A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [49]
His fingers closed around the first dart. Worn, like the board, and comfortable in his grip. He pumped his hand twice, gauging his shot, then threw firmly toward the board.
It landed precisely where he’d intended—in the wood above the board. From the bar, Smith called, “Here! That’s my wall.”
“Sorry,” Rutledge apologized as the lorry drivers and even the farmers slapped their knees and bent over laughing at his expense.
He waited for the racket to die down and took his second throw. This time the dart landed in the number ring, between eleven and fourteen.
There was more laughter, and the bald-headed man said to Smith, “Set them up, man, this ’ull be a short leg.”
“Nay, he hit the board, didn’t he?” another driver answered. “We could go on all night.”
The point of the game was to put his dart somewhere in the pie-wedge-shaped section numbered 20.
Rutledge took aim for his third and final throw—and this time his dart landed perfectly in the triple in section 20.
There was an intake of breath, and someone said, “You’re a damned lucky man.”
He’d made his three. He walked to the board, pulled out his darts, and scored his throw, amid much joshing.
It was still his turn.
This time the section was 19, to the bottom and left.
His first dart hit the black.
One man said, “Not bad, for a toff.”
He missed his other two throws, and went to retrieve his darts.
His opponent, a slim, dark man called Will, came forward to take them from him, and showed off his own skill, earning a second turn and then a third. But he was off on his next throw and that jarred him just enough to make him miss again. He wound up losing his turn, and went to fetch the darts for Rutledge.
Rutledge threw well this time, keeping pace with his opponent. There was partisanship among the observers now, the farmers taking his part and the drivers banding together behind their man.
Rutledge could have hit the outer bull with ease, but he chose to put two throws into the inner bull, the third one missing its mark.
Still, he had finished the leg just behind his opponent. There was general celebration and someone slapped him on the back as Smith handed him his glass before setting up for the rest of the men.
They stopped after splitting two more legs, sitting down at the bar or the nearest tables instead to talk to Rutledge about London and eventually the war. Four of them had served in France, while the other two had been in the navy.
Rutledge let them talk and then led them into stories about their experiences on the road.
“Ever give a lift to someone who wanted to go to, say, Liverpool or York?”
They shook their heads.
“I’d be sacked,” one of them said, “if it got out.”
“Not for any amount of money,” the bald man added. “Can’t say I like company on the road.”
“Why, do you want to go to Manchester tonight?” Will, the thin man asked, finishing his beer. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’ve been to Manchester,” Rutledge answered him. “Once is enough.”
They laughed, and someone said, “Nay, Manchester’s not all that bad.”
Soon talk shifted to the struggles these men faced making a living wage, the hardships of being away more often than they were at home, coping with the growing tangles of traffic and the winter’s toll on the roads.
“Although it’s a damned sight better than being shot at by the Hun’s aircraft, I swear,” one of the men said. “My mate was blown up by the Red Baron. I saw that Albatross coming in and blew the horn but there was no time. Never is. He was carrying shells, and my windscreen blew out with the force of the blast. They never did find anything of my mate to bury. I took his wife a bit of the lorry, that’s all I could do. If anyone had been sitting beside me, he’d have had his head took off when something slammed into the seat and carried it through into the bed. I don’t miss France, I don’t.”
Hamish said, “They’ll no’ tell you, if they had taken up yon dead man.”
But Rutledge had been watching faces as he’d asked his questions. And if Partridge had got himself out of Berkshire with a lorry driver, he’d have wagered