Story by Eddie Bruce


            
Hearts and Darts.


            
 

            
Placing his darts and cigarettes in his
            windcheater pocket, Dod Kelman peeked in on the contented face
            of his sleeping one-year-old son, his smile changing to a grimace
            as the knitted cot blanket brought mother-in-law Elsie to mind.
            Back in the main bedroom as he strapped on his watch, Fiona's
            lingering fragrance conspired with the two large whiskies he
            had before leaving the office, 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, there recognising
            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 company cottage with
            a wife and son - and Elsie within nagging distance.

            
Downstairs he crept up behind Fiona 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 inhaled her perfume. Roddy,
            their young Labrador, padded his way over to tug at his master's
            jeans. "Ye ken lass," Dod murmured, "sometimes
            I feel as if I'm in a foreign country. I'm still nae used tae
            the quiet life, ye ken."

            
She turned into him, wiping a damp hand
            on his sweatshirt, pouting as she pressed against him, gazing
            into his eyes. "I know. You miss your pals and your fitba…
            but there's other pleasures..."

            
"Well, aye, but..."

            
"And I miss my man when he's at work
            a' day and aff 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, the team needs me..."
            The doorbell chimed reminding Dod that the darts cup semi-final
            wouldn't wait, but maybe Fiona would.

            
 

            
The drams they supped 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 twelve
            darts and followed that up with a one-five-seven finish in the
            doubles. Inspired by their 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.

            
Dod smirked; high on success and drinks
            their beaten opponents had bought them. "Ye ken whit they
            say aboot Aberdonians Rob - anything for a free drink."
            But he knew the brewer was referring to more than just his skills
            on the dartboard. He'd encountered that envious look more than
            once since he brought Fiona back to the glen.

            
The publican's daughter disturbed his thoughts.
            "You're like a lot of bairns," she mocked, "whit
            a fuss to make aboot throwing wee pointed things at a board!"
            Isobel shoved 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 home 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 innocent
            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, all came as no surprise. Then Fiona's
            shy confession.

            
"A nervous breakdown?" He'd placed
            his arm around her slim shoulders then. "Bloody hell!"

            
"Well nae exactly, I just went off
            the rails a bit, as my mither put it - broke some o' her precious
            rules for a month or two - that's a'."

            
"I dinna blame ye."

            
"Then the minister came roond and
            preached me a sermon and I agreed to try Uni. That's it…
            except…"

            
"Except?"

            
"I hate it here."

            
Dod had mouthed the words 'I love you'
            to at least one girl before, but this time he meant it, just
            as he understood her aloofness as being a cover for vulnerability.
            He wanted to protect her.

            
When she finally succumbed, she amazed
            him with her natural instinct for lovemaking, devouring him like
            a hungry animal, telling him he was the man of her dreams - dreams
            much more imaginative than any of his own fantasies. What followed,
            the pregnancy, the backlash, the marriage, the decision to quit
            studies, the move to the country, all seemed to take place in
            a parallel existence over which he had little or no control.

            
Because he did love her. Even now, though
            he strayed a wee bit with Isobel now and then; it 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
            a distillery cottage, and he a plentiful supply of the best malt
            whisky allowing him to spend most of his waking hours in a mellow
            Scotch mist. He learned to live with the moody hangovers and
            guilt pangs and anyway, they only lasted 'till 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 his soul?

            

            
He pulled back the bedroom curtain when
            he heard them coming; they were early but the darts 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 Dod and Fiona's cottage, 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 was a year ago today."

            
"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. I'll tak ye oot for a meal
            at the weekend, eh?" 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 from the housekeeping earlier,
            he said "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'
            wee Geordie tae my mither's for the night. From whit I've heard
            you'll nae be lonely."

            
Dod blushed amid wolf whistles and a shout
            of 'Whit have you been up tae, Dod?' from impatient but amused
            onlookers.

            
His embarrassment chnaged to anger. "Later
            Fiona, OK?"

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

            
"Oh no?" he retaliated, "then
            ye'll nae mind me tellin' the lads - and your mither as well
            maybe - that I bedded 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 controlled
            now, commanding, causing a simultaneous squeaking of brakes and
            turning of heads.

            
She walked forward hands on hips, eyeing
            each cyclist in turn before stopping next to her husband. "So
            did half your darts team!"

            
 

            
Eddie Bruce lives with his
            wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of his plot-led
            tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually
            varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner,
            builder's labourer, brewer's drayman, London bus driver, trucker,
            mobile librarian - and a few he can't remember. He was born and
            brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving
            on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland
            as the "spirit" moved him. Along the way he met some
            interesting characters and has endeavoured to portray a few of
            these in his stories. Many of his stories are autobiographical
            in nature. As a recovering alcoholic he wrote them in an effort
            to recall the past, hoping that by doing so he might better understand
            where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to his real
            (sober) identity.