Last week I made a trip back to good ol’ Blighty aka Britain. One of the most English things I managed to do whilst I was there inspired this short. Britain has lots of unique features, but many of them transpire in the brick walls of its pubs.
“It’s not like it used to be,” an old man slurs as I push the doors open. A draft of stale ale greets me with a kiss. “In my day, you’d struggle to get a seat,” he continues, looking down at the remaining third of his pint. His voice is raspy, like half his windpipe is rotten. I assume he’s talking to the barman instead of his pint. But the young man behind the bar's keeping his distance, fiddling with a tap at the far end.
“Afternoon, gents,” he says, spotting us file in one by one. We’ve come here for one thing. A pool table. James is the last one in. The door flaps shut behind him, wafting cool air on our backs.
“Cold out there today,” the barman says, looking at our red cheeks.
“It is,” I say, scanning the room for the green-felted table. But it’s not here. James wanders around the corner, disappearing into another room. A few seconds later, he's back, subtly shaking his head.
“So boys. What can I get you?” The barman asks, and the man at the other end turns and stares.
“Jagerbombs is it lads?” his laugh is strained and sick. It sounds like he shouldn’t, like every time a chuckle vibrates in his throat, another part of it dies. He’s trying to find us with his eyes, but they are beaten too, unable to locate anything in a space this big.
“I’ll have a Ghostship,” Lewy says after a long, awkward look at the taps.
“A Parva for me, please,” James adds.
“I guess I’ll take the same.”
“That’s a good one,” the man says, swirling the remainder of his golden liquid in his glass.
“Hopefully,” I reply, and the three of us scurry around the corner. Afghanistan are batting against South Africa on the muted TV mounted on the wall. It’s a fixture I never thought I’d watch. I can get into any sport, but this match is duller than I thought cricket could be. I guess it doesn’t help that I’ve joined the action at a random point. Sport is made by the context, the personalities, the feuds, and the build-up. All that’s left for me is two bats, a leather ball and a few men standing in a field.
“So much for the pool table,” I say. Lewy had been so sure in the last pub.
“There’s one in the Aardvark up the road,” he said, prompting us to get up and leave.
“If there were a few more people, we could have left,” he says, watching the fast bowler being hit for four.
“We could have left anyway,” I say.
“I’m too British for that. Once he asked us what we wanted, that was it.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” James says, raising his pint for a toast. “Here’s to being overly polite.”
“And to the good old days,” I add, imitating a raspy voice. Our glasses clink together, and a little foam runs down my glass. I’m trying to remember the last time we’ve done this. It’s been at least a few months. Way longer if I’m hunting for a toast between the three of us. There’s a pause as we all take a sip. This pints better than the last. At least the change of scenery was good for something.
“There’s a darts board,” James says, pointing out the red eye staring from the opposite wall.
“I’m rubbish at darts,” Lewy says.
“Me too,” I add. “I’ll go get the darts.”
Around the corner, I find the bar empty, completely empty. The old man’s gone home or to the toilet. His empty glass is the only sign anyone has been sitting at the bar. The barman’s still paying around with his taps, tightening our losing the brand badges fixed to the front. I can’t decide which.
“Another round already?” he asks.
“No, no. I’m wondering if we could use the darts?”
“Of course,” he says, spinning around and diving into a cabinet. A few seconds pass as he rummages through a draw. He’s looking for the best set. Pulling out broken flights and placing them on the shelf next to him. Eventually, he comes up for air with three perfectly matching darts in his fingers.
“These are nice ones,” he says.
“Thanks, although I’m not sure we need the good ones. None of us are very good.”
“Take ‘em. All the rest are on the way out anyway.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking all three and disappearing around the corner.
Both boys are watching the cricket unfold in silence. Afghanistan needs lots of runs to get out of their hole.
“Around the world?” I ask. It’s the only game of darts I can bear playing. The official format involves too much maths. Something you overlook until you're calculating what you need to check out. It’s times like this that I wish I tried harder in school.
“What’s around the world?” Lew asks, taking the darts and rolling them between his fingers.
“You go from one to twenty, then check out with a bull. If you hit a double, you skip a number. And if you get a triple, you skip two.”
“Simple enough for you, old man,” James says and takes the darts from Lew.
“You start, then,” I say, and James steps to the oche. Miss, twenty, double one.
“Of course, he’s good at this.” For as long as we’ve known him - and probably for his whole life - James has had an uncanny ability to take to any sport. The usual rule of thumb is this: the more coordination required, the easier he finds it. A game like darts is at his mercy. And against fumbling nerds like us, he’s guaranteed the win.
“You’re up, Lew,” James says. Three, miss, sixteen. Not close, but at least he found the board. The worst thing you can do – especially in an empty pub with hardwood floors – is miss the board and listen to the dart plonk on the ground. My turn next. Two, twenty, plonk. At least I got it out of the way early.
The game continues, and around the world we go. James stretches his legs (or rather his arms), flying through the numbers and hitting his share of doubles along the way. Lewy and I battle for last place, taking defeated steps forward after each miss. Then, failing at point-blank range. But neither the numbers nor the steps mean a thing. We’re not playing darts because we love the game. It’s another British quality. Conversations among friends, even those you’ve known for years, are lubricated with mundane action. In this case, it’s the flick of a wrist doing the trick. A few years ago, we’d be passing a joint from right to left or kicking a ball in a circle.
James hits the bull and takes a seat. He fixes his eyes back on the cricket. But just for a second, because now the lubricant has been squeezed from its bottle, there’s no need for more.
“So when are you moving back?” he asks after I've handed the darts back to Lew.
“That all depends,” I say. I never know how to answer this one.
“On what?”
“The housing market.”
“That’s an easy fix, I’ve got plenty of room,” he says, “You and Tina could have the top floor. It’s basically an apartment.”
“And we both know you love it here,” Lew chimes in, laying the darts on a table.
“Love is a strong word,” I say. “But if we were to move back, this would be on the list of options.”
Answering questions like this is one of the hardest things about moving away or returning home. I never thought I’d have difficulty doing it. When you move abroad, you have a long list of reasons. You do it for the weather, jobs, lifestyle, adventure, love or something else concrete. But as time ticks by, the list blurs. It’s a shopping list left in the rain. In reality, I don’t know the reason myself anymore. Is it pride holding me back? Or is there something tangible sitting out of sight that keeps me away?
I know two things for sure. I love where I live: I love the lifestyle, my personal growth, my marriage, and my new friends. But equally, I love my old friends and my family. I love the smell of the farmyard when I walk around my old neighbourhood. I love playing around the world and having deep chats, golfing with my dad, teasing my mum, and talking about everything with people who know me better than I do.
I pick up a dart and spin it between my thumb, index and middle fingers.
“If I hit a bull, I’ll move back within the year,” I say.
“Deal,” they reply. Plonk.
Love, Luke
The question is: did you 'plonk' on purpose? ;p