them. One day he’ll thank me for my tutelage. Alex the Neandarthal dork is beyond help, I fear.’
I did a sort of laugh, wondering how Hugo makes words like “tutelage” and “alas” sound powerful and not prattish. I threw a miss, then a 2, a 3.
‘Ted Hughes came to our school last term,’ Hugo mentioned.
Now I knew he didn’t hold my poetry prize against me. ‘Yeah?’
Hugo threw a 5, a 6, a miss. ‘He signed my copy of The Hawk in the Rain.’
‘The Hawk in the Rain is brilliant.’ A 4, a miss, a miss.
‘I’m more into the First World War poets, myself.’ Hugo threw a 7, an 8, a miss. ‘Wilfred Owen, Rupert Brooke and that lot.’
‘Yeah.’ I threw a 5, a miss, a 6. ‘I prefer them too, if I’m honest.’
‘But George Orwell’s the man.’ A 9, a miss, a miss. ‘I’ve got everything he ever wrote, including a first-edition Nineteen Eighty-Four.’
A miss, a miss, a 7. ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’s just incredible.’ (Actually I’d got bogged down in O’Brien’s long essay and never finished it.) ‘And Animal Farm.’ (We’d had to read that at school.)
Hugo threw a 10. ‘If you don’t read his journalism,’ a near miss, ‘you can’t say you know Orwell.’ Another near-miss. ‘Damn. I’ll post you this collection of essays, Inside the Whale.’
‘Thanks.’ I fluked an 8, a 9, a 10, and acted like it was nothing special.
‘Brilliant throwing! Tell you what, Jace, let’s liven things up a bit. Got any money on you?’
I had 50p.
‘Okay, I’ll match that. First to twenty wins fifty pence off the other.’
Half my pocket money was a bit of a risk.
‘Go on, Jace.’ Hugo grinned like he really liked me. ‘Don’t be a Nigel. Tell you what, you can have your turn again, to start. Three free throws.’
Saying yes’d make me more like Hugo. ‘Okay.’
‘Good man. But best not mention it to’ Hugo nodded through the garage wall ‘the maters and the paters, or we’ll spend the rest of the afternoon playing ludo or the Game of Life under strict supervision.’
‘Sure.’ I missed, hit the wall, and missed.
‘Bad luck,’ said Hugo. He missed, got an 11, missed.
‘What’s rowing like, then?’ I got my 11, missed, got 12. ‘All I’ve been on are the pedalos at Malvern Winter Gardens.’
Hugo laughed like I’d made a really funny joke, so I grinned like I had. He missed 12 three times in a row.
‘Hard luck,’ I said.
‘Rowing’s phenomenal. All rushing, muscles, rhythm and speed, but only the odd splash, or grunt, or crewmate’s breathing. Like sex, now I think about it. Annihilating your opponents is fun, too. Like our sports master says, “Boys, it’s not the taking part that matters. It’s the winning that counts!”’
I threw a 13, 14, then 15.
‘My God!’ Hugo made a blowing, impressed face. ‘Not suckering me here, are you, Jace? Tell you what, how about fleecing me for one pound?’ Hugo slipped a sleek wallet from his Levi’s and waved a £1 note at me. ‘The way you’re playing today, this smacker’ll be yours in five throws. What does your piggy bank say?’
If I lost I wouldn’t have any money until next Saturday.
‘Oooooo,’ crooled Hugo. ‘Don’t chicken out on us now, Jace.’
I heard Hugo talking about me to other Hugos in his rowing club. My cousin Jason Taylor is such a space cadet. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay!’ Hugo slipped the pound note into his top pocket. He then threw a 12, a 13 and a 14. He made a surprised noise. ‘Wonder if my luck might be turning?’
My first dart hit the brick. My second pinged off the metal. My third missed.
Without hesitating, Hugo threw a straight 15, 16 and 17.
Footsteps clopped from the back door to the garage door. Hugo cursed under his breath, and flashed me a look that said, Leave it to me.
I couldn’t’ve done anything else.
‘Hugo!’ Aunt Alice stormed into the spare garage. ‘Would you care to tell me why Nigel’s in floods of tears?’
Hugo’s reaction was Oscar-winning. ‘Tears?’
‘Yes!’
‘Tears? Mum, that boy is unbelievable sometimes!’
‘I’m not asking you to believe anything! I want you to explain!’
‘What’s there to explain?’ Hugo did this lost, sorry shrug. ‘Jason invited Nigel and me for a nice game of darts. Nigel kept missing. I gave him a couple of pointers, but he ended up storming off in a tizzy. Spouting foul-mouthed “French”, too. Why’s that boy so competitive, Mum? Remember how we caught him making up words just to win at Scrabble? Do you think it’s growing pains?’