shuffling in the group. ‘Elaine thought . . .’
‘I thought I’d have a bash at captain for the first round,’ says Elaine, with military briskness. You’d not want to find yourself on the wrong side of Elaine. Nor Lauren Blakely, for that matter.
Elaine continues, ‘You won’t mind, will ye, Lauren – letting someone else have a turn?’
‘I thought we were getting a league together,’ says Lauren, squaring up. ‘We’ve some very inexperienced players,’ she says, casting a look at Ann. ‘It’s important the captain knows who to play.’
‘Captaincy’s not been decided yet,’ says Elaine Henderson, with some force. ‘And as you were late . . .’
‘Five minutes,’ snorts Lauren.
Ann hears in her head the whistling music from that Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. What was it now – High Noon ? The Good, the Bad and the Ugly ? That’d be about right. The ladies shift again, like some restive herd. Pat is smiling with all her face, as if this alone might smooth things.
‘Double-in, double-out then, everyone?’ says Elaine. ‘I need eight ladies who can hit the board.’
‘Might as well sit down,’ Lauren whispers to Ann. ‘She’ll not pick us for this round.’
Ann exhales with relief.
They buy a round of drinks and she, Mo and Pat follow Lauren to a table. They sit in a line along the banquette, watching women gather in front of the dartboard on the opposite side of the room. The floor is a busy swirl of burgundy carpet, the dark wood pillars dripping with horse brasses.
‘Here, Hayley Barnsdale’s up,’ says Mo. They all look across the floor to an attractive woman in a purple mohair sweater. ‘Found love off the Internet, so Karen Marshall says. Madly in love, by all accounts.’
Ann and Lauren shoot a glance at each other.
Mo and Karen from the chemist: the espionage dream team, their periscopes in every bedroom across the dale. There were al-Qaida cells less vigilant than those two.
‘Gone on holiday an’ everything,’ Mo is saying. ‘Greece, Karen said. Happen she left her daughter behind. She stopped with the Richardsons a couple of nights, so I hear.’
‘You’d know all about it, would ye?’ says Lauren.
‘Just what I heard,’ says Mo. ‘Only seven, she is. Well, it’s not right, is it?’
‘That’s it, Mo,’ says Lauren. ‘You suck the lifeblood out of others ’ happiness.’
Bit harsh, thinks Ann, watching the two of them. Only human, to be interested in folks’ lives. But she can see what it is about Mo that rankles. It’s the glee. The feeling that if you were bleeding to death in the street, she’d have more to say about the price of your shoes.
They get in another two rounds, during which time Ann asks Pat about her children. Her son has motor neurone disease. That ever-present smile seems heroic now. All these braveries, Ann thinks, that are hidden in people’s lives.
Lauren asks Ann about Ivy Dawson’s mobility scooter.
‘Don’t get me started. That woman’s a liability,’ says Ann, but a gasp is rippling round the room and all eyes are on the floor. Lauren is straining up out of her seat. She begins a low incantation, through her teeth.
‘Don’t put Brenda up. Don’t put Brenda up. Don’t put Brenda up.’
They all look across the room.
‘What’s happening?’ Ann asks Mo.
‘It’s getting towards the end of the round is all. Scores are low so it’s harder to hit the points home. Even the best players —’ Mo stops and throws her hands into her lap. ‘Well, that’s in then. Might as well go home.’
Brenda Farley, who is eighty if she’s a day, has taken to the floor. Her toe is on the yellow line, a dart in her hand. She is four foot two and so stooped by a dowager’s hump that she can barely see the board. They all watch as Brenda strains her eyes upwards, her brow furrowing hard into horizontal pencil pleats, and then it’s as if the stoop gets the better of her and her gaze returns to the floor.
‘Oh
‘I thought I’d have a bash at captain for the first round,’ says Elaine, with military briskness. You’d not want to find yourself on the wrong side of Elaine. Nor Lauren Blakely, for that matter.
Elaine continues, ‘You won’t mind, will ye, Lauren – letting someone else have a turn?’
‘I thought we were getting a league together,’ says Lauren, squaring up. ‘We’ve some very inexperienced players,’ she says, casting a look at Ann. ‘It’s important the captain knows who to play.’
‘Captaincy’s not been decided yet,’ says Elaine Henderson, with some force. ‘And as you were late . . .’
‘Five minutes,’ snorts Lauren.
Ann hears in her head the whistling music from that Clint Eastwood spaghetti western. What was it now – High Noon ? The Good, the Bad and the Ugly ? That’d be about right. The ladies shift again, like some restive herd. Pat is smiling with all her face, as if this alone might smooth things.
‘Double-in, double-out then, everyone?’ says Elaine. ‘I need eight ladies who can hit the board.’
‘Might as well sit down,’ Lauren whispers to Ann. ‘She’ll not pick us for this round.’
Ann exhales with relief.
They buy a round of drinks and she, Mo and Pat follow Lauren to a table. They sit in a line along the banquette, watching women gather in front of the dartboard on the opposite side of the room. The floor is a busy swirl of burgundy carpet, the dark wood pillars dripping with horse brasses.
‘Here, Hayley Barnsdale’s up,’ says Mo. They all look across the floor to an attractive woman in a purple mohair sweater. ‘Found love off the Internet, so Karen Marshall says. Madly in love, by all accounts.’
Ann and Lauren shoot a glance at each other.
Mo and Karen from the chemist: the espionage dream team, their periscopes in every bedroom across the dale. There were al-Qaida cells less vigilant than those two.
‘Gone on holiday an’ everything,’ Mo is saying. ‘Greece, Karen said. Happen she left her daughter behind. She stopped with the Richardsons a couple of nights, so I hear.’
‘You’d know all about it, would ye?’ says Lauren.
‘Just what I heard,’ says Mo. ‘Only seven, she is. Well, it’s not right, is it?’
‘That’s it, Mo,’ says Lauren. ‘You suck the lifeblood out of others ’ happiness.’
Bit harsh, thinks Ann, watching the two of them. Only human, to be interested in folks’ lives. But she can see what it is about Mo that rankles. It’s the glee. The feeling that if you were bleeding to death in the street, she’d have more to say about the price of your shoes.
They get in another two rounds, during which time Ann asks Pat about her children. Her son has motor neurone disease. That ever-present smile seems heroic now. All these braveries, Ann thinks, that are hidden in people’s lives.
Lauren asks Ann about Ivy Dawson’s mobility scooter.
‘Don’t get me started. That woman’s a liability,’ says Ann, but a gasp is rippling round the room and all eyes are on the floor. Lauren is straining up out of her seat. She begins a low incantation, through her teeth.
‘Don’t put Brenda up. Don’t put Brenda up. Don’t put Brenda up.’
They all look across the room.
‘What’s happening?’ Ann asks Mo.
‘It’s getting towards the end of the round is all. Scores are low so it’s harder to hit the points home. Even the best players —’ Mo stops and throws her hands into her lap. ‘Well, that’s in then. Might as well go home.’
Brenda Farley, who is eighty if she’s a day, has taken to the floor. Her toe is on the yellow line, a dart in her hand. She is four foot two and so stooped by a dowager’s hump that she can barely see the board. They all watch as Brenda strains her eyes upwards, her brow furrowing hard into horizontal pencil pleats, and then it’s as if the stoop gets the better of her and her gaze returns to the floor.
‘Oh
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