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salami?”’
    There was a roar of laughter. Ollie ate a handful of peanuts and thought: it’s wonderful what a scrummage in the mud will do, followed by a pint. Such simple male reassurances. Living with Viv, he needed them.
    Diz, the captain, leaned over and whispered: ‘Where did you find him?’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Our Kenneth here.’
    â€˜He’s my brother-in-law,’ said Ollie.
    Diz stared. ‘He’s not!’
    Ollie nodded. Over at the bar, Ken started another joke. He was one of the few men Ollie knew who improved with alcohol. Viv said he was like a car you had to handcrank to get going, but once the engine was started it could outrun the lot of them. That was in her more polite moments.
    â€˜He’s a natural,’ said Diz. ‘Can you bribe him to join the team?’
    â€˜He’s not used to rugger,’ said Ollie. ‘He’s a soccer chap.’
    â€˜That calibre, who cares?’
    Ollie looked at Ken with new respect. And he could crack a joke. Put someone in an unfamiliar place, and after fourteen years they could still surprise you.
    The front door slammed.
    â€˜Oh oh, here they come,’ said Viv. ‘Our Action Men.’
    Ollie and Ken came in. Ken carried an off-licence bag, and they wore the sheepish look of those with three pints inside them.
    â€˜Good game?’ Ann asked.
    Ken nodded. ‘We won.’
    She smiled. ‘How marvellous.’
    He took a bottle of wine out of the bag. ‘A modest contribution.’ He looked at Viv and Ann. ‘And what have you two girls been doing? Yackety-yak?’
    â€˜Christ,’ said Viv.
    â€˜Watch it,’ said Ollie to his brother-in-law.
    Ken turned to him. ‘They’re angry with us. We’re in the doghouse.’
    â€˜No,’ said Viv, a cigarette between her lips as she drained the sprouts. ‘I think you’re sweet.’
    Ken looked disconcerted. Ann willed him to take care.
    â€˜So he comes charging down the field,’ said Ken.
    Ollie turned to Viv. ‘That’s that twit from the
New Statesman
.’
    â€˜But you two saw to him,’ said Viv.
    â€˜Tall bloke,’ nodded Ken, ‘built like a beanpole. No muscle on him.’
    â€˜Whereas you,’ she said, ‘small but perfectly formed . . .’
    â€˜Sorry about my height, Viv,’ he said stiffly, ‘but I do keep myself in trim.’
    The girls came in. Ollie raised his eyebrows at the dress. ‘Wow Dais, you look like a middle-aged gospel singer.’
    â€˜Ollie!’ said Viv.
    They sat down to lunch. Ken glanced at the clock; this was one of Viv’s three o’clock starts.
    â€˜I refuse to be intimidated,’ said Ollie. ‘In this murky, uncertain world, rugger’s good clean fun.’
    â€˜It’s the last remnant of your poncy school,’ said Viv, ‘I’ve got rid of all the rest.’
    â€˜Anyway,’ said Ollie, ‘it’s the only exercise I get.’
    Viv said: ‘The only exercise I get is sex and the stairs.’
    Ollie laughed. Ken looked at her warningly. ‘Little ears, Viv.’
    Ann said quickly: ‘What about school? That’s exhausting, surely?’
    â€˜That’s nerves,’ said Viv, ‘like being on stage.’
    â€˜And your allotment?’
    â€˜That’s backache.’
    Ollie turned to Ken: ‘They were brought up in a bungalow.’
    â€˜I know,’ said Ken. ‘What do you mean?’
    â€˜Don’t ask me,’ he said, and added darkly: ‘I’m sure it affected them.’
    Viv said: ‘Twelve acres in Hertfordshire sure affected you.’
    Ann smiled at them. ‘Children!’
    Viv turned to her. ‘We thrive on class warfare, Ollie and me. It’s the dynamic of our marriage. We’re a microcosm of contemporary Britain. I climbed up from my class, with aspirations.’ She pointed to Ollie. ‘He climbed down