The roar of butterflies js-5

by Reginald Hill

  Out of the corner of his eye, he observed that one of a trio of men sitting a couple of tables away had caught Chip Harvey's attention as he passed and seemed to be questioning him closely. Oh shoot, thought Joe. Is good old-fashioned flesh and blood going to get to me before I can order a drink?

  It looked like it. The man stood up. He was may be forty, solidly built but mostly muscle, little flab. He was wearing a pale brown sports shirt and matching tailored shorts that made Joe glad he'd grounded the Technicolor parrots. The man's vigorous dark brown hair was rather becomingly tipped with gray and he had the kind of square open face that gets people buying double glazing or giving cash advances to jobbing builders. He was smiling but Joe didn't let this lull his fears. Places he did most of his drinking in, if a guy came at you with intent to smash your face in, he usually had the decency to look like a guy whose intent this was. Here, he guessed, different conventions might apply.

  But it seemed he was wrong.

  "Mr. Sixsmith, I believe? I'm Tom Latimer, club vice-captain. Young Chip tells me you're waiting for Chris Porphyry."

  "That's right," said Joe, taking the outstretched hand and returning the warm handshake. "Nice boy, that Chip."

  "Yes, we have high hopes of him. Think he might make it on the tour. He'll need backing, of course, but we've got big hearts as well as deep pockets here at the Hoo."

  This didn't mean a lot to Joe, who in any case was preoccupied by the fact that the handshake had become a tow rope drawing him out of his seat as Latimer continued, "Wonder if you'd care to join us? Chris isn't the best of timekeepers, I'm afraid. Always hits the first tee at a run!"

  Unable to think of a good way to say, No, thanks, I'd rather sit here by myself, Joe found himself moving toward the other two men who were also brushing up the welcoming smiles.

  One was less successful than the other. His name was Arthur Surtees, thirty something, his head close shaven presumably to hide the fact that he was bald anyway, and his deep sunken watchful eyes giving the lie to his wide stretched mouth, like a poorly put-together police photofit.

  The other was Colin Rowe, in his fifties, gray-haired, with a lean intelligent face that would have looked well on a college professor. His smile was perfectly natural, nothing exaggerated about it, the kind of wryly sympathetic expression that would, Joe imagined, encourage an errant student to admit he hadn't done his homework.

  But why do I get the feeling these guys know exactly who I am? thought Joe. That was impossible. Had to be his own sense of being out of place talking.

  The steward, wearing a linen jacket as white and crisp as a hoar-frost, appeared as Joe sat down. Thinking that maybe a pint of cold Guinness might strike a wrong note, Joe asked for coffee.

  "Hot or iced, sir?" the steward inquired. He had a lovely voice, like an old-fashioned actor's. You probably needed a public school education just to get a job keeping bar at places like Royal Hoo.

  Joe hesitated. Cold coffee? You got that down at Dot's Diner, you sent it back to be put in the microwave.

  "Iced, I think, Bert," said Latimer. "And the same again for the rest of us. Well, Joe-all right if I call you Joe? We don't stand on ceremony here-how do you like the look of us so far?"

  Joe had no natural talent to deceive, which could be a bit of a drawback in his chosen profession. He was working on it, but on the whole he made do in most situations by looking for straws of truth to get a firm hold of.

  "I'm impressed," he said. "Weather like this, it beats sitting in my office."

  "We all know the feeling," said Surtees. "So where do you play, Joe?"

  Why the shoot can't folk make conversation without asking direct questions? Joe wondered, as he marshaled the few facts he knew about golf to ascertain if there was an answer like "left wing" or "in goal." Didn't seem likely, so presumably they were into geography. Could tell them Luton Municipal Pitch'n'Putt and watch their faces, but that two hundred nestling against his left buttock was beginning to feel very much at home there.

  He said, "I travel around a lot, so anywhere I can, really."

  "And welcome wherever you go, I'm sure," said Latimer heartily.

  A silence. With a bit of luck, thought Joe, it might turn into a siesta and stretch to fill the minutes till Porphyry appeared.

  But luck wasn't on offer.

  "So how's your game, Joe?" said Colin Rowe.

  "Well, you know what it's like, up and down," said Joe.

  Rowe laughed and said, "Part of its charm, eh? Pity they didn't build its fluctuations into the handicap system. Doesn't matter if I feel like crap, when I step on that first tee, I'm playing off 5. Arthur here's a bandit 7. And Tom's 9."

  "On a good day with the wind behind me," said Latimer lightly. "So how about you, Joe?"

  "Sorry?" said Joe.

  "Just wondering what your handicap was," said Latimer.

  Joe found a dozen smart answers crowding his tongue. He guessed a couple of them might be floating around Latimer's mind too. So don't give him the satisfaction, just play it straight. Which sounded a lot easier than it was. That golf had a handicap system he knew, but how it worked he had no idea. The only other game he knew that used handicaps was polo, and that was only because it had come up on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Joe, who was quite keen to be a millionaire, had been trying to improve his general knowledge by making a note of all the correct answers till Beryl had screamed with laughter and said, "Joe, this stuff you're trying to learn is exactly the stuff you don't need to know, 'cos they've asked it already!" But the polo question had stuck.

  What is the best handicap a top-class polo player can have?

  The four alternatives had been 0, 10, 24, 36.

  The answer had been 10. Seemed that beginners started at 0 or even minus something, and 24 and 36 didn't exist.

  Which fitted very well here. Rowe had said he was 7 and Surtees was 5 while Latimer, the club vice-captain and therefore presumably one of its best players, was 9.

  So play it safe.

  "Oh pretty low, you know," he said vaguely.

  "Pretty low? Come on, Joe, don't be modest!" said Surtees with just the hint of a sneer.

  He's trying to provoke me! thought Joe. Wants me to claim I'm a top gun, then he'll look for a way to show me up. Well, hard luck, mate. One thing I've learned is if you have to lie, keep it in bounds of reason.

  "No, really," he said. "My handicap's nothing. A big 0."

  In other words I'm a rank beginner. Put that in your pipe!

  "Scratch, eh? Thought as much," said Rowe. "Soon as I set eyes on you, I thought, there's a scratch man if ever I saw one!"

  Scratch man. Now that sounded really offensive, but Rowe didn't say it in a particularly offensive way, and in any case a guy who was actually boasting when he said he was a lousy golfer didn't ought to get hot and bothered when he was told that's just what he looked like.

  "Yeah? Well, like the man said, what you see is what you get," said Joe pleasantly.

  Rowe smiled but the other two were looking at him speculatively and he began to wonder if maybe Porphyry had told Chip Harvey something different and he'd passed it on to these guys. Well, if he had, that was Porphyry's problem. Where was the man anyway? He didn't like to look at his own watch but he managed to cop a glance at the chunky gold Rolex on Latimer's wrist and saw that it was after ten-thirty.

  Bert, the steward, materialized at the table bearing a laden tray. He set it down and began distributing the drinks.

  "Your iced coffee, Mr. Sixsmith," he said.

  "Right," said Joe, thinking, I'm only here five minutes and already the staff know my name.

  He sipped the coffee. It was delicious. This was the sort of thing people who joined the Royal Hoo knew from birth, he guessed. Luke-warm coffee tastes like ditchwater but, lose a few more degrees and you get this nectar.

  Latimer glanced at his watch.

  "What time are you meeting Chris?" he asked.

  "Ten-thirty."

  "
Past that now. Bad form keeping a guest waiting, but Chris is always a bit of a law unto himself."

  "In more ways than one," said Surtees shortly.

  "Now, now, Arthur," reproved Latimer. "But not to worry, Joe. Even if Chris does stand you up, we'll see you don't have a wasted journey. We were just trying to work up enough energy to play a couple of holes before lunch. We could do with a fourth. What do you say, fellows? Shall we persuade Joe to join us and show us his style?"

  "Only if he gives us half a dozen gotchas," said Surtees.

  This was evidently a joke. They all laughed immoderately and Joe joined in, partly to give the impression he knew what they were laughing about, but also because, as a naturally sociable man, he always found mirth infectious.

  But when the laughs died away, Latimer returned to the attack. "So that's agreed. You'll do us the honor then, Joe? If Chris doesn't show?"

  They were all regarding him expectantly.

  "Love to," said Joe. "Only I haven't brought my gear."

  His long experience of trying to get out of Aunt Mirabelle's arrangements, which usually involved meeting homely spinsters who'd reached the age where hope's allegedly eternal springs were drying to a trickle, should have taught Mm that any excuse that wasn't rock solid was tissue paper to a determined arranger.

  "No problem. Young Chip will fit you up in two minutes in the pro's shop."

  The rock-solid excuse produced after the sandy-based one has collapsed rarely sounds totally convincing, but Joe didn't let such a consideration bother him. He hesitated only to decide between the urgent hospital appointment to discover if his recently diagnosed brain tumor was operable and the need to meet his wife and seven children who were arriving at Heathrow from Barbados mid afternoon.

  Then over Latimer's shoulder he saw the air shimmer as if at the flutter of an angel's wings and a moment later salvation appeared in the form of a YFG.

  "That's most kind of you," he said. "I'd really love to play with you guys…"

  He paused to enjoy the shadow of surprise which ran across each of their faces, then he said, "But, hey, it will have to be some other time. Sorry. Here's Chris now. Thanks for your hospitality."

  He stood up as Porphyry reached the table.

  "Joe," he said. "So sorry I'm late."

  "No problem," said Joe. "Your friends have been making me really welcome." "That's kind of them. We're a welcoming club. Catch you later, Tom." "Why don't you and Joe join us?" said Latimer pleasantly. "Thanks, but no. We're a bit pressed for time and I wanted to show Joe round." "Well, I hope you like what you see, Joe. And don't forget. You've promised us a game so we can see your style." Joe gave him the big grin. "No problem, Tom," he said. "That's one promise I definitely won't forget." Meaning, if ever I come here again which at this moment don't feel likely, I'm going to buy me a plaster cast from the Plastic Poo Joke Shop and wrap it round my leg!

  7

  A Fortunate Lie

  As they descended the flight of stairs that led down from the terrace onto the course, Christian Porphyry apologized again for his lateness, adding, "Still, you seemed to be managing very well on your own."

  "Yeah," said Joe negligently. "Undercover work hones you up for pretty well every extremity, even sitting around drinking iced coffee on a hot day. Seemed nice guys, your three friends."

  "The Bermuda Triangle?" Porphyry laughed. "Yes, they're very good company."

  "So why do you call them that then?"

  "Well, Colin runs Rowe Estates, you've probably seen their boards. And Arthur's a lawyer, while Tom is the boss of Latimer Trust, financial services and investment, that sort of thing. So, property, finance and the law-some members say if they suck you in, when you come out the other side, you don't know which way's up or down! Just a club joke. Means nothing."

  They were walking along the side of a fairway. A buggy came toward them, pulling a small trailer. The driver brought it to a halt and got out.

  "I'd like a word, Mr. Porphyry," he said.

  He was a small red-headed man with a face so savagely assaulted by the sun that it looked like a baked potato just plucked from the embers. He spoke with the kind of Scottish accent that Joe could only localize as more Glasgow Rangers than Edinburgh Festival.

  "What is it, Davie?"

  "It's about a replacement for Steve Waring. It's getting urgent."

  "He still hasn't shown up then?"

  "No, he hasna, and it means the rest of us are working like blacks to keep the course in nick."

  Porphyry shook his head doubtfully. Maybe, thought Joe, he's going to tell the guy that anyone who talks like he does should go easy on the racism. But all the YFG said was, "It's really Mr. Rowe you should be talking to, Davie. He's chairman of the Greens Committee."

  "Aye, I know and I've tried that, but he says that when it came up, you said let's wait a wee while longer to see if Steve shows up."

  "Did I? Yes, I believe I did. I mean, it's only been… how long?"

  "A week."

  "There you are then. Hardly any time. I know this job means a lot to Steve, and you yourself say he's been a good worker. Probably something's come up that he had to sort out, and he'll show up again any time now. I'd just hate for him to come back and find his job had gone."

  "It's a credit to your hairt, Mr. Porphyry," said Davie with only a small amount of discernible irony. "But I called round at his digs last night and there's been no sign of him or word from him since last week. Landlady says he owes a month's back rent. I reckon he's done a runner and we won't be seeing hide nor hair of him this side of Christmas. We need another pair of hands now, else things will start slipping." "All right, Davie. I understand. I'll have a word with Mr. Rowe." The man got back in his buggy and drove on. "Head greenkeeper," said Porphyry. "Bit rough- edged, but the salt of the earth." Which was a good thing to have with a baked potato, thought Joe. "Davie what?" he asked. "Well, Davie actually. David Davie. Never sure whether it's his first or second name I'm using. Still, doesn't seem to trouble him." "And is he any part of your trouble?" asked Joe, keen to get down to cases. "On no. Not at all. Definitely not." As if provoked by the question, Porphyry now strode forward at a pace that in Joe's case came close to a trot. It was very hot and though there were plenty of trees to their right, unfortunately the sun was in the wrong quarter of the sky to afford them any shade. Suddenly Porphyry came to a halt. "Stand still, Joe," he commanded. Though only too pleased to obey, Joe's natural curiosity still made him gasp, "What for?" "Chaps on the tee. Best be careful." Joe followed the YFG's gaze back down the fairway. Some figures had appeared at a distance so great he had to screw up his eyes to work out there were four of them.

  "You think those guys could reach us here?" he asked doubtingly.

  "Probably not, but what I meant was, we don't want to disturb their concentration by movement. And best keep your voice down too."

  "My voice? You're joking, yeah? I'd need a bullhorn before they could hear me!"

  Porphyry smiled and said, or rather whispered, "Normally, yes, Joe. But golf sensitizes the hearing remarkably. You know the great Wodehouse, of course?"

  "Woodhouse? Played for the Posh and Grimsby then went into the fight game?" hazarded Joe.

  "Don't recollect that, though he was a man of great and varied talent. In particular he loved his golf and of course he wrote some of the funniest books in the language. In one of them he talks about a golfer so sensitive, he could be put off his stroke by the roaring of butterflies in the adjacent meadow."

  The YFG chuckled as he spoke, but more as if appreciating a point well made than simply laughing at a bit of daftness. Joe was getting the impression that, apart from being stellar rich, you also needed a sense of humor from outer space to qualify for the Hoo. What was it the Bermuda Triangle had found so funny? Oh yes, the notion of him giving them something called gotchas.

  Reckoning he wasn't going to get much further with roaring butterflies, he asked, "What's a gotcha?"

  "I
n golf, you mean?"

  "Yeah. In golf."

  "Well, it has no official standing, you understand? Though I have known occasions when some of the chaps have had a couple too many before a game and have actually put it into practice."

  Did this guy know how to give a straight answer?

  "But what is it?" demanded Joe.

  "It means if, say, you agreed to have three gotchas each at the start of the game, on three occasions as your opponent was playing his shot you would be entitled to reach between his legs from behind, seize his testicles and cry Gotcha! I think we can move on now, Joe."

  It seemed a good idea, and the further the better.

  Not that any of the golfers' drives had come within fifty yards of them, but that didn't make Joe feel any safer. OK, in his game of choice, football, you could get a smack in the goolies, but if the ref noticed, then it was a red-card job for the offender. But here in crazy Hoo-land, they built it into the rules!

  It was time for some straight talking. The two hundred in his back pocket no longer seemed an issue. In fact it felt earned out already.

  He put on a sprint and caught up with the YFG.