Cupid's Dart

by David Nobbs

  At half past five I had a shower. I didn't want to feel sweaty when I talked to her mother. I put on my new jeans and the most casual and youthful of my shirts – the one that a 48-year old man would not have been ashamed of wearing.

  I thought that if I rang before six o'clock, it would be too early, she would not yet be home.

  'He's waiting for six o'clock,' said the malign God of Time. 'Spin it out, chaps.'

  At last it came.

  I didn't ring immediately, because I didn't want either Ange or her mother to think that I had been waiting for the cheaper rate. Also, I wanted to give the impression that my call was casual, cool, laid back, and other very un-Alanish things.

  I remembered that Ange had regarded room 393 as lucky, because three was her lucky number. I rang, therefore, at three minutes and thirty-three seconds after six. Think me foolish if you like, but it worked. She answered the phone herself.

  My voice, of course, gave the lie to the idea that I was cool and laid back.

  Oh, the relief at the sound of her voice. Waves of relief washed over me.

  'Oh, hello, Alan.'

  Flat. Neutral. Not openly hostile, that was something.

  'I wasn't mocking you at Lawrence and Jane's, Ange,' I said after a few desultory exchanges. 'I wasn't.'

  'I can't talk about it now. My mum's coming in. Meet me outside Oxford Street tube station at half past eight.'

  'What?'

  She had rung off.

  I looked at my watch. It was nine minutes past six – multiples of three.

  I could do it.

  I had to do it.

  There would be no chance with Ange if I didn't do it.

  I cleaned my teeth, not very thoroughly, time was of the essence, grabbed a jacket, any jacket, found my wallet and keys, and left the house just as I was. I walked to my garage at a steady pace, forcing myself not to rush. I didn't want to arrive sweaty. I had suddenly become very conscious of sweat.

  I had made an instant decision that I would go by car. If the train times didn't fit I might have had difficulties, but there was more to it than that. I would have felt horribly helpless, claustrophobic even, on the train. At least in my car my progress was in my hands.

  I've told you that I am not a fast driver. I've mentioned the fact that I have six good friends I met at the university. Most of them live in the villages around Oxford. I often drive out to visit them, and I never hear anyone sing out, 'Michael Schumacher's arrived.'

  On this evening, though, I drove faster and more confidently than I had ever done, discovering in the process a location that I had never visited before – the fast lane of the M40. My little Saab groaned once or twice in surprise. This hadn't been an agreed part of my relationship with it. I had bought it off a university couple. It had been her car and so they had called it the Mem Saab. I had thought this silly, but now, after meeting Ange, I found that it amused me.

  If I was surprised to discover that I suddenly found silly jokes amusing, I was even more surprised by my unexpected confidence behind the wheel. I had to attribute it to the life force emanating from Ange. Perhaps you are beginning to wonder if I really am starting to go loopy, but what other explanation could there be?

  I made it without too much difficulty, even found a parking space, and was at the tube station by 8.25. Now my exhilaration left me and I felt stressed and exhausted.

  Also, there were several exits to Oxford Street underground station and I didn't know which one she would come to.

  Well, I had to pass the time somehow, and wandering from one exit to another was as good a way as any.

  It was 8.38 before I saw her and by that time I had persuaded myself that she wasn't coming. She waved cheerfully, and we fell into each other's arms instinctively before we both realised that our relationship wasn't on that footing. Then we both shrank back in slight embarrassment, and smiled rather shyly. It was beautiful. It was a synchronised greeting.

  We went into the nearest pub. It's not easy for me to describe the pub for you, as I had eyes only for Ange, but I do remember that, being near the Palladium, it had signed photos of the stars. I recall thinking that I hoped she wouldn't mention them, because, although they were probably all very famous, I didn't know who any of them were. It must have been fairly full, because she said, 'Quick. Alan. Grab that table', and before I could stop her she was off to the bar and buying pints for us both. I remember too that there were some dirty glasses on the table, and that the ashtray was full, and when she got back she said, 'Scruffy buggers, they wouldn't stand for that down the Black Bull' and cleared the mess away, banging the dirty glasses on the bar counter pointedly.

  At last she was sitting there beside me, her skin pale and sweet below her dark hair, her little mouth just waiting to be kissed. Then suddenly she looked so astonished that a shiver of fear ran through me.

  'You're wearing jeans.'

  'Well, yes, I . . . I thought the old image was just a little . . . well . . . a trifle stuffy, perhaps.'

  'Well good old Alan. There's hope yet.'

  Hope for me or for us?

  'I really wasn't making fun of you at Lawrence's, you know,' I said. 'I was making fun of them.'

  'They're your friends.' She still wasn't quite sure.

  'It's a friendship based solely on mutual interests. I wouldn't care if I never saw either of them again. Ange, there is something I . . . I mean, it's probably not important, but I . . . when I rang your mother she said your name was Clench.'

  'Yeah, well, I suppose it is in real life.'

  'Is this not real life?'

  'Well, yeah, course it is, but you know what I mean. It's not real like being a temp and living in Gallows Corner. It's fun. It's a bit of a giggle.'

  Oh, Ange, those innocent words plunged a dagger into my heart. I had felt that your lips, slightly parted, had been inviting a kiss. The warmth of your smile had turned my heart upside down. I had just about persuaded myself that you were falling in love with me. But no, it was just a bit of a giggle.

  The pain didn't last. After all, she was there, and she was smiling, and we were friends, and . . . well . . . after all, a bit of a giggle with Ange would be . . . well, at least it would be a bit of a giggle.

  'So you call yourself Bedwell.'

  'Yes. Naughty.'

  'It is rather.'

  'Well, would you want to be known as Clench? You wouldn't, would you?'

  'No, I must admit that.'

  'Besides, it was Dad's name.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Nothing. Nothing, Alan. Cheers.'

  We raised our glasses and drank.

  'I felt awful talking to your mother.'

  'She's harmless.'

  'I felt . . . that she'd think me a dirty old man. I felt uneasy. Because you haven't told her about me.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Well, I can't blame you. I haven't told my mother about you.'

  'We'll be our secret.'

  'Yes, our secret –' I stopped. I had been going to add 'love'.

  'Alan,' she said, suddenly serious, her antennae picking up what I hadn't said. 'Don't expect too much.'

  I told her how I had found myself using the ridiculous phrase, 'Is Ange in at all?'

  'I mean, you couldn't be partly in, could you? Unless you'd been sawn in half in a magic act that had gone wrong, and one half had been sent to the mortuary for pathology tests, and the other half had been sent home to your mum for sentimental reasons.'

  'Alan! I didn't realise you had that sort of imagination.'

  Nor did I. I was getting a few surprises about myself. That's not a bad thing to happen at the age of fifty-five.

  She linked her arm in mine. Our eyes met, and hers were unusually solemn.

  'I have to keep up to the mark with you, Ange. Can't be stuffy old Alan, can I, now?'

  I was about to ask her to come back to Oxford with me, when she spoke, as if she could read my mind.

  'I wanna make some plans,' she said. 'T
hat may surprise you. You think I'm happy go lucky, right, only thinking of the moment, right?'

  'Well, yes, I do, rather.'

  'But this is darts.'

  'Ah.'

  'I've got two tickets for the whole of the final week of the World Darts Championship.'

  'Good Lord.'

  'They're like . . .' she swallowed her next word hastily, and my antennae realised that she had stopped herself from using the f word. '. . . bleeding gold dust.'

  'You . . .' I was going to say 'You amaze me', but then I thought of Jane saying that and how horrid it was and I stopped myself just in time.

  'The moment it finishes, I go online and order them for the next year.'

  'Two tickets?'

  'Yeah. In case.'

  'In case of what?

  'Anythink. In this case, you.'

  'Me?'

  'I want you to come with me. Jesus Christ, you're dim sometimes for someone who's supposed to be so clever.'

  That observation, echoing the one I had overheard in Pangbourne in the dull old days of Rachel, made me look at my relationship with Ange with sudden, excited incredulity.

  'You want me to come with you to the whole of the final week of the World Darts Championships?'

  'Yeah. Course I do. It's at the Happy Valley Country Club, near Dangley Bottom.'

  'Dangley Bottom?'

  'I know. Isn't it a bloody awful name? It sounds like the arsehole of the world. You'd think it was right out in the sticks, but it's only just outside the M25. It's like, I dunno, a small town or big village, I dunno which you'd call it . . . It's nothing much, because posh people don't want an address with Dangley Bottom in it, so the house prices are low. There's this pub, nothing special, but Viv's a hoot. I always book a double room there.'

  'Just in case.'

  'You've got it. I don't want to be rude, Alan, but you're catching on much quicker than you did when we first met.'

  'Thank you.'

  'No, I mean it.'

  'Let me get this straight. You want me to spend a week with you at the World Darts Championship and come back with you every evening and sleep with you in this pub, where Viv is a hoot?'

  'Yeah.'

  'What can I say except, "Bleedin' 'ell"?'

  She laughed.

  'Nice one, Alan.' Then she looked serious. 'Alan, please say "Yes".'

  That was a great moment. I think it was the first time she had really truly asked me for something, really truly shown that she wanted me to be with her.

  'It's difficult,' I said. 'I have a job, you know. I have supervisions with students. I give lectures. I have to prepare the Ferdinand Brinsley. I'm not a free man.'

  'Oh, Alan.'

  I couldn't bear to see her looking so disappointed. Well, all right, that was a very small part of it. I dreaded the thought of a week of darts, I dreaded the thought of Viv being a hoot, but I dreaded far more – far, far more – the thought of Ange being there without me.

  'Of course I'll come,' I said.

  She squealed with delight and kissed me on the lips, and I had a strange and rather sad thought. It was the first time in my life that I'd had real evidence that I'd made somebody happy.

  'About the pub,' she said, lowering her voice with a tact that she had never shown me before – maybe we were each having a good effect on the other – 'I don't mind if we don't . . . if you can't . . . you know. I'll just enjoy being with you.'

  My heart almost burst.

  'I've had a thought,' she said. 'There are one or two of the games where I don't care about the result, like they're players that I couldn't care less whether they win or not. We could piss off back to the pub and I could bring a book . . .'

  'With a red cover.'

  'Goes without saying. And I could read my book in one corner of the room and you could work on your lecture in the other corner. That would be really cosy.'

  I found it immensely reassuring that this young lady thought that being cosy was a nice thing. I was beginning to realise how she was miscast as an Essex girl. I was beginning to hope that . . . that we might have what I had hardly dared to think about – a future.

  'Yes,' I said. 'Yes, it would.'

  Then she turned serious.

  'Next week's the first week of the darts, our week together is the week after,' she said. 'I won't see you before then, Alan.'

  I felt devastated.

  'Why?'

  'Because . . . I don't want to be rude, Alan, but I don't want to.'

  'I see.'

  'You don't see at all. I want fun, Alan. I told you. I don't do heavy. There's no reason except that. I'm not seeing another man or anythink. I'll work, get some cash, do a few sessions down the Black Bull, go clubbing, have a few drinks, get nicely pissed once or twice, see me sister, cos I have to do that, and spend a bit of time with me mum, cos I have to do that too under the circumstances.'

  'What circumstances?'

  'Well . . . we aren't a happy family, leave it at that. Alan.'

  It was a command, not a suggestion.

  I left it at that.

  'Besides, I want to work up to our little adventure.'

  'Work up to it?'

  'Like look forward to it. Like get a bit starved of you so that it's great when I see you, right?'

  I didn't know how I would cope with being a bit starved of her, but that was just about the nicest thing that anybody had ever said to me. I don't think anybody had ever felt remotely starved of me before.

  'Another pint before I go? Your shout.'

  'I'll get you one, but . . . I'm driving.'

  'Driving? You drove down?'

  'Only way to make sure of getting here on time. Drove faster than my little Saab has ever been driven. Couldn't be late for my bird.'

  I daresay the word 'bird' is long out of date, but I felt very bold using it.

  Ange looked impressed.

  'Bleedin' 'ell,' she said.

  I went to the bar, where it took me ages to get served with Ange's pint of lager. I'd had so little practice at it. I didn't buy myself anything. To me, drinking a whole pint was like downing the contents of a water butt. I didn't want to be caught short in my Saab. I usually carry a sample bottle with me, for emergencies, in view of my little weakness, but I'd taken it home to be washed and in the rush I'd forgotten to put it back.