The Feathery

by Bill Flynn

  When David returned, he had an antique thorn wood driver in his grip. He handed the club to Scott and indicated writing on the head of it. Written there in black ink was the name HUGH, and under that, the number 78.The script on the club head was identical to that on the feathery. Scott was mesmerized by the familiar writing on the club and couldn’t take his eyes off it.

  David spoke to break the silence. "My ancestor from Saint Andrews, Douglas McEwan, made this club for Hugh McNair around 1849."

  Scott again thought about the McNair journal he’d read. The McEwan name matched the same name of McNair’s caddie in the journal, and Douglas resembled that caddie’s description there. He asked David McEwan about the relationship.

  "Oh, yes, that’s definite, Scott, McNair’s caddie during the record round was James McEwan, and James was the son of Douglas the club maker. We named our son after that Douglas."

  Scott was still staring in astonishment at the markings on the club head and thinking about the McEwan lineage. "So, McNair used this club when he shot his 78 on the Old Course, right?"

  "Aye, and it was a gift to James McEwan, his caddie back then. The legend of that record and this club have been passed down through generations of McEwans."

  Scott gripped the club and waggled it a few times. "This driver is in great condition. It must be valuable." He handed the thorn wood driver back to David.

  "Aye, John Hollbrooke offered me twelve-thousand pounds. I was tempted to accept that during hard times. I just couldn’t part with it, but now I’ve decided to send it to its rightful place. It’s going back to Saint Andrews, and will be on display there in the British Golf Museum."

  Scott stared down at the feathery box on his lap for a long time.

  Matt knew what his friend was contemplating. "Scott, are you sure? That ball is worth big bucks."

  "So is the McEwan driver, Matt. I was just thinking about Sandy and how great it would be if the feathery returns to Saint Andrews to be on display in the museum along with the thorn wood driver that his great-grandfather used to set the record." Scott took another look at the feathery before he closed the box and said, "the feathery is going to Saint Andrews."

  Matt shook his head. "You are one weird, rich dude."

  Douglas asked his father, "Can I go to Saint Andrews with Mr. Beckman to take back the driving club?"

  "If it would be all right with Mr. Beckman, it’d be all right with me, son."

  Scott’s thoughts were pulled away from St. Andrews in 1849. "Be glad to have him. It’s only right that a McEwan present the club to the museum." He looked over at a very happy Douglas and added to his glee. "I’ll pick you up on Thursday morning on my way back from Portpatrick. Bring your clubs, and we’ll play the Old Course."

  Scott and Matt got up to leave.

  David McEwan shook Matt’s hand and then held on to Scott’s a moment longer. "You’ve earned the Claret Jug, Scott Beckman. You were a true gannet in our Turnberry weather. And now that you’re going to donate the McNair feathery to Saint Andrews, you’ve preserved some history of a game you play so well." He released Scott’s hand. "Sandy McNair would be quite proud of you."

  Scott checked out of the hotel and drove the rented Land Rover down the long driveway and through the gate. The British Open crowd had left Turnberry, and the bustling golf-city of one week now returned to a quiet little village. It would stay that way until the Royal and Ancient designated its links to be the host venue for another Open. Scott was taking Matt to the Kilt and Jeans where Matt would meet Claudio and drive to Prestwick Airport for a flight to London. Claudio would go on to New York, but Matt had plans to stay in London for three days before flying to Santa Barbara.

  As they turned onto the coast road, Matt said, "for you to set up the golf match for Douglas was a nice gesture. How many Open champions would do that the day after such a grueling event, and then invite the kid to play with you at Saint Andrews?"

  "How about those two juvenile delinquents salvaged by Sandy at El Camino, Matt? When you and I were around Douglas’ age we fantasized about playing with major tournament winners on British Open courses. I wanted to give the reality of that to the kid."

  "I understand. What now, champ?" Matt picked up the Claret Jug trophy from the seat between them and looked at it admiringly.

  "I’ve been thinking about the what now," answered Scott. "I’ll take a few weeks off before playing the next tournament." He looked over at Matt. "Okay with you?"

  "Yeah, I’ll hang out in Santa Barbara and wait for you there. We can map out the schedule then. One tournament for sure will be the Masters in April where you can seek reality out of another childhood fantasy."

  Scott smiled at Matt’s remark and had pleasant thoughts about his British Open win qualifying him for the Masters. He asked Matt, "Why the three day lay-over in London?"

  "It’s part of that long story I mentioned to you in Santa Barbara before Q-School."

  "You mean about getting fired by Sarah Covington. What else?"

  "I was into a relationship with another player at the time I caddied for Sarah. Her name is Jennifer Lawton. Sarah had a kinda fear about her caddie fraternizing with the opposition, and she fired me."

  "Wow! Sarah drops what she doesn’t want and goes after what she does with a vengeance. But isn’t…?"

  Matt interrupted him. "It’s complicated, Scott. Jennifer has been messed up by being around possessive women on the tour since she was sixteen. She’s working her way out of it, and I think I can help. She was in love with me once. It can happen again. So, that’s why I’m stopping over in London, dude."

  PORTPATRICK

  After dropping Matt at the Kilt and Jeans, Scott drove toward Portpatrick, on the very southern tip of Scotland. He would be late arriving there because of the meeting with Mark Breen to kick off the European promotion of Linksking clubs. And there was a photo shoot for advertising Linksking clubs in a golf magazine with too many retakes. Anyway, he’d make it to Portpatrick before dark.

  Scott looked out through the Land Rover’s passenger side window at the few clouds left over from yesterday’s storm. Whitecaps were scampering about out on the Firth of Clyde and the Ailsa Craig loomed up on the western skyline. The gannets resting in the nooks and crannies on that rock of an island would wait until a storm came before returning to dive for fish in Turnberry Bay. He thought they wouldn’t have long to wait if the local saying held true. He could see the Ailsa Craig now, so it must be aboot to rain. He again recalled Sandy telling him about that island, then a sad thought passed through him about Sandy not being there to see him win the Open.

  He drove through the village center of Portpatrick and passed by its scenic little harbor. Fishing boats and pleasure craft were rocking at anchor in the gentle chop. Scott thought, It could’ve been where the boat with Matt on board left from. Northern Ireland was only twenty-five miles from Portpatrick by sea, and the Blue Streak package with Matt’s earring came from Portpatrick.

  Scott glanced at Sarah’s direction notes on the seat beside him. They instructed a turn into a lane called Sand Niblick. Dunes banked the dead end road on each side. A layer of drifted sand showed several tire tracks in the asphalt surface that came to an end near a lone cottage weathered to gray by sun and salt. The cottage was perched on a bluff, high above the beach and, in front of it, a breeze from the sea was blowing the dune grass in billowing waves.

  A deep slice in a dune served as a crude driveway, and Scott pulled in between walls of red sand. He got out of the Land Rover and walked up slate steps to a deck that wrapped all the way around the cottage.

  "Hello, Beth," he shouted. There wasn’t any answer to his call. A knock on the door also went unheeded. He walked around the porch to a point where it faced the open sea and searched for her down a long stretch of sand. She was far down the beach looking out to sea and seemed transfixed by the beauty of a magnificent sunset painting the storm cloud residue a soft red. He hurried toward her, and when he was about h
alfway there, she saw him approaching, and in her bare feet with sandals in hand ran along the hard sea-washed sand to meet him. When they met Scott pulled her toward him and encircled her body with both his arms.

  The sun was finishing its drop into the sea as they hurried along the beach and up a spiral steel staircase to the deck. They entered the cottage and closed the door on a horizon that soon faded from red to pink. And a short time later the sky darkened and became coupled with the same dark blue of the sea.

  Scott could smell bacon frying when he awoke. He hurriedly got dressed and joined Beth in the kitchen where she’d just finished cooking breakfast. They kissed good morning and then sat at a table on a deck that overlooked the beach where gentle blue waves were turned to white as they broke on the sand below. They were quiet for some time, as if spellbound by the view…until Scott reached across the table for Beth’s hand.

  "It was nice of Sarah to let us have this place for a couple of days," he said.

  "Yes, but I started to get the feeling that her hospitality might be all for the feathery." When Scott’s look from across the table was quizzical, she expanded on that notion. "After we left Turnberry, Sarah talked to me a lot about how she would love to have the feathery in her collection. I think she was trying to enlist my help in getting it."

  Again, Scott had that vision of the empty slot for the McNair feathery in the display case at Sarah’s gallery. "I’m amazed, Beth, at how obsessive these collectors can get. The guy from Sweden, Johncke, had hit-men kill in order to possess it."

  "Is he in jail?" Beth asked.

  "No, he died before that could happen. Johncke used a lady, Mary Harding, to orchestrate his obsession. According to Bradshaw, Mary’s motivation was partly so she could afford to lavish gifts on the one she wanted to have a lesbian relationship with."

  "All of this happened because of an antique golf ball?" Beth said. "Hard to even imagine."

  Scott recalled Chief Inspector Bradshaw’s dissertation on collector obsession when they had first met in London. At the time, he couldn’t imagine anyone having such a fixation on his feathery. He was now a believer in Bradshaw’s conception.

  "Could you show me this feathery ball that’s so craved by those collectors?" Beth asked.

  "Oh, sure." He got up from the table and headed for the bedroom. Scott returned, opened the wooden box, and said, "here’s the feathery."

  Beth stared down at it for a minute before she asked, "Do you think others, like that Swede, will satisfy their craze and try to possess this old golf ball the same way he did?" Then those expressive eyes of hers showed fear. "Are you safe having the feathery in your possession, Scott?"

  "Well, someone might try to snatch it again, Beth, but anyway it’ll only be with me two more days."

  "You’re selling it for megabucks, then?"

  "No, that’s when we’re taking it to a museum in Saint Andrews."

  "We are?"

  "Yeah, it’s the right place for Sandy’s feathery and the McNair family legacy to rest."

  Beth left her chair and walked around the table. She was suddenly on Scott’s lap with her arms around his neck. "You’re just the guy I want to love."

  Her kiss was long and strong until she finally broke away and took Scott’s hand, leading him toward the bedroom.

  They spent two blissful days in Portpatrick. The rare sunny, clear weather supported it all in and around the charming village. They walked the beach for miles, swam in the cold sea and dined on seafood and French wine in quaint village restaurants.

  The evening before they were to leave to pick up Douglas in Turnberry and take the feathery to St. Andrews, Sarah phoned. Scott answered. "Hey, thanks for the use of your cottage. It’s great."

  "I’m glad you’re enjoying it." There was a pause. "Scott, I wish you’d reconsider my offer to buy the feathery. The reason I’m asking again is, Mario Carrabba is in London for another auction and he mentioned wanting the ball so badly he’d exceed any other offer for it. I wouldn’t think you’d want Carrabba to own the feathery after your past experience with him."

  "Sarah, I’ve decided to give the feathery to the British Golf Museum in Saint Andrews." It will be on loan there indefinitely so visitors can enjoy the McNair legacy. Please pass that information on to Carrabba and any others who are still interested in buying it."

  Scott heard a deep sigh come over the phone line, and it seemed like a long while before Sarah gathered herself to speak again. "When will it be in the museum at Saint Andrews?"

  "I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I’ll have it there in the early afternoon."

  "You know, I’m disappointed. But at least no other collector will own it. Oh bye the bye, what time are you leaving in the morning. I have a cleaning lady I must contact to come to the cottage."

  "We plan on being out of here around ten to make an appointment with the museum curator."

  She abruptly hung up the phone after giving instructions to Scott on where to place the keys after locking the cottage doors.

  At ten in the morning they loaded their luggage into the Land Rover. The box with the feathery, the bronze statuette and the Claret Jug trophy were safely wrapped in laundry and placed in a gym-bag. Scott backed the Land Rover out of that slice in the sand dune driveway, and they started down the narrow stretch of road called, Sand Niblick, toward the one leading to the village of Portpatrick , and then north toward Turnberry.

  "Scott, look out!" Beth screamed suddenly.

  Blocking the road fifty yards in front of them was a large black vehicle. Scott thought it could be a BMW 700 series. It stretched across to the sand dune banks that lined the road on both sides. A large man in a black leather jacket was leaning against the driver-side door, and he was holding an automatic weapon pointed toward the oncoming Land Rover.

  Scott slowed the Land Rover when it was about twenty-five yards away from the BMW. Then he made a fast decision based on recognizing the guy with the gun Carrabba’s so-called chauffeur, Rocco. Scott yelled at Beth to scrunch down behind the dashboard. He was hoping the car’s engine would stop any rounds headed her way. He accelerated the Land Rover and headed straight at the BMW and Rocco.

  Rocco raised the gun to his shoulder and fired at the same time he jumped to avoid being crushed against the BMW by the speeding Land Rover. The leap spoiled his aim. The two rounds made a thud somewhere against the car’s body just as Scott wrenched the steering wheel hard right to miss the BMW. The Land Rover plowed up the sand dune bank between Sand Niblick Road and the sea. At the top of the dune the vehicle’s four wheels spun until they grabbed enough traction to slither down the soft-sand and find solid purchase on the beach below. The 300 horsepower engine with all-wheel drive was the right vehicle at the right time. They made it to the water’s edge, and raced toward the village of Portpatrick along a beach hardened by the breaking waves of an earlier high tide.

  Beth popped up from under the dash, looked anxiously behind them and saw that Rocco’s BMW wasn’t in pursuit. She turned to Scott. "If anything bad happens to your golf game, Scott, you might apply for a job in Hollywood as a stunt driver." Beth buckled her seatbelt before she continued, "It’s dangerous hanging out with you. What was that all about?"

  Scott explained the Rocco connection to Carrabba and the feathery in a few words. Before he turned left and drove up a boat ramp into the village of Portpatrick he wondered how Rocco knew where they were and when they’d be leaving the cottage. The answer came at him in one word…Sarah!

  They looked up to see a police helicopter heading in the direction of Sarah’s cottage. On the road several cruisers were racing in that same direction with lights flashing and sirens blaring. Scott asked the first person they came across for directions to the police station. When they arrived at the station they rush inside and told their story to the dispatcher on duty.

  The burly uniformed officer sitting behind the desk said, "a chap by the name of Rocco Vitale was under surveillance, as ordered by Scotland
Yard Chief Inspector Bradshaw and—"

  "What happened to the surveillance?" Beth interrupted. "We were shot at by that guy."

  The dispatcher blushed with embarrassment before he answered. "Vitale slipped the man tailing him early this morning in Glasgow, but when gun shots were heard out at Sand Niblick our police responded in force by vehicle and helicopter. They’re out there now, as we speak."

  Just then a coded message came over a radio speaker somewhere nearby. After the message was complete, the dispatcher said, "they have Rocco Vitale down on the ground and in handcuffs."