The roar of butterflies js-5
Page 21
On the terrace the spectators forgot about the sirens and fell silent again, a silence quickly broken by the hiss of in-drawn breath. Of many in-drawn breaths.
He looked up and saw his ball. At least he saw someone's ball, though it was so distant and receding so fast he couldn't really believe it was his.
It was still high in the air when it passed over Latimer's, it made first contact with the ground a yard or so beyond Surtees', its first bounce took it past Rowe's, and it continued for a good fifty yards before finally coming to rest in the middle of the fairway.
From the terrace above came a rattle of applause, a rumble of cheers, and even, despite the fact that this was the Royal Hoo, a skirl of appreciative whistles that turned into gasps of horror as the first police car appeared, making directly for the clubhouse straight up the sacred fairway. One thing about Willie Woodbine, he knew how to make an entrance. Joe turned and walked off the tee. Chip had been right. It was an easy game. And the roar of the butterflies was nothing but applause for a job well done. The Bermuda Triangle stood stock still, looking as petrified as he'd felt only a few moments earlier. As he passed them, he gave them an almost sympathetic smile. "Gotcha!" said Joe.
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Document ID: fbd-9b4009-a324-c047-6e8b-79bd-9a96-c6c943
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 19.05.2011
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