Cupid's Dart (14 page)

I picked her up at Dangley Bottom Station, as arranged. She had two big, heavy suitcases.

'Can't wear the same things twice, know what I mean?' she said. She put the cases down and gave me a kiss full of promise. I found it hard to believe that I was being kissed like that. 'You got time off, then,'

'Well, I phoned Lawrence and said I was staying with friends and had gone down with the flu.'

'I'm impressed. I'm really impressed. Well done, Alan.'

'I didn't find it easy to sound flu-ridden. I hope I was convincing. I felt very nervous.'

My lie was just one of the things that was making me feel nervous. I was nervous about being a fish out of lager at the darts, about our nights in the pub, about whether I would have the energy to laugh when Viv was a hoot, about how much I would stand out in the crowd with my old-fashioned shirts and sweaters, about how jealous I would feel about Tons Thomas, Nineteens Normanton and Shanghai Sorensen. I crashed the gears before we'd even left the car park. Ange gave me a look, but didn't comment. I wanted to say, 'Well, at least I can drive.' It surprised me that she didn't drive, but I was pleased about it. It gave me a rare advantage, an advantage I'd lose if I crashed the gears too many times.

There were no more disasters as we straggled through Dangley Bottom, past the roadworks, past the sad park, past the boarded-up village shop. My spirits sank at the sight of the Royal Oak and it's pot-holed car park It looked as if it had seen better days.

'This is Alan, Viv.'

'Ah! So it really is a double this time. Hello, Alan. I'll show you to your room.'

Viv had flaming red hair, and a sad, sagging face. Like her pub and her car park she looked as if she had seen better days. I tried to look younger than fifty-five. I knew that it wasn't working.

She led us up a narrow, creaking staircase. The room was friendly, flowery, a bit ragged at the edges. There were an alarming number of cracks in the low sloping ceiling. The doors of the wardrobe had swollen from the damp and didn't close properly. The bed looked as if it might sag. I wondered how much action it could take, and how much action it would see.

We unpacked. I let Ange take all the wire coat hangers and piled my clothes neatly on the only armchair. She removed two large pieces of stiff cardboard from one of the bags. She had written the number 180 on them in huge, slightly babyish figures. Dear God, I was going to have to leap up and wave one of those about, and it was going to be on the television. Supposing Lawrence saw. Oh God! I hadn't thought of that. No, he would never watch darts. I was quite safe.

'This is it,' she said, as we went back to the car. 'This is the best moment of all, just before it starts, when it's all still to come.'

'Viv didn't seem much of a hoot, to be honest,' I said, as I drove away from the pub.

'I know. She's . . . er . . . this bloke she's been with has only gone and ditched her, hasn't he, the bastard?. It's hit her bad. I thought she looked terrible. To be honest, Alan, I'm not sure how much of a hoot she'll be this year.'

I couldn't tell her how deeply relieved I was, and I felt ashamed of it as well. Viv was unhappy, her emotional life shattered, and I was relieved. It was the casual nature of the selfishness that shocked me.

I seemed to be shocking myself rather a lot lately.

'What did she mean when she said, "It really is a double this time"?'

Suddenly Ange looked very young, almost pathetic.

'I couldn't find anyone to come with the last two years,' she admitted. She put her hand on my knee. 'I'm fussy, you know.'

'Good,' I said. 'I did wonder if I'd get in the way of your one-night stands.'

She took her hand off my knee.

'Stop the car,' she said. 'I'll walk from here.'

'What? Don't be silly.'

'I don't have one-night stands. Stop the car.'

'No. That's stupid. I was only . . . well, sort of joking. I didn't mean anything.'

'Bollocks. You're a philosopher. You always mean something. You couldn't not mean something even when you fart. I wanna get out, Alan.'

I slowed down, in case she opened the door, but I didn't stop.

'I'm sorry,' I said. 'But . . .' I felt that I had to defend my remark. 'What about your darts players?'

'They're different.'

She stared grimly out of the window, but she didn't ask me again to stop the car.

I could sense that she was growing very nervous as we reached the Happy Valley Country Club, while I dithered like an old man as to where to park. There were so many spaces that I couldn't decide which to use.

'Do you think I'm too close to the right-hand edge of my space?' I said, after I had parked. 'I don't like to park selfishly.'

'Oh, for fuck's sake, Alan,' she snapped.

It was not a good start, and I could see that she regretted her remark instantly. She was very nervous, and hyper-active. What on earth was wrong?

I was upset, and I decided not to let her off too lightly.

'Come on,' I said abruptly, grabbing her hand, and I marched off pulling her as if she was a reluctant dog.

'Not that way,' she said urgently. 'That's the Players' Entrance.'

'Well, we'll go that way then,' I said. 'We might catch sight of one of them.'

'No!'

It was an appeal.

'Oh look,' I said. 'There's Nineteens Normanton.'

He was walking with a couple of friends. His huge frame was unmistakable. He looked even bigger than he did on the television.

'I don't want to see him,' she hissed.

'Too late,' I said. 'He's seen you.'

I saw Nineteens point Ange out to his two friends. He said something and they laughed. Their laughs were not pleasant. They had contempt in them. He had said something insulting. I found myself seething that she could have slept with a man like that, who despised her for it.

But I wouldn't show my anger. I wouldn't reveal my jealousy.

'Morning, Nineteens,' I said. 'Good luck today.'

He looked at me in astonishment, then at Ange.

'Nineteens,' he said. 'That's a good one. Hey, I'm Nineteens, lads.'

His friends laughed again.

'Well, have fun with your funny friend,' he smirked. 'See you later.'

They moved off. Ange was scarlet,

'I told you not to go that way,' she said, 'and why did you have to go and call him Nineteens? You've spoilt the whole week. I don't want to go in now.'

'Yes, you do,' I said. 'Don't be so fucking childish.'

I couldn't believe that I had said that. I don't think she could either. It worked, though. She came in without further protest.

Ange showed our tickets, and the moment she entered the vast bar, her spirits rose, she began to be excited again. She led the way straight to our table, which was a table for four. It was in a good position.

'This is a good position,' I said. 'We're very near the oche.'

'Oche' is a strange word. It's pronounced like hockey and some people think it's derived from that game. Others relate it to an Anglo-Saxon word
oche
, meaning to lop, or to the French word
ocher
, meaning to nick or cut a groove. Since it's a groove behind which the players must throw, this seems more convincing to me. Anyway, I could see that Ange was impressed that I knew the word. I explained that I had been watching the event on television during the last week.

'Good for you,' she said. 'Good old Alan.'

This fact seemed to restore her good mood entirely. A smartly dressed waitress took our order for two pints of lager. I didn't dare order anything else. I didn't want to embarrass Ange, and I had the fact that I was driving as an excuse for drinking slowly.

The huge room was steadily filling up, the television cameras were in place, and I wished that I could feel even a faint flicker of interest.

Just before the first match began, two people joined us at the table.

'Hiya,' said the young man, who had a stud in his left nostril. 'I'm Brad.'

'Hiya,' said the girl, who had a stud in her right nostril, 'I'm Em.'

'Hiya, Brad. Hiya, Em. I'm Ange,' said Ange, who, thankfully, didn't have a stud in either nostril.

'Hello, Brad. Hello, Em,' I said. 'I'm Alan.'

'Hiya, Al,' said Brad.

'Hiya, Al,' said Em.

Ange squeezed my hand, maybe in apology for her snappiness, or perhaps out of excitement or affection, or even out of gratitude that I hadn't said, 'I don't answer to the name of Al. My name is Alan.'

The Master of Ceremonies – I wasn't sure if that was what he was called, but it'll do – gave out his great cry of 'Let's play darts', and the crowd . . . yes, they erupted, erupted all around me. Ange erupted. Brad erupted. Em erupted. I did my best to erupt, but I was aware that it was a feeble effort. I needn't have worried, though. My shortcomings weren't noticed in the eruption all around me. I realised that I had been like a man caught in a violent earthquake who was worrying that somebody might see that he hadn't tied his shoelaces up. I really was going to have to learn to become less self-conscious.

I don't recall anything of that first match. I had never heard of either of the players. I couldn't have cared less about the result. I tried to concentrate, for Ange's sake, but the tedium drove me back like fumes from a fire. I had plenty to think about, however. Our meeting with Craig Normanton – I mustn't think of him as Nineteens – had distressed and puzzled me. He had not behaved towards Ange as I would have expected. Something was not quite right.

Occasionally a great cry of 'One Hundred and Eighteeee!' would rend the air, and I would have to leap up and yell and show my board with the figure 180 on it. I found it difficult to inject the expected vigour into my performance, but I had already realised that, in the vigour all around me, I would not be noticed.

Ange acted as my educator and my commentator.

'He's had dartitis,' she whispered of one of the players.

'What?'

'It's like a nervous thing where you twitch or somethink, and you can't let the dart go or it comes out all wrong or somethink. It can take you either way, dartitis. It can beat you or you can beat it, right? You come back stronger than ever when you've beaten it.'

'Fascinating,' I lied.

How long would it all go on?

'Col was shaky there. He's not in the zone,' said Ange. I had no idea what she meant, so said nothing. 'Now for the final leg. This is where millimetres separate men from mugs.'

I tried to enthuse. I really did. The room erupted. Somebody was a man, somebody else was a mug, I had no idea which, and I couldn't have cared less.

We had a burger. I didn't let on that it was the very first burger I had ever eaten in my life. I tried not to think of BSE. Millions ate burgers. It couldn't be that dangerous.

'That was great, wasn't it, Alan?'

'Yes,' I lied.

'Are you enjoying it?'

'Yes,' I lied.

'I'm so glad you came, Alan.'

The next match featured Nineteens . . . sorry, Craig . . . and he was playing a Swede.

'Darts have exploded in Scandinavia,' commented Ange.

'The hills are alive with the sound of darts.'

I was not proud of this piece of repartee, but it seemed to please Ange and she said 'Nice one, Alan.' I think she was awarding me points for trying. Then she lowered her voice, so that Brad and Em wouldn't hear. 'Alan? Don't cry out, "Come on, Nineteens" or anythink, will yer? He's not called Nineteens. That's just how I think of him.'

'I know. And I don't think I'll be crying out.'

If I did it would be for the Swede. That would put the cat among the pigeons.

Craig won. Next on was Tons. As he waved expansively to the crowd – he was much more extrovert than Craig – I saw that he had noticed Ange, who was standing up to cheer him. He gave her a tiny smile, and raised his eyebrows. I realised that Ange embarrassed him rather, and I couldn't think why. I realised how much I was noticing where Ange was concerned, how I'd woken up and become observant, intuitive even. Love
was
extraordinary. Love? Was I in love? Surely not. Slip of the tongue. Well, not the tongue. I hadn't spoken. Slip of the brain.

I noticed something else that was also extraordinary. I was getting an erection. I couldn't believe it. I'd had hints of them before in Ange's company, but this was a full-blown monster. It would have been most welcome on several occasions, but I didn't want it here. I wanted to go to the loo, and I wouldn't be able to until it had subsided.

I leant over to Ange, 'Don't worry,' I said in a low voice. 'If I meet him, I won't call him Tons.'

Her eyes opened wide in astonishment. They looked a paler blue than ever.

Tons . . . sorry, Geraint . . . won, setting up, yes, a quarterfinal clash with Craig.

'What an appetiser that is,' said Ange, and she added, 'The Swede's hopes are shattered as he returns sadly to Stockholm.' She was becoming quite alliterative in her commentator mode.

It wasn't just the need to go to the loo. I wanted to go out, I needed to go out, to get some air, to get away from the clamour. I felt very odd, trapped in that great sea of lager. I felt as if I was suffering from claustrophobia and agoraphobia at the same time, but I felt too that I couldn't go while I still had my erection. It would be seen by several hundred people in the room and by millions on television. It would go before me on my little voyage like the prow of a ship.

If only I could have gone proudly, as if showing my badge of manhood, but I wasn't like that. I did everything to try to get rid of it. I thought about Kant, and Wittgenstein, and Spinoza, about Iraq, and Tony Blair, and Cherie Blair, and still it persisted. At last, in desperation, I even thought about young Mallard. The erection subsided. Oh, blessed relief. I felt my first ever flicker of affection towards the man.

During that day, my 'longest day', I managed two pints of lager and went to the loo five times. Ange had seven pints and went once. On my second visit, I noticed that there was a machine selling England World Cup condoms. 'Stand Proud for England', said a slogan on the machine. 'Get the red, white and blue tonight'.