She shrugged. “OK then.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Course not. I’ll be leaving school soon and probably forget it all anyway.”
“Well, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”
She took her blouse from the rack, slipped it on and began doing up the buttons.
“Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you teach me something else instead?”
There were five buttons altogether, not including the one at the top.
“What sort of something?” I asked.
“Give me some darts lessons.”
“Darts?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“So that we can have a game, silly.”
“Oh…er…right.”
“We can play up in the hay-loft.”
“I thought that was full of Bryan Webb’s hay.”
“It is almost, but he’s left a space at one end.”
“What about a dartboard?”
“There’s one under your bed in the bothy.”
♦
As soon as I got home I looked under the bed, and sure enough there was a dartboard lying there. It was a red and black model, and I could tell it had been used many times by the number of holes in it. I also noticed a metal tag under the number six, indented with the words: “Property of Inter-Pub Darts League. Do not remove.”
I wondered what sort of person would pinch a dartboard from a pub.
By the time I’d had my tea and gone back across to the big shed, Mr Parker had almost finished dismantling the circular saw.
“Need any help?” I asked.
“Bit late for that,” he replied. “I’ve practically done it myself.”
His tone wasn’t quite as forgiving as it had been earlier, so I took care to make myself as useful as possible. He was about to fit the new bearings, and he got me to hold them in position.
“I suppose you never forget to grease your motorbike,” he remarked, while he tightened up the nuts.
“Try not to,” I replied.
“Well, try not to forget when it’s my equipment you’re using.”
“No, alright. Sorry about that.”
Half an hour later we had the whole outfit put back together and in full working order.
“Do you want me to go back to Mr Pickthall’s tomorrow?” I enquired.
“No,” replied Mr Parker. “Best let him cool off for a while first.”
“OK, then.”
“By the way, I’m going down to that factory of yours in a day or two.”
“Oh, are you?”
“I bought some more oil drums today, so I’ve now got enough to make a full load.”
“Oh, well, I hope it works out alright.”
“Yes,” he said. “It looks like you might have put me onto a good bit of business there.”
This seemed an opportune moment to mention my wages, but then it struck me that Mr Parker had just spent several hours repairing the damage I’d done, so I decided to wait until another time. Instead I went back to the bothy, had a bath and then went out.
I needed to order some more groceries, so before going into the Ring of Bells I stopped at the phone box. As usual there was a long wait before Hodge answered, and then another delay while he went off to find something to write on. This was the fourth or fifth time I’d rung in, and by now I had a more or less fixed list of the items required. The only uncertain element was the biscuits, which I always left until the end. As usual, the selection on offer was very limited.
“Have you got any fig rolls yet?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” replied Hodge.
“Custard creams?”
“No.”
“Malted milks?”
“No.”
“Tartan shorties?”
“Wait a minute, I’ll go and have a look.”
“OK.”
A minute passed during which the pips went and I had to put another coin in the slot. Then Hodge came back to the phone.
“Did you say Tartan shorties?”
“Yes.”
“Well, we haven’t got any.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “You’ve got plain digestives, I presume?”
“Yes, we have.”
“Alright then. I’ll have those.”
The choice of biscuits generally signified the end of the conversation, but on this occasion Hodge seemed to be waiting expectantly for something else. For my part I said nothing, and meanwhile the moments continued to tick away.
Then at last he spoke. “You may wish to know we’ve had a new consignment of beans.”
“Have you?” I said.
“Just come in. Would you like to order some?”
“Baked beans, are they?”
“Yes.”
“Baked beans served with a delicious, rich tomato sauce?”
“Correct.”
“Fresh from the factory, in cans with a handy ring-pull lid?”
“That’s the ones,” said Hodge.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve learnt to do without them.”
At that moment the pips went again and I hung up.
♦
I’d been sitting in the Ring of Bells for about ten minutes when Hodge walked in. Giving me barely a nod of recognition he settled down on his usual stool at the counter and ordered a whisky from Cyril.
“Better make it a single,” he remarked. “Business is a bit slack at the moment.”
It was another quiet night at the Ring of Bells. Outside, the late autumn weather was thickening into a sort of perpetual damp gloom. Inside, the prospect was hardly any brighter. Illumination came from a row of mauve-coloured glass lanterns screwed to the pelmet above the bar. These were supposedly intended to cheer the place up a little, but actually they had the opposite effect. Under their dull glow we sat and stared at our drinks, waiting for the evening to pass.
It seemed unlikely that Hodge would begin one of his stilted conversations with me tonight, given the circumstances, and I expected him just this once to leave me in peace. Consequently I was caught unawares when suddenly he turned in my direction and spoke.
“I gather you didn’t get on very well with Mr Pickthall,” he announced.
“Didn’t I?” I said.
“Not from what I’ve been told.”
Hodge had a way of addressing people that meant everyone else in the pub heard it as well, whether they wanted to or not. Apart from him, Cyril and me, there were three or four other drinkers present as well, and as soon as the exchange began I realized that they were all listening with interest. I also saw that I had little choice but to continue.
“Do you mean young Mr Pickthall?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have said we didn’t get on. We just had a minor problem today, that was all.”
“Sounds like more than a minor problem to me,” said Hodge. “Question of impropriety, I’d have called it.”
“Why?”
“From what I heard you pulled out of a job before it was finished.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it couldn’t be helped.”
He shook his head. “I suppose it couldn’t be helped when you let down the Packhorse darts team either.”
“Er…well, that was a misunderstanding.”
“Oh,” he said. “A misunderstanding. I see.”
During this conversation Cyril had been busy at work behind the counter, polishing glasses while at the same time attending to what was being said. Now he joined in with a remark of his own. It was directed at me.
“They brought in the Topham’s especially for you, you know.”
“Who did?”
“The Packhorse.”
“That wasn’t just for me,” I protested.
“Well, no one else drinks it.”
“Oh…don’t they?”
“Seems a bit ungrateful treating them like that,” he said. “No wonder they barred you.”
“They didn’t bar me.”
“Yes they did. That’s why you started coming in here.”