The Amateurs

by John Niven

  Stopped.

  And still–somehow–quite clearly above ground.

  ‘Goddamnit!’ Linklater muttered. He put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

  ‘How on earth did that stay out?’ Daventry wondered as Linklater walked up to tap in, being careful not to run over the ten seconds he was allowed to wait for the ball to drop. He barely had to touch the silver face of the putter against the ball for it to clink into the cup.

  Incredible cheers and applause all around him as the full extent of reality dawned on Gary.

  It was the stuff of golf dreams and nightmares.

  He had a six-foot putt to win the Open.

  ‘Ah cannae take it,’ Cathy said.

  April put an arm around her.

  Come on, you stupid, useless bastard, Pauline was thinking. How hard could it be to tap the ball into that wee hole? She could probably bloody do it.

  Ranta turned and stared at Lee, his black eyes had no bottom to them. Lee nearly fainted.

  ‘Any last-minute advice?’ Gary whispered to Stevie.

  ‘It’s uphill now. Don’t be short.’

  Stevie had committed one of the most grievous sins in the caddie’s handbook: he had used a negative in a motivational statement. Stevie said: ‘Don’t be short.’ Gary heard: ‘Hit it very hard.’

  Total silence. On TV Daventry whispered, ‘This for the history books.’

  Gary smacked the ball straight past the hole.

  The crowd gasped.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Daventry said for the umpteenth time.

  A muffled cry came from somewhere in the grandstand.

  Stevie shut his eyes as Gary walked straight round to his ball. Now he had a very slippery downhill four-footer to tie Linklater.

  He lined it up.

  ‘This for the play-off,’ Daventry whispered.

  It didn’t even graze the hole, slipping by a few inches on the left-hand side and dribbling on, coming to rest in almost exactly the same spot as his first putt had been made from.

  Linklater had just won his third consecutive Open.

  Gary walked back round and immediately assumed his putting stance.

  ‘Putting for second place now,’ Torrent said numbly.

  ‘Easy now,’ Stevie said. Gary’s brain heard ‘easy’ and translated it to ‘barely touch it’. The ball dribbled forward, coming to rest with a little over two and a half feet still to go.

  ‘Good lord,’ Daventry said.

  A strange noise from the grandstand as Ranta emitted a high-pitched squeal, somewhere between a train whistle and a piglet being butchered.

  ‘This for fourteen and third place,’ Daventry said.

  Completely beyond caring now, Gary just brushed the ball with the putter.

  It climbed towards the hole.

  It stopped on the lip, trembling.

  It dropped in.

  For a moment, out of perhaps ten thousand people crowded around the green and filling the grandstand, only two people went berserk.

  ‘YES!’ Gary screamed, sinking to his knees, putter raised over his head in triumph.

  In the grandstand Ranta leapt to his feet, screaming, ‘YES! YES! YES! YA FUCKING DANCER YE! BASSTTTTTAARRRDD!’

  Alec and Lee looked at Ranta astonished as the rest of the crowd began to come to life, gradually clapping and cheering. Ranta stopped dancing a jig, leaned down and planted a kiss on Lee’s lips.

  ‘EACH-WAY! FUCKING EACH-WAY, YA CUNTS!’

  With his ten grand each-way bet at 180 to one he had just won a little over a million pounds for a top-three finish.

  ‘Ah’ll tell ye whit, son,’ Ranta said to Lee, ‘if that last putt hadnae dropped you’d be in the boot o’ ma motor the now. Getting fitted fur a set o’ fucking concrete Nature Treks. Anyway–’ he threw an arm around Lee–‘c’mon and we’ll go tae the bar and get a drink. Boy’s a’right, Alec. Ye hear me?’

  Alec glowered at Lee.

  ‘Aye, cheers, Ranta,’ Lee said, ‘ah’ll see ye in there. Ah’m just gonnae go and see ma brother first.’

  As they made their way out of the packed grandstand Ranta remembered something.

  The beast picked up his chirruping mobile. ‘A’ right, boss?’

  ‘Aye. Magic, big man. Fucking magic,’ Ranta said. ‘Listen, ah wis just thinking, maybe ah wis a wee bit hasty earlier. Let’s just leave the boy Findlay alone, eh?’

  ‘Ah…’ Frank looked down at Masterson. ‘Maybe a wee bit late for that, boss,’ he said, stepping away from the spreading puddle of blood.

  Ranta thought for a moment. ‘He’s definitely deed?’

  ‘Well, ah cut the cunt’s fucking throat. That normally sorts them oot like.’

  Ranta thought some more. Ach–fuck it.

  ‘Ach, fuck it. Do us a favour then, swing by 42 The Meadows up in Riverside. Woman called Leanne. She’ll have a wee envelope fur ye tae pick up. Then get yer arse over here when you’re done. Ah’m getting the drinks in.’

  ‘Nae bother, see ye in a bit.’

  Frank hung up and started whistling as he walked over to the wall and began uncoiling the hose, his shape reflected in Findlay Masterson’s dead, open eyes.

  63

  DOWN ON THE GREEN, IN FRONT OF THOUSANDS OF cheering fans, Gary and Stevie were embracing when Linklater walked over, his hand extended. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I guess I gotta ask you what everyone else is going to–what the hell happened?’

  Gary grinned, shaking hands as he said, ‘I was a mongo who dreamt he was a professional golfer. But now the dream is over.’

  ‘And the mongo is here,’ Stevie said, clapping a hand on Gary’s shoulder.

  ‘Ah, right…’ Linklater said.

  On TV screens all over the world, viewers saw Gary and Linklater talking. Daventry supplied the sound; ‘I should think Calvin will be saying, “Thanks very much for handing me that, chum!” Dear oh dear oh dear. Not since poor old Jean Van De Velde at Carnoustie back in ’99 have we seen someone throw it all away so dramatically.’

  ‘He doesn’t look too bothered though,’ Torrent said.

  ‘It’s been a real honour to play with you,’ Gary was saying to Linklater. ‘A dream come true and all that.’ It felt so good to be in control of what came out of his mouth again, to have no crippling erection burrowing into his thigh. It was gone, all gone.

  ‘If you ever get to Florida gimme a call,’ Linklater said. ‘I think I can help you with that shanking.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. You’re probably just standing too close to the ball.’

  They started to make their way off the green, towards the marker’s hut to turn in their scorecards, thousands of people cheering in the grandstands above them, hundreds more pressing against the ropes lining the pathway, policemen holding them back as the sky began to darken for what felt like the first time in weeks. In a group right at the front of the ropes he saw his family–his mum, his Aunt Sadie and Uncle Danny, his sister-in-law, his nephews and niece. Bert and Dr Robertson too.

  His mum had tears streaming down her face as he pulled her through the ropes towards him. ‘Aww, son,’ Cathy said, ‘I’m that p-proud o’ ye.’

  ‘Mum, listen, has the boiler in your bedroom been making a funny noise recently?’

  ‘Eh? Ma boiler? Er, aye, a bit. Sometimes in the night.’

  ‘Maybe we should get it looked at, eh?’

  He hugged her to him, smiling as he looked up into the darkening sky. Then, above the roar of the crowd, he heard Lee’s voice, the words ‘ma brother’ and ‘ya fucken prick’.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Gary said to the policeman. Lee stepped through the ropes and the two brothers embraced, Lee smelling sweat and blood, Gary smelling the sweetish hint of cannabis.

  ‘Fuck sake, bro,’ Lee began, ‘that was some–’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lee.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Listen, do you want to get a round in next week? Me and you? Up at Ravenscroft?’

  �
��Er, aye, sure. That’d be magic so it wid.’

  People on all sides calling Gary’s name out. Flashbulbs popping, cameras on him, microphones and tape recorders thrust towards him and now Pauline appearing through the crowd, holding her player’s guest pass imperiously in the face of the policemen.

  ‘Gary,’ a man next to him said, extending a microphone towards him. ‘Nick Parr from the BBC. Can we have a quick word?’

  ‘Aye, sure,’ Gary said as Pauline pushed through and slipped her arm around him, taking her place beside him in front of the cameras.

  ‘Here with Gary Irvine,’ Parr said through the microphone to the crowd, to the television audience at home, ‘who has just become the highest finishing amateur entrant in the Open for nearly eighty years. But what could have been. Gary, you threw away an enormous lead. I hope you don’t mind me asking–what happened on the last hole there? Was it the pressure?’

  ‘Ach, you know golf, Nick. It’s a funny game.’

  Everyone laughed. Pauline giggled and gazed at him adoringly.

  ‘I’m sure everyone knows your story by now, but tell us–what’s it like to go from being a club golfer just a few months ago to playing with the world number one in the final round of the Open?’

  ‘Ah, it was fine, Nick. Brilliant. I just hope I didn’t put Calvin off too much!’ More laughter.

  ‘As I say, you came so close to winning, but the third-place cheque for nearly three hundred thousand pounds should be some compensation, I would think.’

  ‘Ah, no, not really. I’m not going to take it, Nick. I don’t want to lose my amateur status.’

  Those close enough in the crowd and the millions watching on TV saw Pauline’s face change.

  She was still smiling, but the corners of her mouth were quivering, fighting not to turn down as she turned to look at him. Gary smiled back at her.

  ‘He’s just kidding,’ Pauline said to more laughter.

  ‘Pauline?’ Gary said. ‘Fuck off.’

  He briskly shook Parr’s hand–‘Thanks, Nick’–untangled himself from Pauline’s embrace, and stepped out of shot and into the crowd.

  Pauline stood alone in front of the cameras for a long, agonising, silent moment.

  It was the most beautiful thing Stevie had ever seen.

  Then a roar went up as Linklater emerged from the marker’s hut and Parr, the camera crews and the crowd were all surging towards him.

  Pauline turned round, speechless, to find herself face to face with a very angry Lee.

  ‘Listen, ya dirty fucking boot,’ he whispered through grinding teeth, ‘ah ken fine well you’ve been riding that fucking carpet guy. Tom fucking Sellick right up ye. Just do us aw a favour and get yourself tae fuck before ah panel yer daft fucking coupon in.’

  Lee shouldered his way off into the crowd, leaving Pauline blinking back tears, her jaw working strangely.

  Gary pushed on through the crush–people slapping him on the back, trying to shake his hand–until he found her. As April watched him coming towards her she noticed that there was still a tiny fleck of dried blood on his cheek. She wet her thumb and reached out and wiped it off. ‘So what happened to “I’ve got to try and make my marriage work”?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Well, God loves a trier…’ Gary said as he leaned into her.

  They kissed, oblivious to the cheering fans, to the TV cameras and the flashbulbs, to the officials trying to get Gary into the marker’s hut to return his card, and to the cool rain that had finally started to fall softly, sweeping in from the Irish Sea, heading inland, moving eastwards across Ayrshire, covering the dry fields and the baking roads and making them sizzle gently, making everything smell fresh and sweet and new.

  Epilogue

  Gary Irvine resigned from Henderson’s and attended Strathclyde University as a mature student. He graduated with a 2.1 in History and is now a teacher. He recently got his handicap down to sixteen.

  April Tremble became Sports Editor of the Daily Standard. The Amateur, her account of Gary’s accident and performance in the Open, was a surprise best-seller. She and Gary live in Glasgow with their two young children.

  Pauline Irvine was declared bankrupt after Kiddiewinks finally went into liquidation. She still lives in Ardgirvan, with her friend Katrina, where she works part-time as an escort.

  Findlay Masterson’s body was never found and no one was charged in connection with his murder. After she banked the insurance money Leanne Masterson sold the carpet business and retired to the Caribbean.

  Lee Irvine received a substantial cheque from an anonymous benefactor and has invested in several diverse business opportunities. He and Lisa have since had a third son–Ganges. He regularly plays golf with his brother.

  Stevie Burns finally sold Target Video to Silver Screen for a six-figure sum. He donated half of this to the Ardgirvan branch of the Socialist Workers Party. He and Gary still argue about the second Stone Roses album.

  Ranta and Alec Campbell were gunned down in a gangland shooting. Ranta alone suffered sixteen separate gunshot wounds. Despite this he survived while Alec died in intensive care.

  Ben lived to be twenty-one years old, earning himself a half-page feature in the Daily Standard. (‘Scotland’s oldest dog!’) When finally put down he attempted to bite the hand of the vet administering the injection.

  Much later Cathy Irvine passed away quietly in her sleep. She loves to walk the manicured fairways of Augusta National with her husband, her leg no longer stretching out into the empty side of the bed.

  Author’s note

  For the sake of narrative I took a few small liberties with the process of qualifying for the Open. I hope those familiar with the procedure will forgive me. I’d like to thank Dr. Fintan Sheerin for his generous, insightful help with all questions neurological. Also, and most importantly, a big thank you to all those kind and foolish enough to regularly tee it up with me. The Charlie Hodge Invitational boys: Stewart the Bull Garden, Peter McSween, Allen Reid, Graham Fagen (am I 4 up G?), Paolo Righetti, Andy Daly and Martin Murphy; Barry, Joe and Robin at Royal Beaconsfield; Fin and Eamonn at Ashridge; Russell Brown, Ron Fernandez and Danny at Little Hay; and Andy at Princes Risborough. I’ll take this opportunity to apologise for every tortured profanity over the years.

  Also a very special thank you to my editor, Jason Arthur at William Heinemann. Lastly, but certainly not leastly, as Jessica Lange would say, enormous and ongoing gratitude to my wonderful agent, Clare Conville at Conville & Walsh.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More…

  About the author

  2 Meet John Niven

  About the book

  3 A Conversation with John Niven

  Read on

  10 John Niven interview: Chip off the old block

  About the author

  Meet John Niven

  JOHN NIVEN was born in Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland. He has written for The Times, Independent, Word, and FHM, among other publications. He is also the author of the novella Music from Big Pink and the novel Kill Your Friends.

  About the book

  A Conversation with John Niven

  An e-mail interview with Lloyd Cole and John Niven conducted in December 2009. Lloyd Cole is a singer/songwriter and lifelong golfer who plays off a handicap of 7. John plays to a far humbler 15.

  LLOYD COLE: Wodehouse and Updike aside, there isn’t exactly a tradition of great literature set in the world of golf. There is, however, a rich vein of lite crap—be it Zen lite, lite humor, or just lite shite. For every decent golf book, there are two hundred fifty duffers. Why take the chance?

  JOHN NIVEN: It may sound nuts, but I never really thought of it as a book “about” golf. Maybe only—and ultra-pretentiously—in the same way that Moby-Dick is a book “about” a whale. I knew it was going to be about family and minor-league drug dealing and infidelity, all set against the backdrop of amateur golf. Funnily enough, when I initially pitched the idea to my agent and editor and I said, “Well, it’s ki
nd of about golf,” you could literally see their eyes glazing over. If you play golf, you forget what a dirty word it is to a lot of people. So gradually I started pitching the book as being about “murder, adultery, contract killing, drug dealing, and golf,” and funnily enough, everyone seemed much happier. It was absolutely key for me that the book would work for people who had no interest in, or knowledge of, golf. I tried to structure the novel so that someone who wasn’t crazy about the golf part would never be too far away from some of the murder, infidelity, and botched drug dealing. And for the record Updike is, I think, the laureate of the sport. Golf features peripherally in all the Rabbit books and centrally in the collection Golf Dreams, and it is, for me at any rate, a source of great regret that he never produced a novel with golf at its core. Then again, if he had, I would probably never have had the nerve to attempt one myself.

  “It may sound nuts, but I never really thought of [The Amateurs] as a book ‘about’ golf. Maybe only—and ultra-pretentiously—in the same way that Moby-Dick is a book ‘about’ a whale.”

  LC: What is it with golf? Despite its traditions of bigotry, social climbing, and terrible clothes, despite the expense and the time consumption, the game still attracts a wide demographic. Where exactly does the magic reside?

  JN: I think it’s the possibility of occasional perfection for even the worst duffer. I play off a 15 handicap, and every now and again, once or twice a round, and probably due to luck more than judgment, I’ll catch one right out of the socket. Which is to say I’ll hit a shot perfectly, exactly as I intended. Tiger Woods could not have hit that particular shot any better. I can’t think of any other sports that afford that opportunity to middle-aged men. If I did nothing but play tennis every single day for the next ten years, I would never be able to hit a serve as hard as Roddick or Nadal. I could never return a 120-mile-an-hour volley with power and accuracy. That feeling of almost omnipotence you get when you connect perfectly with a golf ball is hard to describe. It’s as though the ball isn’t there. You might only be able to make that happen once in a blue moon, but you really do get hungry for that feeling. If you watch people who are learning golf, who are thinking about taking up the sport, you can see the moment when they hit that shot—the one that flies a couple of hundred yards straight as a die, high in the air—and you can almost hear a bell ring in their chest. That’s when people get hooked. With regards to social climbing, bigotry, et cetera, it’s worth noting that where I grew up, in Ayrshire, on the west coast of Scotland, golf was a very working-class thing. Everyone played. There wasn’t the association with middle-class retired Wing Commanders there seems to be in many other places. Golf is still relatively cheap in Scotland too. You can find a decent public course to play for around 15 to 20 quid. Which, for a long time, wasn’t the case in many other countries.