A clubbable woman

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'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.'

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