Cupid's Dart

by David Nobbs

  I stiffened too. She would feel it in a minute.

  It's only now, writing about it, that I realise what happened that night. I was feeling sorry for Ange. I was upset that Nineteens Normanton had mocked her and Tons Thomas had been embarrassed by her.

  I felt sorry for her, I felt angry on her behalf, I stopped thinking about myself for perhaps the first time in my life, and all my inhibition left me.

  I moved over to let her feel my prick, hard and large.

  I heard her gasp of astonishment.

  'Alan!'

  I told her about the World Cup condoms. She said that she had told me that she was on the pill. I remembered then. I could have spared myself all that agony in the toilet.

  She helped me into her. She was so helpful that I didn't feel any worry about my inexperience. I entered her, I kissed her almost violently, and I began, there in that pub, to catch up with life and banish more than thirty years of sterile manhood. It hurt. I wasn't used to it, and it really did hurt, but the pain was wonderful. I had not known that any sensation could be so wonderful. I was too astonished to ask her if it had been good for her, but, from what she said, I think it must have been.

  'Bleedin' 'ell,' she said.

  In the context, that was definitely the nicest thing that anybody had ever said to me.

  SEVENTEEN

  I felt so happy the next day. A bit proud of myself too. Perhaps you will allow me that.

  Were there moments on the next long day of darts when I wondered if it had all been a dream? No, that is the language of sentimentality. Of course I knew it had been real. It had been the most intensely real experience I'd ever had.

  As I drove to the Happy Valley Country Club, I wished with great fervour that we were not going there, but to some glorious place where I could show her some of the beautiful things of life. Athens, perhaps, where modern philosophy can be said to have begun, more than two thousand five hundred years ago.

  I parked without difficulty, we were early, and this time I made sure I kept well away from the Players' Entrance.

  Or Paris, where we could retrace the steps of Jean Paul Sartre, who never played for Arsenal.

  Ange showed our tickets and we made our way through the half-filled room to our table.

  Or Venice, the most beautiful city in the world. A Bellini overlooking the Grand Canal.

  'Two pints of lager, please.'

  For a moment I felt very close to Venice. I too had that sinking feeling. How could I survive another day of darts and lager?

  Rome, perhaps, where I could show her the ruins of Ancient Rome, the power of the Vatican and the wonders of the Renaissance. Maybe the Eternal City had more variety than anywhere. I would show her so much. We'd begin to have really stimulating conversations.

  'Hiya, Ange.'

  'Hiya, Ange.'

  'Hiya, Brad. Hiya, Em.'

  'Hiya, Al.'

  'Alan! They're saying "hiya".'

  'Oh sorry. I was miles away. I was thinking about "hiya" things. Hello.'

  I couldn't for the life of me remember their names.

  I tried to think about the Ferdinand Brinsley. Perhaps I could look as if I was glued to the darts, but in fact do some useful work, deep in my head, on the subject of Chance.

  'Let's play darts.'

  No chance. I had to admit to myself that I had lost all interest in the Ferdinand Brinsley. 'Germanic Thought from Kant to Wittgenstein', that was different, that was the work on which my whole reputation would depend. Maybe I could make some progress on that, while apparently concentrating on the matches.

  'Game on. Best of order.'

  It was no use. All the thoughts that came to my mind were negative ones. Maybe in fact my reputation depended on my not publishing my book. If it was really based on false premises, there wasn't any point in thinking about it here in these licensed premises.

  'He was flying in that leg.'

  Ange had spoken. What had she said? There's a fly on his leg? Whose leg?

  'Sorry?'

  'I said he was flying in that leg. A nine-dart game. First of the week.'

  'Ah.' It wasn't enough. I needed to show some interest. It wasn't enough just to say 'Ah.'

  'What's a nine-dart game?'

  'From 501 to finishing bull or double in no more than nine darts. You can't do it in less.'

  'Ah.'

  It was no use. I couldn't conduct philosophical investigations while keeping one ear open for a remark from Ange, or while being ready at all times to leap up with my board that stated 180. Maybe I could amuse myself by thinking of my past flirtations, of what I would be doing now if I had gone off with my Swiss lacrosse player, or the florist from Littlehampton, or had drifted into a sexless marriage with Rachel, of how fortunate I was to have led such a dismal, lonely life, because, if I hadn't, I wouldn't be here now.

  But I wanted to be here less than anywhere else on earth.

  No distractions worked. The only solution was to let my mind go completely blank. Mystics could do it. Orientals could do it. Posh Spice could do it.

  I couldn't.

  I smiled to myself. Ange had been amazed once when I had mentioned Posh Spice. She didn't think I would have heard of her, but even I had heard of the Beckhams. There was no escape from some things, even in Oxford.

  Oh God. Ange had spoken.

  'Sorry. What?'

  'His problem is he's started thinking.'

  'What? Sorry?'

  'Oh, Alan, you don't listen to a word I say. I said, "his problem is he's started thinking." '

  'I heard you. It's just that I didn't understand.'

  'Oh. Well, he's an instinctive player, inne?'

  For a moment I thought his name must be Inne, then I realised that Ange was saying, 'Isn't he?' I wondered about writing a paper on 'Elision in Popular Culture', and I missed the next thing Ange said as well.

  'Sorry? What?'

  'Oh, Alan.'

  'Sorry.'

  'I said, "When he starts thinking he's well and truly buggered."'

  'Ah. I'd be no use then.'

  'We know that.'

  'I think I've got Thinkitis.'

  'What?'

  'You talked about Dartitis. I can't get going on anything. I'm a bag of nerves. It could be Thinkitis.'

  'Oh, Alan! You shouldn't be thinking here. You should switch off and have a rest and enjoy the darts, right?'

  'Sorry.'

  I had the third burger of my life, calculating that the statistical chance of getting CJD was minimal, and again I managed to make two pints of lager last all day.

  During a brief interval between matches, Tons Thomas appeared, wandering among the crowd, chatting. Craig's bulk was all muscle, Tons's stomach was pure fat. His beer belly was huge. I felt Ange grow tense, and I saw Tons register that he was approaching our table and turn in a different direction. Something strange was going on between Ange and these darts players. I began to give the matter some serious thought, curing myself of my Thinkitis at a stroke. I thought of an explanation which, if correct, might explain what was puzzling me.

  It was an explanation that I would welcome with all my heart. I needed to know if it was correct. Our whole relationship might depend on it. I needed to ask a question, and I knew who I needed to ask. I planned my course of action. I was going to have to do something that was so unlike me that, even as I stood up to go and do it, I could hardly believe it was going to happen. The things that love can make you do. There was that word again. No. Surely not? A man in my profession should know that he must use words more carefully.

  I stood up.

  'Excuse me,' I said. 'I need to stretch my legs. Won't be long.'

  I wove through the forest of tables, in and out of the lagered throng. I asked the way to the players' section, and approached it.

  It was guarded, of course.

  'Excuse me,' I said. 'I'm a great friend of Mr Sorensen. Could I see him?'

  I gave my name as Sir Alan Calcutt. Once you'
ve told the first lie, the second one is easy. Ange would have been so proud of me. The pity of it was that I would never be able to tell her.

  I didn't know what I was going to say. I would have to play it by ear, I who had never played anything by ear in my life. That was how strong my need for knowledge was.

  He came, looking uncertain.

  'Do I know you, Sir Alan?' he said in almost perfect English.

  'No.'

  'Oh? I was told a great friend wished to speak to me.'

  'No. There must have been confusion. I said, "A friend of a great friend." Ange Bedwell.'

  He looked incredulous and blank at the same time – no mean feat.

  'Ange Bedwell?'

  'Dark hair. Dimple on her chin. Sits near the front. Comes every year.'

  'Oh. Yes. Yes, I know who you mean,' he said, 'but she is not a friend. We have spoken, yes. I think I signed her souvenir programme once. What is this?'

  He was politely irritated, and I didn't blame him.

  'I'm so sorry,' I said, but I wasn't, I was filled with joy. I knew that he was telling the truth. There was no reason for him not to, and nobody could have feigned the astonishment he was showing. 'Forgive me for wasting your time. There's been a misunderstanding. I've been misinformed. I hope you win tonight.'

  As I walked away, I was aware of him, staring at me. I didn't care. My heart was singing. I went back to my seat. The darts continued. Now I found it easy to sit there and think my private thoughts, because they were such happy thoughts, and to make the right noises about the darts while I was thinking them. Now, for the first time, I knew that I was in love. I could never have pretended to be Sir Alan Calcutt otherwise. I was in love, and I was in love with a fantasist. I knew now that she was a figure of fun at the darts, that the players and their friends laughed at her for her devotion, her excitement, her obsession. I didn't yet know why she was like that, but one day – 'nice arrows' – I might. I knew that I didn't mind. Mind? I was thrilled. No one reason can cause someone to be attracted to another, go out with them, fall in love with them, but I knew now that a major factor in our coming together was that – 'One Hundred and Eighteeee!' – we were both suffering from low self-esteem. That was a condition that had not been identified in my young days. Was I right in suspecting that, once a condition has been identified, more people suffer from it than in the days before it was known?

  'You were very quiet today,' said Ange as I drove back to the pub through the growing twilight.

  'I was concentrating on the darts.'

  She gave me a dubious look. It was not the most successful of the day's many lies.

  I drove on in silence, desperate not to be silent. I could think of nothing to say. Luckily Ange could.

  'Wouldn't it be funny if things could talk?'

  'What things?'

  'Any things. Tables. Chairs. That lamp post, jabbering away.'

  'I don't think a lamp post would have anything very illuminating to say.'

  'Nice one. Like it. Coming on.'

  The praise was absurd, but it excited me. I felt a burgeoning erection. I couldn't wait to get Ange to bed. I couldn't wait to have another orgasm. But first we had to eat our supper and drink our wine. 'Sleep well last night?' asked Viv with a wink, and I had to smile and pretend to be amused.

  And so to bed. It was better still that night. I was more . . . people who know me won't believe this . . . but I was more laid back. I didn't think of my pleasure. I thought of hers. I worked on her body, her lips, her nipples . . . all my movements were geared to the stimulation of her most sensitive bits. I gasped with joy to hear her groaning with pleasure. I didn't think of myself at all, and, as a result, I had a sharper pleasure than I had ever had in my life. There's quite a lesson, there, perhaps, for matters of sex, and, dare I say it, for life itself.

  'Wow!' said Ange. 'I always thought we'd find somethink you was good at if we went on long enough.'

  It was the quarter-final between Craig Normanton and Geraint Thomas that began it. I knew that, although they both might have laughed at Ange, Geraint had done it in a more gentle and kindly way. He pitied her, which was not nice, while Craig despised her, which was very nasty.

  I so much wanted Geraint to win, and, as a result, I watched the game quite closely, and, as a result of that, I began to be hooked.

  My mother's eyes aren't good enough, nowadays, to watch the snooker, but until two years ago she had watched it with enormous interest. I could feel now, for the first time, some of the reasons why. It was curiously calming to become agitated about something so unimportant and so far removed from one's own life. I once tried to talk to her about global warming and she said, 'Ronnie's been on a hot streak all week.' I didn't know what she meant. She explained, as to an idiot, that there was a snooker player called Ronnie O'Sullivan and he was in a rich vein of form. I had managed to avoid a sudden temptation to yawn. Now I realised why she was more interested in Ronnie O'Sullivan's hot streaks than in global warming. She knew that there was every likelihood that she would live to see the result, and that was comforting.

  Geraint needed 133 to win the set. I could hear my heart beating.

  'He'll go for the treble nineteen first, then the treble twenty, and then the double eight,' said Ange excitedly. 'I know the way his mind works.'

  He did, and got them. The crowd . . . well . . . they erupted.

  I erupted!

  In the very final game of their match, when Craig got a maximum, Brad and Em leapt up with their 180 boards. Ange and I remained seated. Even at our table, the rivalry was intense.

  Then Geraint was the first to have a chance of a three-dart finish, and he achieved it.

  The place . . . well, frankly, and this won't surprise you, I know . . . erupted. Ange and I hugged. Brad and Em looked deeply disappointed.

  They stood up, and we had the most meaningful conversation we'd had with them during those three days.

  'We have to go,' said Brad. 'I'm in Runcorn tomorrow.'

  'That's it for us. We only had three days,' said Em.

  'Bye, Ange. Bye, Al,' said Brad.

  'Bye, Ange. Bye, Al,' said Em.

  'Bye, Brad. Bye, Em,' said Ange.

  'Goodbye, and good luck, and have a wonderful time in Runcorn,' I said.

  All three of them looked at me in astonishment.

  I had thought that after this titanic struggle my interest would wane, but it didn't. I was almost sad when the day's matches ended.

  In the car on the way home, I said, 'I've been thinking about what you said about what things would say if they could speak.'

  She was pleased.

  'You've been thinking about something that I said? That's a first.'

  'I've been working out what a darts board would say.'