On Friday evening after dinner Fidelia announced that she and Letty had decided to accept Janet’s offer and go to Glasgow with her. She stared at Angus as she spoke. He stared at Buddha.
Janet was pleased and showed it by kissing Fidelia and giving Letty a hug, which, to Nell’s surprise, was not shrugged off. Yet Janet’s triumph was subdued, as if she did not want to provoke the demons. Nell herself had almost begun to believe in the damned things. Last night, God help her, she had looked in the shell and been relieved to see bread in it.
‘It’s a pity there are no boats or planes on Sunday,’ said Janet. ‘We could have gone then.’
On Saturday afternoon David McNaught arrived with news that changed everything.
9
There was no clubhouse, only a small shed of corrugated iron in which, fastened to the wall by a chain, was a wooden box for the green fees. The money had to be put in through a slot. A typewritten mildewed notice gave local rules: one in particular amused Ballantyne. ‘If a ball lands in a cowpat, it may be lifted, cleaned, and dropped, without penalty.’ In a bin were some small brooms made of birch twigs. They were for sweeping sheep’s droppings off the greens.
Ballantyne was more tolerant than Douglas about these shortcomings. It cost a lot of money to keep the grass short; cows and sheep were the cheapest and easiest way of doing it. That was all very well, grumbled Douglas, but they made a mess of the fairways, as did also the myriads of feathers, wild flowers, and mushrooms, which often made the finding of a ball difficult. The greens were protected by barbed wire but sheep still got through and he had once torn an expensive pair of slacks. If it had been a third-rate municipal course, he would not have minded because he never played on such courses. But Flodday was first-rate, potentially as good as any in Scotland.
It annoyed him that Ballantyne was able to be good-humoured and forgiving for a reason that had nothing to do with golf; he was looking forward to seeing his wife that evening. He had already said twice that, whatever the state of the game, they would have to leave no later than six, so that they could get back to the hotel in good time.
Douglas hadn’t been able to resist retorting that it was up to Ballantyne to get a move on, for he, Douglas, was a fast player. In his experience, he had added, Americans and Australians were painfully slow on a golf course. Once, at St Andrews, he had played behind a foursome of Australians, in pouring rain, and the round had taken more than five hours. Their language too had been offensive. They had just been enjoying themselves, said Ballantyne, with a chuckle.
It riled Douglas too that he was still calling Ballantyne by that name, not having been properly sanctioned to call him Bruce, although Ballantyne, without permission, was now calling him Douglas.
Two players were already on the first tee, an old man and his wife, he wearing a cap and plus-fours, she a white hat and long skirt. Both were at least 75. His ball, feebly but cannily struck, travelled no more than a hundred yards but in a straight line. Hers shot sideways into a clump of heather.
She was not discomfited. ‘You gentlemen look as if you take the game seriously,’ she said, with intended irony. ‘Please go ahead.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Ballantyne.
Douglas thanked her too but curtly. Incompetent players ought not to be allowed on a golf course. Golf was not a mere game: it was a way of life, a dedication, a religion even.
Douglas won the toss. Taking care not to let anything, even annoyance with Janet, cause him to swing too fast, he performed his usual few twiddles with his driver, necessary for the steadying of his nerves, and then smote the ball. It soared, as did his heart, and flew straight and true for a good 210 yards and, on hitting the fairway, bounded forward another 30 or so, coming to rest in a position from which his second shot to the green would present no difficulty.
‘Good shot,’ said Ballantyne.
‘Bravo,’ cried the old man.
‘Not bad,’ said his wife, who hoped that Ballantyne would hit a better one.
He disappointed her. His ball went further but not so straight, ending up on a high bank amongst marram grass.
He grinned cheerfully and thanked the old couple again.
Then he and Douglas strode off, carrying their bags.
‘I don’t see how people can enjoy golf if they play it badly,’ said Douglas.
‘Maybe they were good when they were young.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Does your wife play?’
‘She tried once but wasn’t interested. It’s not really a game for women.’
‘Nell was always more interested in tennis. But maybe, if all goes well, we could make up a foursome.’
Douglas did not approve of matches arranged for social reasons, where the quality of the golf did not matter.
His ball could not have been lying more conveniently. From past experience he knew in which of the hollows ahead lay the green, and just how far it was. Taking a four-iron, he swung and hit, and had the infinite pleasure of watching his ball fly high and true to its destination. He could not see it land but was confident it was on the green, probably close to the hole. He had an excellent chance of a birdie. He felt exalted, as if he had just proved not merely his skill as a golfer but his worth as a man.
From the high bank Ballantyne had a view of the green and saw where Douglas’s ball had come to rest on it. He held his arms apart, to indicate how close to the hole it was.
Douglas’s heart always warmed to an opponent sincerely applauding a good shot of his.
Ballantyne could also see the seven-mile long beach, with cattle standing on the white sand. Across the sea-loch white houses shone in the sun. ‘Marvellous view from up here,’ he cried. Douglas’s heart grew warmer still. An opponent who remained cheerful when confronted by superior play was worth beating.
Ballantyne hit the ball delicately for so big a man. It landed on the green but unluckily shot off into a bunker. Nevertheless, it was a meritorious shot and Douglas said so generously. It meant of course that Douglas was going to win the hole.
Tufts of wool clung to the barbed wire. The green was strewn with clusters of black pellets. These Douglas swept away with the broom. They had agreed that he would carry it the first nine holes and Ballantyne the second nine.
Ballantyne in the bunker played his shot. Up came the ball in a shower of sand, landed on the green, and rolled up to the hole, stopping nine inches short. Douglas struck it away with his putter. He knew players who would have made Ballantyne putt it out, but he wasn’t mean like that. In any case, Ballantyne’s four was soon going to be beaten by his three.
Douglas’s own putt was about three feet. He believed in taking his time. He crouched now on this side of the hole and now on that, studying the borrows for a minute at least. Ballantyne stood by patiently. This was commendable. Douglas knew players who fidgeted and mumbled under their breath while he was going through this time-consuming but necessary procedure. At last he was ready. He putted and the ball rolled smoothly into the hole.
‘Damned good birdie,’ said Ballantyne.
‘Not a bad par of your own, Bruce. You don’t mind me calling you Bruce?’
‘I’ve been wondering when you were going to.’
They made for the second tee. Douglas felt so friendly and magnanimous that he found himself saying: ‘I haven’t been quite honest with you, Bruce. You were right in what you said about Janet, my wife. She has run away from me.’
‘I wondered why she didn’t come to the airport to meet you. I hope it’s not serious.’
‘No, no. She’s a strange girl in some ways. Thinks she has second sight. Born and brought up in Skye. Beautiful, though. You’ll see for yourself. Now, Bruce, I’d better warn you about this hole.’
About 50 yards directly in front of the tee was a sandy hillock blocking out all view of the fairway.
‘Aim for the middle of the hill,’ said Douglas, ‘and belt it as hard as you can. It’s a long hole and the fairway’s pr
etty wide. High handicappers have trouble getting over the hill. Easy for us, of course.’
He showed how. His ball flew high over the hill.
Ballantyne paused, as he was about to drive. ‘You know, Nell must see something in McAllister that I never could.’
A golfer faced with a drive that could go badly wrong ought not to have such matters on his mind. However, they did not put Ballantyne off his stroke. His ball followed Douglas’s over the hill.
Douglas was willing enough to chat between shots. He felt close to Ballantyne, who was a good golfer, though not so good as himself. It was a warm sunny afternoon too and the course was in not too bad shape considering: what cowpats there were had dried up, attracting not too many flies. Above all, he, like Ballantyne, had a runaway wife; but his, unlike Ballantyne’s, hadn’t run away to an old lover. He felt grateful to those McAuslans, whoever they were.
‘You may have noticed, Bruce, that I keep myself fit.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’
‘Karate as well as golf. Badminton and squash in winter. Women don’t seem to appreciate that men who keep themselves in prime condition are bound to have, well, let’s be frank, stronger sex urges than men who don’t look after their bodies.’
Ballantyne was straight-faced. ‘In Basah there were small skinny natives who had more than twenty kids.’
Douglas had a knack of ignoring anything that did not suit his theories. ‘Janet’s a bit narrow-minded about some things. Her Free Kirk upbringing, I’m afraid.’
‘Did she catch you at it bare-arsed?’
Though it was to the point, it did not have to be expressed so crudely. Douglas frowned.
They came then to where their balls were likely to have landed. Unfortunately, there were thousands of small white feathers. They began to search.
‘This is what I meant,’ grumbled Douglas.
‘Well, did she?’
‘As a matter of fact, she did. A woman I’ve played golf with. I don’t play with many, mind you. We were practising putting on the carpet and having a few drinks. This was in my house. Janet was in Skye visiting her folk. She came back a day sooner than she was expected. Jolly unfair of her, wouldn’t you say? Well, Cissie challenged me to this putting match, with our clothes off. She’s a good-looking woman, you know. Well, you can guess what followed. We had just finished when Janet came in. I expect it looked suspicious to her. Anyway, she got shirty and hit me with a putter. It was bloody sore. So I lost my temper and gave her a skelp.’
They found their balls. Ballantyne’s was about 30 yards ahead of Douglas’s. Douglas found it hard to believe that he had been outdriven by a man 20 years older, with a beer-belly too.
‘Do you know these people your wife’s staying with?’ asked Ballantyne.
‘No. David said they’re called McAuslan. Janet met them through the church. I must say, Bruce, that if she’d gone to somebody like McAllister I don’t think I could have taken your broad-minded view.’
‘I came here to give him a hiding. I might still do it. But I’ve got to take into account that he didn’t invite her, she invited herself. It could even be that he wasn’t all that pleased to see her. The last thing that bastard wants is other people’s troubles.’
‘These artist types,’ said Douglas, ‘are poison to women. I read that once.’
10
With so much news to dispense, David did not know how to go about doing it, especially as none of it was really good. Janet would be indignant to hear that Douglas had gone off to play golf, Mrs Ballantyne might well have the same reaction, and Mrs Gomez would be shattered by her husband’s arrival.
Luckily Janet and Mrs Ballantyne were by themselves, seated on deck-chairs outside the house. Janet was reading a book, like a harmless holiday-maker. Mrs Ballantyne, alas, was not looking her best. As he soon learned, she had just returned from jogging and was glistening with sweat. She had removed her shorts for coolness and her middle was now covered very inadequately by a black bikini bottom. Tufts of red hair were to be seen and, if anything was to be seen, Jean, and Agnes too in spite of her spectacles, saw it.
There was no sign of McAllister and his other guests.
Jean and Agnes were out of the car before David and made straight for Aunt Janet.
‘Where’s the foreign girl? We’ve brought picture-books for her.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Mrs Ballantyne, these two excited creatures are my nieces, Jean and Agnes.’
‘Pleased to meet you, girls,’ said Nell.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Ballantyne.’
‘Letty’s gone for a walk with her mother,’ said Aunt Janet. ‘They won’t be long. They went to see the priory ruins and the Cross. Didn’t you notice them?’
The ruins were visible from the road.
‘No, we didn’t. We were too busy talking.’
‘Did Mr McAllister go with them?’ asked David.
‘No. He’s in his studio.’
‘Can we go and meet them, Daddy?’ cried the girls.
‘All right.’ There would be no danger: the ruins were quite close. Besides, he would be better able to pass on his news if they weren’t there, demanding the absolute truth. ‘Leave your books here.’
Off they went, skipping and trying to grab butterflies.
‘So my adulterous husband did not come after all,’ said Janet.
‘If you mean Douglas, yes, he did come.’
‘Then why isn’t he here?’
‘He was hurt that you weren’t at the airport to meet him.’
‘All right. If he wants to keep it up, I don’t mind. He’s too thick-skinned to be hurt. The only way you could ever hurt Douglas is to accuse him of cheating at golf. Where is he then? Helping at the bar? He fancies himself as mine host.’
‘As a matter of fact, he’s playing golf.’
It was Mrs Ballantyne who replied. ‘I must say that takes the bloody biscuit. He comes to tell his wife he’s sorry for giving her a black eye, and what does he do, before he’s even seen her? Play golf. Next time, Janet, you should use a driver.’
‘Who’s he playing with?’ asked Janet. ‘The local champion? Wherever he goes, he always wants to play the local champion.’
Mrs Ballantyne laughed. ‘I used to think my Bruce was bad.’
David coughed. ‘He’s playing with your husband, Mrs Ballantyne. He was on the plane too.’
The effect on Mrs Ballantyne was startling. She let out a wail and looked at herself, her belly, her flushed thighs, her tufts, and her sagging breasts, with disgust. ‘My God, he’s come to tell me he wants a divorce.’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs Ballantyne. He wants you to have dinner with him this evening.’
‘Candlelight and roses and wine and “How about a divorce, mate?” The sneaky bastard.’
‘He wouldn’t have come all that way to discuss divorce,’ said Janet. ‘He’d have waited till you got home.’
‘Maybe he couldn’t wait. Maybe he’s got his chick pregnant.’
David was embarrassed. ‘I didn’t get that impression, Mrs Ballantyne. He’s come because he wants to see you.’
‘Bless you for saying so even if it turns out not to be true.’
‘Shall I tell him you’ll be there tonight? Seven o’clock, he suggested.’
‘Christ, yes, wild bulls wouldn’t keep me away. Look at me, though. I’ve given up booze and fags. I don’t eat much, I go jogging, and yet I’m still a fat slob. I’m sticky and stinking with sweat, and it’s so bloody difficult to get hot water in this house.’
‘I’ll help you get dressed,’ said Janet.
‘Douglas wants you to come to dinner too,’ said David. He decided not to mention that the winner of the golf match was to pay for the dinners.
‘That’s a bloody good idea,’ cried Nell. ‘Come and give me your support and I’ll give you mine.’
‘What about Fidelia?’ asked Janet.
‘What d’you mean? You don’t think she shou
ld be invited too?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s got nothing to do with her.’
‘We can’t leave her alone with Angus.’
‘She won’t be alone. She’ll have her little watchdog. Anyway she came here to be with Angus. She didn’t expect to find us here. If you ask me, she wasn’t a bit pleased. She wanted Angus to herself
David then had to let drop his third and most shattering bombshell. ‘Someone else was on the plane.’
They stared at him in puzzlement.
Nell couldn’t help joking. ‘The Pope? Mohammed Ali?’
‘Mr Gomez. He has his lawyer with him.’
‘What’s going on?’ cried Nell. She was really addressing the demons.
Janet had got to her feet. She had a look of dedication that David knew of old and Nell had seen often in the past couple of days. The demons had taken the form of Gomez. Her destiny was to confront and defy him.
They all looked towards the ruins. There was still no sign of Fidelia and the girls.
‘Where is he?’ asked Janet.
‘At Ascog Castle.’
‘I had it pointed out to me on the plane,’ said Nell. ‘It really is a castle. Turrets and all.’ The sort of place, she remembered, where the ogres in fairy tales lived. ‘They were telling me it costs the earth to stay there.’
‘Would you tell Mrs Gomez, Janet, that her husband’s come?’ said David.
‘Yes, after I’ve been to see him.’
Both David and Nell were put into a state of consternation.
‘He’ll just tell you to mind your own business,’ said Nell, ‘Or he’ll have you thrown out.’ Mind you, she told herself, the saving of a woman and her child from an evil brothel-owner should be everybody’s business.
‘They’ll not let you in,’ said David, ‘if he says he doesn’t want to see you.’
‘Which he certainly will say,’ said Nell. ‘My God, if he came by this morning’s plane he could be here any minute. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going up to have a bath before the place is besieged. I hope you’re remembering you’ve got a date with your husband this evening.’
Poor Angus Page 15