Hearts and Darts

Lightly squeezing the pockets of his windcheater to confirm they
held darts and cigarettes, Dod Kelman peeked in on the contented face
of his sleeping year-old son. The knitted cot blanket brought
mother-in-law Elsie to mind, changing Dod's smile to a grimace. Back in
the main bedroom as he strapped on his watch, Fiona's lingering
fragrance conspired with the two big measures of whisky he had earlier,
to quicken his pulse and weaken his resolve. He opened the window wide.
Closing his eyes and breathing deeply he pictured himself in an earlier
life walking up Aberdeen's Union Street to join his friends in the
Market Bar before catching the bus to Pitodrie stadium, smiling as he
recognised each player emerging from the tunnel to rapturous applause.
Then he blinked back to the reality of Ben Rinnes's heathery slopes,
reminding him how much his life had changed in the space of a year. One
day a hapless Aberdonian student, the next a distiller's clerk in the
vale of Glenlivet, living in a distillery-owned cottage with his wife
and son - and Elsie within nagging distance.

Downstairs he crept up behind his wife as she stacked the last plate on
the draining board, slipping his arms around her waist and holding her
close, the blonde softness of her hair tickling his nose as he breathed
her perfume. Roddy, their young Labrador, padded his way over to tug
jealously at his master's jeans. "Ye ken Fiona," Dod murmured,
"sometimes I feel as if I'm on another planet. The stillness maks me
nervous."

She turned into him, wiping her damp hand on his sweatshirt, pouting as
she pressed against him, gazing into his eyes. "I know. You miss your
pals and your fitba."

"Aye, but?"

"Well, I miss my man when he's at work a' day and off tae the pub when
he gets hame." She winked, tugging at his sleeve. "C'mon upstairs," she
whispered, "wee Geordie'll be sleepin' for ages yet."

"Oh Fiona, ye ken I canna?" Just then the doorbell chimed reminding Dod
that the darts cup semi-final wouldn't wait, although with luck maybe
Fiona would.

-----ooooo-----

The drams they had before leaving work gave most of the Clachan team
the edge in confidence, that and their position at the top of the
district league. Veteran Robbie Stronach was a rock-solid captain while
Lachie Geddes the cooper played with amazing flair considering he
swayed about so much on the oche. In his singles match Dod checked out
with only eleven darts and followed that up with a one-five-seven
finish in the doubles. Inspired by the anchormen the rest of the team
raised their game and the outcome was never in doubt.

"You're a lucky bugger," said Robbie to Dod later, slapping his back as
they grouped together for a congratulatory drink.

He smirked, high on success and drinks his beaten opponents had bought
him. "Whit can I say, Rob? Anything for a free beer eh? I am an
Aberdonian ye ken!" But he had a feeling the luck the brewer was
referring to had little to do with his skills on the dartboard. He'd
encountered that look before and not only from Robbie, ever since he
brought Fiona back to the glen.

The publican's daughter interrupted. "You're like a lot of bairns. Whit
a fuss to make aboot throwing wee pointed things at a board!" Isobel
mocked, shoving her way through with a tray of steaming hot stovies and
oatcakes. Blushing as she handed Dod his plate she leaned forward and
whispered, "You'll be walking the dog the morn, I suppose?aboot
seven?"

"Aye," Dod whispered back without hesitation, winking as their eyes
met, "aboot seven."

Fiona was asleep when he got back and Dod lay awake remembering the
first time they'd made love and how he couldn't have felt more
fulfilled, more ecstatic, if the Dons had beaten Celtic six-nil - at
Parkhead! He'd gone for months without a girlfriend and found himself
drawn towards the quiet country girl, attracted by her looks and
challenged by her indifference. He'd sought her out at lectures and in
the canteen, gently probing her background, convinced they had much in
common. What emerged, widowed mother, strict religious upbringing,
night curfews, pressure to study, peer derision, came as no surprise?
Then a shy confession.

"A nervous breakdown?" He had placed his arm around her slim shoulders
then, instinctively. "I'm nae surprised!"

"I went off the rails, as my mither put it," she had told him. "I jist
wanted to know what life was like for other lassies my age. I was
lonely."

"Nae wonder."

"I broke a few o' her rules for a while, then the minister preached me
a sermon and I agreed to try Uni. That's it?except?"

"Except?"

"I hate it here."

He had mouthed the words 'I love you' to at least one girl before, but
now it had meaning for him, just as he had understood her aloofness as
being a cover for vulnerability. He would protect her.

When she finally succumbed, she amazed him with her instinct for
fantastic lovemaking, devouring him like a hungry animal, telling him
he was the man of her dreams - dreams much more imaginative than his
own sex fantasies ever were. What followed, the pregnancy, the
marriage, the decision to quit studies, the move to the country, all
seemed to be outside his control but he didn't care.

Because he did love her. Even now, though he strayed a wee bit with
Isobel now and then (that was just the drink and a young girl's
infatuation and he always felt bad about it afterwards), he was happy
enough with his new lifestyle. The job was undemanding and the wages
below par, but they had fine accommodation, and the plentiful supply of
the best malt whisky meant he spent most of his waking hours in a
contented Scotch mist. He would learn to live with moody hangovers and
guilt pangs and anyway, they only lasted until the next dram. It was
all about sacrifices and rewards and wasn't he forever having to listen
to holy Elsie telling him how lucky he was and how she'd pray for
him?

-----ooooo-----

He pulled back the bedroom curtain when he heard them coming. They were
early. It was a Thursday night ritual but Cup Final night was special.
Alistair, the head maltman, would have rushed his dinner and pedalled
down to his youngest son's house, then on to the next. They would cycle
on in single file collecting team members along the way and by the time
they rounded the corner to the last distillery cottage where Dod and
Fiona lived, the procession resembled a seven-headed serpent, each head
shouting friendly abuse as it came to a halt by Dod's gate. "I'll be
doon in a minute lads," he shouted, hoping they'd stay out on the road.
He had a sulking wife to deal with first.

"Whit is it lass?" he asked, "has your mither been moanin' aboot me
again?"

She pushed his arm away, turning to gaze out of the window. "You an'
your darts team, Dod! Are they mair important than you an' me?"

His eyes widened in disbelief at her anger. "Whit brought this?"

"I blame mysel' for bringin' you here. The drink's pickled the wee bit
brain you had. Here's a clue - it happened a year ago."

"Oh God, Fiona?" He felt a surge of compassion, a desire to hold her
close but she elbowed him off. "I'm right sorry, lass. Whit aboot an
anniversary dinner somewhere at the weekend?" But he had forgotten and
even now his recollections of the wedding, never mind the date, were a
bit hazy. Fiona, a vision in her short midnight blue dress, himself and
big Alistair MacPhail in their kilts hired for the day?the booze?the
breakages...

"Go on, your pals are waitin'," she said, coughing to clear her
throat.

Hesitating at the door, thinking it was just as well he'd taken that
twenty out of the housekeeping earlier, he said "Aye, but I hate
leavin' you like this?"

He was but halfway down the path when she called him, her words
vibrating with emotion. "I'm takin' Geordie tae my mither's for the
night. From whit I've been hearin,' you'll nae be lonley."

Dod blushed amid wolf whistles and a shout of 'Whit have you been up
tae, Dod?' from impatient but amused onlookers. His embarrassment was
changing to anger. "Later!"

"Suit yoursel'. I've nothing tae hide."

"Oh no?" he shouted. "Would ye like me tae tell the boys - and your
mither, maybe - that I was shagging ye lang before we were wed." His
face screwed up in instant remorse. "Come on lads," he said, quickly
mounting his Raleigh Sports, "we'll be late."

"Wait!" Fiona's voice was firm now, commanding.

There was a simultaneous squeaking of brakes and head-turning.
"Whit?"

She walked forward hands on hips, eyeing each cyclist in turn before
stopping next to her husband. "So were your pals!"