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 it wasn't one of these men.
Smith was calling time, and Mrs. Smith said to Rutledge as he looked around for it, 'I'll bring up your dinner, if you like.'
He hadn't touched it, hadn't had the time, hungry or not.
He bought a final round, then said good night, leaving the drivers to drink in peace. The farmers had already left half an hour before.
Mrs. Smith met him at the stairs as he came out of the bar, his plate on a tray.
'Were you thinking about Mr. Partridge?' she asked him. 'When you wanted to know if someone might find a ride with a driver?'
He was caught off guard.
'Yes, I was, as a matter of fact,' he answered, lowering his voice.
'He was here, once. Playing darts and later asking about traveling to Liverpool. But it was the roads he wanted to hear about. What sort of time he could count on making.'
'When was this?'
'Six months ago, at a guess. Longer, for all I can remember.'
The state of the roads.
'You're certain it wasn't the prelude for asking for a lift?'
'No, sir, he has his own motorcar, I can't think why he would need a lift with the likes of them.'
'How well do you know Mr. Partridge?'
'He wasn't one to come around in the evening, as a rule.' She smiled ruefully. 'I think it's when he can't stand his own company any longer.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Well, he's a widower, isn't he?' There was pity in her voice.
'Did he tell you he was?'
'Lord, no, sir, we never spoke about his private life. No, it was young Slater who said he'd lost his wife and hadn't much use for company. Mr. Partridge kept to himself at his cottage, and seldom went out. We were that glad to see him, when he did come.'
And yet this wasn't the sort of pub a man like Partridge would frequent. Granted it was the nearest one to the cottages, but he wasn't working class, if the army was keeping an eye on him.
That reminded him of the dead man in Yorkshire, whose hands were soft and uncallused.
Hamish said, 'Why did ye no' show her the drawing?'
Rutledge wasn't sure himself why he hadn't. But he wanted no rumors reaching the Tomlin Cottages before he himself could go there in the morning.
He slept poorly that night. As if the memory of the dart game on his birthday had stirred up the past too deeply, he could hear the guns in France, and men calling and screaming and swearing, bringing himself up out of the depths to lie awake until the sounds receded. And then he would drift into sleep again for another quarter of an hour, sometimes longer, before the guns started shelling his position. Muzzle flashes in the distance seemed to light up the sky, and the flares were sharp, brilliant, nearly burning his eyes.
Once when he awoke, he could hear Hamish talking to someone, and then he realized that the someone was himself, answering the familiar voice of a dead man, even in his sleep.
'I'm trained to it,' he said aloud, and then lay still listening. But from the other rooms came the regular snores of occupants luckier than he was, comfortable in their beds. 'Like a dog who knows his master's voice.'
Hamish's laugh was harsh. 'Oh, aye? More like a man wi' blood on his conscience, who canna' find peace.'
'You left me no choice but to execute you. You wouldn't heed me when I warned you what would follow, if you didn't relent and obey the orders given you. I warned you, and you didn't listen.'
'I couldna' watch more of my men die while the colonel who gave the orders sat safe and ignorant miles behind the lines. You knew, you knew as well as any of us that it was hopeless.'
'No more so than the whole bloody campaign. We did what we were told, because there was no other choice left to us but to obey. One man, two men, a dozen, couldn't have stopped the madness. We had to carry on to the end, and die if we had to.'
'I wasna' afraid of dying. Ye ken that well. I couldna' bear to watch the ithers die. There had been too many,
