that he had done the choosing – he had given himself a partner who could anticipate his every sexual whim, his every social reaction to other men and women. He had better be aware of that fact; he had better take full account of it in his actions.

  This streak of hardness, this capacity for clear-sighted assessment of herself and those closest to her, did not mean that Helen Capstick was without affection for her chosen mate. She looked at Jim in his underwear through the open door of the bathroom, as he stood before his shaving mirror and concentrated on his heavily lathered, deeply jowled face. He was a large man, not grossly overweight, but with the plumpness which often comes with high prosperity and the temptations of good food and wines. With his plentiful grey-white hair, still clear grey eyes, and heavy, regular features, he still scrubbed up well, she thought, even if at fifty-seven he needed to give more attention to the efforts of tailors and hair stylists than he would have done as a young man.

  And Jim Capstick was still much taken with his younger wife. She was skilfully made up by the time he was fully dressed. Her hair was the exact shade of polished bronze which she had chosen to accentuate her striking blue eyes; the crows’ feet around them had retreated dutifully before her cosmetic efforts. She kissed him lightly on the forehead, as she did every morning when he was at home, as if putting her invisible imprint upon him for the day.

  ‘How did the meeting go last night?’

  He smiled. ‘As well as these things can go, I suppose. It was less dynamic than my business gatherings, where what I say is simply accepted. At the football club, I have to be careful that I do not look too bored.’ Jim Capstick was well aware by now that power is the greatest of aphrodisiacs and he took care to remind Helen without boasting that he had it.

  She grinned. ‘I’d like to see you pretending to be democratic. It must be a sight worth seeing.’

  Jim Capstick smiled the rare, satisfied smile of the man who knows that his ego is being massaged but has the confidence
to enjoy it. ‘I’m afraid you’d find it rather dull, my dear. One has to go through the motions and listen to different views from one’s own. So long as everything eventually goes the way you want it to, that’s all that really matters.’

  They breakfasted together. He enjoyed this quiet part of the day, this pleasant, unthreatening domesticity. In your own home, you could switch off your awareness to every nuance of speech, you could cease wondering what motives lay behind the words and how you should measure your own responses and your own initiatives. Home might be this big nineteenth century mansion, built by a cotton magnate and now the preserve of a more modern mogul, but it was still home, a place where you could relax.

  Outside it Jim measured every word he said before he uttered it. Now, as he spread marmalade on his last piece of toast and poured them both fresh cups of coffee, he surprised himself by the spontaneity of his words. ‘I wish we’d married earlier, Helen. When we’d been young enough to have children.’

  It was a kind of love-making. She knew it for that immediately. Men were sentimental creatures, even men like Jim Capstick, but they were appealing when they dropped their guards and made themselves vulnerable like this. Helen was glad she had kept on her dressing gown for breakfast. It was surprisingly elegant for such a garment, with blue silk matching exactly the colour of her eyes, yet it gave a touch of intimacy to the meal which had fostered this thought in him.

  She reached across the table and put her hand on top of his. ‘Don’t let’s dwell on things that can’t be, Jim. We can’t turn the clock back, so let’s not try.’ For a moment, Helen wondered what it would have been like to have children. In truth, she’d never really wanted them, hadn’t felt the yearning in her womb she was supposed to feel as her biological clock ticked on inexorably. She couldn’t see how they would have been anything except a disaster in her complicated life.

  She gave Jim the kind of smile which told him she was grateful for what she knew had been a loving and complimentary thought. ‘At least we’re spared the agonies of taking kids through their adolescence. Everyone with children seems to find that hell. Let’s make the most of what we’ve got, love.’ She was even using the Lancashire terms of endearment now, she noticed. She didn’t mind that; indeed, she was pleased that the word had come to her lips so spontaneously.

  As if moving consciously away from his moment of weakness, Jim glanced at his watch and said, ‘Wally will be round with the car in a minute. I’ve a meeting in Birmingham at eleven thirty. What are you doing today?’

  Wally Boyd was his driver, who lived in a self-contained flat over the big triple garage. Boyd was a squat man with a face which might have been cut from granite. He was also Jim Capstick’s bodyguard, but that was never acknowledged, even between husband and wife. Helen said, ‘I’m going over to Manchester. Meeting an old friend, Lucy Graham; I don’t think you’ve met her. We’ll have a good gossip, then maybe go into the shopping centre and hammer the plastic a bit.’

  He wondered sometimes about the closed book which enclosed the years before he had known her. They chatted about it from time to time, but he never got her to reveal much. He controlled the impulse to find out what part this Graham woman had played in his wife’s former life. ‘Do you want Wally to drive you? I’m happy to drive the Bentley myself.’

  ‘No need. I enjoy driving the Merc, as you know, and the parking is easy enough at Lucy’s place.’ She didn’t want that silent, watchful presence at her side, recording her every action and passing an account back to the man who paid him. It would inhibit her freedom of movement.

  The offer had been genuine, but Capstick was glad when she refused. He needed his man beside him as an insurance against any physical threat in the nation’s second city. ‘Enjoy your day, then.’ He kissed her lovingly upon the lips. She responded, then used her paper napkin to remove the lipstick carefully from his mouth before he left her and went out into the world.

  She liked being Helen Capstick, she told herself once again. She waved to Jim as he climbed heavily into the big car, then went upstairs and into her dressing-room, deciding unhurriedly on the clothes she would wear for the day.

  Twenty minutes later, the big blue Bentley was on the M6 and heading rapidly south. Jim Capstick sat in the back and stared unseeingly at the papers he had taken out of his document case. In the intimacy of their marital exchanges, he had almost told Helen about what he planned for Brunton Rovers Football Club. He was surprised at himself when he realized that. On the whole, it was better that he hadn’t, he decided. Yes, definitely better. Women were such natural gossips. It was better not to trust even women like Helen with his thoughts about the future.

  DCI ‘Percy’ Peach enjoyed his day off. He had never been one for the long lie-in, but he breakfasted with unusual leisure, enjoying the ecstatic pleasure of bacon, egg, tomato and that anathema of the healthy eating lobby, a slice of white bread fried in bacon fat. His fiancée had lately introduced him to the Guardian. He passed hastily over the latest gay rights controversy and found the writing on the sports pages pleasantly illuminating.

  When he was working in the CID section at Brunton nick, the weather rarely mattered to him. Today, he was pleased to see blue sky and high clouds, for he had arranged a golfing four-ball with friends at the North Lancs Golf Club in the afternoon. It was March now, and the sun was getting higher. He felt a little warmth in it as it shone upon his back in the hour of unaccustomed gardening he undertook to compensate for his breakfast indulgence.

  He hadn’t played golf for a while, and was a little wild at first. His companions said knowledgeably that his little-used golfing muscles must be stiff and he did not quibble. He was still fairly new to golf, but he had learned early that its practitioners were never short of an excuse for their eccentricities on the course. In the context of amateur golf, Percy Peach was still a young man at thirty-nine; the average age in the club was fifty-seven.

  After a distinguished cricketing output as a quick-footed batsman in the Lancashire League, Percy had retired whilst many felt he was still at his peak. He had then taken up the challenge of golf. After three years, his handicap was a pleasing eight, and everyone assured him that there were possibilities of further improvement. He was stocky and compact, and his simple, powerful swing already had a consistency envied by all but the best golfers in the club.

  His companion was a good golfer in the inevitable decline which age brings to any sportsman. Harry was in his seventies and had to make up for his disadvantage in length with his excellent short game around the greens. Their two companions had thought the old man the weakest of the four when they gave him to Percy Peach, but the two proved an effective combination, with old Harry coming in on the holes where Percy faltered, securing a score with his excellent chipping and putting.

  This still very competitive elderly golfer was delighted when they won the modest stakes on the sixteenth green. He seemed to notice the weather for the first time, calling attention to the glorious sunset over the coast thirty miles to the west of them. As soon as they reached the clubhouse, he arranged a return match for Percy’s next midweek day off, pointing out that very soon now the hour would be changed and it would be light until after seven. Spring was surely at hand; old Harry offered them that thought as he gleefully pocketed the losers’ cash.

  They had tea in the clubhouse. It was only then that Peach learned that Harry had been a coroner’s officer for fifteen years before he retired. It was before Percy’s time in Brunton CID, but it gave them a common bond. It also allowed Harry to expand on the past, as men of his age normally love to do. Even after their two companions had drunk their quota and left, the two exchanged anecdotes about bodies and villains, and the various tricks which had come to light when subjected to the rigorous procedures of the Coroner’s Court.

  Percy stopped drinking after his quota, as he knew he must, but his new companion came from a generation which was dangerously relaxed about the dangers of drink and driving. Harry went on
enjoying his victory and his companionship well beyond the legal limit. Moreover, he was a much-loved elder of the club, a member for forty years and a winner in his prime of numerous competitions. Two of his former course companions deposited whiskies at their table, which were downed with relish by old Harry.

  ‘You can’t drive,’ said Percy, when he eventually prised him out of the bar and into the cloakroom.

  Harry urinated with a contented sigh and assured him with the inebriate’s confidence that he would ‘be all right’.

  Percy wasn’t having that. ‘You won’t. Even if you could drive, you’d be well over the limit. How would you get to the golf club if you lost your licence and couldn’t drive?’

  That harsh thought brought Harry up short, but by the time he left the golf club, he was still assuring his companion that he would drive carefully and wouldn’t be stopped. Percy was about to offer the final argument, the one no policemen wants to use because it draws attention to his calling. He would have to tell Harry that he mustn’t get into the driving seat of his car because a Detective Chief Inspector couldn’t stand by and watch the law being broken.

  Then fate intervened. As they went through the exit door of the clubhouse, the cold night air hit Harry and he reeled dramatically sideways until his hand fell upon the bonnet of a car and he steadied himself. ‘Perhapsh you’re right, Pershy,’ he said, slurring his words for the first time. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’ He swung round vaguely and almost fell over again.

  ‘No need for that,’ said Percy resignedly. ‘I’ll run you home. You can get your wife to bring you back to collect your car tomorrow.’

  ‘She’ll do that,’ said Harry with the wide affectionate smile of the sentimental drunk. ‘She’ll give me a bollocking for being pished, but she’ll run me up here tomorrow. She’s a good woman, but don’t tell her I shed so.’

  Percy had led him to his own car and opened the passenger door for him. He fell laughing on to the seat and said with apparent surprise, ‘You’re right you know, Pershy. I am a bit pished!’