Chapter Eight #3
At last it was her turn. She weighed the darts in her hand as she took the set from Devon. The tiny bit of practice she’d had earlier had given her a feel for them again.
With her right foot just up to the line, she narrowed her eyes, focused and let the dart fly. Twenty. Double Twenty. Twenty.
‘You’ve played before!’ screeched Bets, leaping up and looping her arms around her waist.
‘Once or twice.’ Ella shrugged and tried to sound nonchalant, unaccountably pleased by Bets’ delight and the look of surprised admiration on Devon’s face.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you could play?’ Bets indignant face made her giggle. ‘Magda never said.’
‘For starters, you never gave me a chance. I did try but you kept interrupting me.’
‘She does that a lot,’ said Devon drily to no one in particular.
‘I do not . . . OK, sometimes I do. So how come you can play?’
‘The double was probably a fluke as I’m a bit out of practice but I used to live over a pub when I was a student.
’ She flashed a superior grin towards Devon.
‘Men tend to assume girls, particularly blonde girls, can’t throw straight.
’ She winked at Bets. ‘Kept me in paint and brushes while I was at college.’
Devon burst out laughing. ‘That’s brilliant.’
Richard tried to look however a vicar should look and after a few expressions crossed his face, he clearly gave up trying. ‘Good for you. I’m sure there’s a scripture in there.’ He nodded his head and muttered to himself. ‘Perhaps Colossians 3:23.’ He lapsed into thought.
‘So have you got any tips for us?’ asked Bets.
‘Yes, your throwing technique is dreadful.’ She mimicked Bets’ throw. ‘You need to be side on and twist your upper body. Keep your body still. Aim, bring the elbow back a little and then throw and let your hand follow through.’
‘Show me again.’ While Bill took his turn, Ella took hold of Bets’ arm and elbow.
‘Like this, feel it.’
This time when Bets threw her dart, she scored a far more respectable eighteen, a one and a twelve.
‘Yay!’ She swivelled her hips, chanting, ‘Go me. Go me. Go me.’
Stepping up and skirting around her smartly, Fred made short work of three throws scoring twenty, twenty, twenty.
Bets, her face a picture of petulance, muttered, ‘Show off,’ as Devon, Ella and Richard burst out laughing.
Ella noticed how quickly she cheered up when Richard’s improved throw delivered three darts, all of which hit the board.
Despite the fact none of them scored anything he received a hearty round of applause from the group of ladies sipping drinks behind them.
Maybe she should take a few lessons from the ever-cheerful Bets.
Nothing seemed to slow her down for long.
In fact, now she was very unsubtly celebrating John’s surprisingly inept score of three.
‘Not very sporting,’ teased Devon, nudging Bets.
‘I know, but it makes me feel a lot better.’ She smirked and rubbed her hands, waggling her eyebrows in pretend villainy.
Ella smiled and tried not to laugh at her silliness.
It was very childish, but it was impossible not to laugh when she realised the vicar, who should never ever play poker, was doing his utmost to look suitably disapproving while distinctly unholy glee danced in his eyes.
Bets’ unsportsmanlike delight was infectious.
‘Right, my turn again. Let’s see if Miss Midas here can give me the darts touch.’ With his dark brows screwed in concentration, almost meeting in the middle, Devon stepped up and took his time, mirroring Ella’s technique. Letting his darts fly, he scored two twentys and a twelve.
Bets leapt to her feet and high-fived him with a loud whoop. ‘Yee-ha!’
Ella took a deep breath as she stepped out of the pub into the chilly night, immediately aware of the quiet.
Ahead, her solitary shadow loomed tall and thin in contrast to the bright lights behind her.
When she looked back she could see everyone inside, laughing and smiling, action and noise, in ambers and golds.
With a leap of her heart she stood stock-still, taking note of the angles and planes of faces, the light and shadow between, the colour and shapes coalescing in her head.
She turned sharply and crossed the street in quick, impatient strides. Devon had offered to walk her home but she’d refused. The place was so tiny compared to London, any hint of danger was laughable unless she was likely to be mauled by a passing hedgehog.
When she opened the front door, the dog bounced up and down in the hall with her usual ridiculous excitement. You’d have thought she’d been gone for three days instead of three hours. With a small sigh, which might almost have been contentment, Ella hung up her coat.
The dog butted her head at her legs gently as if to say, hello, remember me.
I’m still here. The evening had turned out far better than she’d expected.
She’d had fun. Bets had been a lot less irritating than she remembered.
The vicar rather sweet and Devon, well, he wasn’t so bad after all, but one to steer clear of – she couldn’t cope with another lost soul.