Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  Mr Captain was well aware of Irwin's opinion of lady golfers, and neither cared for the man nor his opinions, so it gave him no small pleasure to confirm what he had just said, and with relish. “Yes. The ladies, Richard.”

  Irwin scowled and turned away, not trusting himself to say anything further. Mr Captain could trust himself however. “And you can pull your face as much as you like. But the ladies are a very important part of this golf club.”

  “Especially when you're married to the one who makes the most noise,” retorted Irwin, under his breath.

  Mr Captain's ears pricked. “What was that? What was that you said Richard?”

  “Forget it,” said Irwin, and turned his attention to the watching Dawson and Elwes. “What's the hold up?”

  “Fidler had to go back for some balls,” explained Elwes. “I suppose we’d better let you through.”

  *

  Up ahead on the first green Arbuthnott shaped up to his putt. It wasn't an easy putt, twenty five feet or thereabouts with quite a lot of right to left borrow for the last three feet, but a putt he really fancied nevertheless.

  Arbuthnott changed his putting action almost as often as he changed his socks. On average he dropped on the perfect method about once a month, only for it to become yet another imperfect method a few days later. He had tried every putting grip known to man and several known only to himself, every putting stroke from low and slow to a quick firm rap, and had executed each of the strokes with seventeen different putters, many of which he had snapped in frustration when they had let him down at a critical juncture. At the moment however he was at a stage where he had once again found the perfect method and it hadn’t yet turned into another imperfect method and this, coupled with the new revolutionary titanium plated hickory shafted blade putter Tobin had recently sold him filled him with confidence as he settled over the putt.

  After the obligatory two practice putts he swung the putter head slowly back and smoothly through the ball. It kept towards its intended route, took the borrow perfectly and disappeared into the cup with a satisfying rattle. Arbuthnott punched the air. “A birdie!” He turned in triumph to his playing partners. “I told you it was going to be my day, didn't I!”

  *

  Even though Tobin had committed to memory the preferences in golfing equipment of every golfer in the club he had taken the precaution of backing up this information by feeding it all into his computer. He now typed in the name George Fidler, pressed the enter key, and almost immediately Fidler's details flashed up on the screen. 'Fidler, George. Sweaters, Glenmuir, 40 chest. Trousers, Nike, 36 waist, 34 inside leg. Golf balls, Top Flight four. Shoes, Reebok, size 10.'

  “I knew he played Top Flight!” he exclaimed.

  “Awesome,” said Darren.

  *

  After teeing off Galloway, Hanson and Irwin were making their way up the first fairway together.

  “If one of the members of a golf club dies,” said Galloway, “how can you tell if it's a man or a woman just by looking at the flagpole?”

  “If it's a woman the flag's at the top,” said Irwin.

  “Oh, you've heard it,” said Galloway, disappointed.

  “I thought it up,” said Irwin.

  *

  Whilst waiting for the next threesome to tee off Mr Captain spotted, with some annoyance, that the bunker rake wasn't in its customary place next to the left-hand bunker behind the nearby eighteenth green. It brought a frown to his face. What did the green staff think they were playing at for goodness sake, didn't they know it was Captain's Day? He hoped the rake wasn't missing; that would be intolerable. It was bad enough having your ball go into a bunker in the first place, as he knew to his cost as much as anybody, without finding it nestling in a footprint left there by a previous golfer.

  On walking over to investigate he discovered that the rake had been left in the bunker. Which was worse than if it had been missing if anything; for where it lay it could cause a golfer whose ball had come to rest against it, which Sod's Law almost always dictated it would, to suffer a penalty shot.

  He made a note to take the head greenkeeper to task about it, and in no uncertain terms, Lord above the man was paid enough; it was his job to ensure that the golf course was presented in good order at all times and in particular at the outset of each competition, and a rake left in a bunker was simply not good enough. Especially on Captain's Day.

  8.50 a.m.

  F Galloway (6)

  M Hanson (7)

  R Irwin (9)

  Fidler returned to the first tee with his box of golf balls. On arriving there he took one out of the box, tore the wrapping open, savagely yanked his driver from his golf bag, teed up the ball, turned to Dawson and Elwes, treated them to the most baleful of glares and snarled, “Pinnacle two!” Then, far too quickly for his own good, and without the benefit of his customary two practice swings or even a waggle, he addressed the ball and took what can only be described as a vicious hack at it. Certainly it was not a swing you would find in any golf instruction book, although it would probably have made the pages of a seal culling instruction manual or an agricultural article on how to use a scythe. The ball left the clubface in the mother of all slices, going much farther to the right than the course did, and consequently ended up out of bounds, never to be seen again.

  Dawson, Elwes and Mr Captain watched it disappear into the distance and out of view, a sight Fidler missed as he was looking, rather optimistically it must be said, up the fairway. Mr Captain, to his credit, had the good grace to turn discreetly away; however Dawson and Elwes displayed no such consideration to their playing partner, especially Elwes, who said, “You'd better take a provisional Pinnacle two George, I think you might find the one you’ve just taken will be out of bounds.”

  *

  In Tobin's opinion his finest career achievement as a golf professional was not the albatross hole in one he'd had at a short three hundred and sixty eight yard par four hole, nor was it the one under par round of seventy he had once carded at Royal Lytham and St Anne's in the teeth of the same howling gale in which Nick Faldo had shot a seventy nine. Notable though these accomplishments were, the feat Tobin was most proud of and would wish to be remembered by was the occasion on which he had sold a sweater, two pairs of trousers, a hat, three golf gloves, a set of waterproofs, a pair of shoes and a new driver to one of the Sunnymere members. Golf professionals may have sold more items at a single sale, or indeed a more expensive single item, Tobin was sure, but what marked his achievement as something special was that the customer had only gone into the pro’s shop for a tin of fruit pastilles.

  Tobin had already instructed Darren to ensure always, after first selling the customer what they came in for, to make every effort to sell them something else, and now imparted another valuable piece of information that would be vital to his protégé if he were to enjoy any degree of success as a golf club professional.

  “A tip, Darren,” he said, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. “Spend as much time in the car park as you do on the practice ground. More time if anything. Identify each and every member with his or her car, and take notice especially of their car's registration number. Spot in particular those members whose cars have personalised number plates. If people are daft enough to shell out good money on personalised number plates they're daft enough to buy anything. These people are your prime target and main source of income. If a golfer has a personalised number plate and he comes in here for a new sweater you are not thinking acrylic, Darren, or even lambswool, you are thinking cashmere. If he requires a pair of trousers you are not looking at something in ready-made gabardine, you are looking at made-to-measure mohair. And the car park at Sunnymere Golf Club is full of personalised number plates. And my till is full of their money. Always bear that in mind.”

  “I’m taking notes, Dave,” said Darren.

  Tobin now noticed Geoff Grover pass the front window on his way into the shop. He nodded in his direction to bri
ng him to Darren's attention. “Geoff Grover. Nike sweaters, chest 44. Adidas trousers, occasionally Sunderland, 36 waist, 30 inside leg. Dunlop 65 golf balls. Size nine shoes, Enfield. Car, BMW X3, registration number GG 10.”

  “Awesome,” said Darren.

  *

  At the four hundred and twenty yard dogleg second Arbuthnott was facing a ten foot putt for another birdie. It was a much easier putt than the one he'd holed at the first, dead straight and slightly uphill, but even so he gave it just as much respect as the putt he had previously holed, acutely aware that another birdie would really set up his round, put something in the bank for the shots he would inevitably drop as his round unfolded.

  Putter poised behind the ball he looked for one last time at the hole, drew his eye back to the ball, then set it in motion with a smooth stroke of his putter. Three seconds later the ball disappeared into the hole. “Get in you little beauty!” Arbuthnott shouted, punching the air again in unbridled delight, and this time adding to the celebrations by circumnavigating the hole with an animated little jig before turning to Bagley and Chapman and saying, “Are you having that? Back to back birdies! What did I tell you? What did I say?”

  It was the first time Arbuthnott had ever birdied the first two holes; in fact it was only the second time he had ever birdied any two consecutive holes, and only then because on the previous occasion he had achieved one of them by holing a bunker shot after he had thinned the ball and it had hit the flagstick at about fifty miles an hour before dropping in the cup, so his joy could perhaps be excused. Not by Chapman though. “There's no need to get so excited about it Arby, you’ve only played two holes,” he said, trying his best to diminish Arbuthnott’s achievement, his partner’s success already beginning to get on his wick. It didn’t help that he himself had just double-bogied the same hole. “God knows what you'll do if you manage to fluke another birdie at the third; parade round the town in an open-top bus I shouldn't wonder.”

  “Jealousy, Gerry, pure jealousy,” grinned Arbuthnott. He kissed the head of his putter, returned it to his bag, and was about to start the walk to the third tee when a thought suddenly struck him. “Where are the cameras?” he said, looking all around him.

  “Cameras? “ said Bagley.

  “Mr Captain said he was having this filmed. This is something that should be captured on film.”

  “What, you making a dick of yourself?” said Chapman.

  Arbuthnott smiled and enquired, pointedly, “And how many birdies have you had, pray?”

  “My turn will come,” said Chapman, but without a great deal of self-belief. Then, with much more conviction, “Just as sure as your turn will come for a few of your usual triple bogies.”

  *

  “Well if that is the case then that is the case, but it is most frightfully inconvenient, and you will no doubt be hearing further about this sorry affair from my solicitors, no doubt whatsoever,” stormed Millicent Fridlington. She slammed down the telephone with a jolt then considered what might be done about the crisis that had just been unceremoniously dumped in her lap.

  After two further phone calls she had partially retrieved the situation, but it was still of such calamitous proportions that there was nothing else for it but to inform her husband. But how?

  Nowadays when needing to contact someone in a hurry most people turn to a mobile phone. However Mr Captain would not entertain one. Entirely unnecessary frivolities, he called them. He’d managed without a mobile phone for fifty two years and he was quite sure he could manage without one for whatever more years the good Lord had granted him for his stay on Earth, thank you very much. Millicent felt the same way about the infernal things. Henry had once remarked that Jesus Christ had managed to communicate with everyone without the aid of a mobile phone so there was no reason why everyone else should not be able to follow suit, and Millicent agreed with that sentiment entirely. She had mentioned Henry’s erudite epithet to their son Selwyn, who did have a mobile phone, in the hope it might persuade him to get rid of it, but Selwyn had remarked, rather crudely Millicent thought, that when Jesus was nailed to the cross he wouldn't have been able to use a mobile phone anyway. But that was Selwyn up and dressed, practical to a fault.

  She could contact someone at the club by land telephone she supposed, the steward maybe, if the idle man had managed to tear himself out of bed yet, or that professional, Tobin or whatever his name was, but as Mr Captain would be in the vicinity of the first tee or maybe somewhere out on the course she could almost be there as quickly herself. But her husband would have to be informed, that much was for certain. She came to a decision; she would to go to the golf course now, much sooner than she had intended. It was a damned nuisance but there was nothing else for it.

  Pausing only to pick up her handbag, Millicent set off for Sunnymere with her disastrous news.

  9.00 a.m.

  C Carter (18)

  J Abbott (19)

  L Bradley (21)

  Charlie Carter, Jack Abbott and Laurence Bradley, collectively known as the Red Arrows, were the next threesome to set off on their round that day. One had only to witness the Red Arrows leaving the tee to realise why they were known throughout the club by the same name as the world-famous Royal Air Force fighter jet display team; for Carter habitually hit everything to the left, Abbott hit everything to the right, and Bradley hit everything straight down the middle. Consequently when they stepped off the front of the tee to make their way up the fairway Carter habitually broke to his left, Abbott broke to his right, whilst Bradley proceeded dead straight ahead, and as they did this simultaneously it looked for all the world like the Red Arrows display team peeling off in their world-renowned sunburst manoeuvre. This didn't always happen of course, they were human after all, and even a tournament professional cannot guarantee to hit every shot the same, much less a long handicapper, but it happened more often than not and certainly enough to make it noteworthy.

  The Red Arrows had accepted their nickname with good grace and now, having borne the appellation for the twenty or so years they had been playing together, were quite proud of it, indeed rejoiced in it, so much so that they had taken to wearing matching red sweaters, a refinement that had the effect of making them look even more like the real Red Arrows when they burst forth from the tee. Carter, the more adventurous of the three, had once suggested that their ensemble include red trousers too but the other two members of the trio had demurred on the grounds of over-egging the pudding.

  The only hiccup they had experienced in their career had occurred soon after they had been christened the Red Arrows. When news of their fame had spread throughout the club they had started to attract an audience, eager to see the display, and especially so at the outset of their round, as the first tee was overlooked by the clubhouse, which provided a convenient auditorium from which to view the grand spectacle. Seats on the veranda were at a premium. In fact it had been known for some members of the club who were not playing golf that day, and had no other call to be at the club, to drop in with the express purpose of witnessing the phenomenon.

  The first time the Red Arrows ever drew spectators, and anxious not to let their audience down, and after Carter had already hit his tee shot to the left, Abbott had then deliberately tried to hit his ball to the right, but in doing so had only succeeded in hitting it to the left, where it joined Carter’s ball in a bunker, much to his great surprise and disappointment, and the disappointment of the watching gallery. Bradley had then hit his tee shot straight down the middle as usual with the result that instead of having one ball to the left, one ball to the right and one ball down the middle, they had two balls to the left and one ball down the middle, and consequently when the Red Arrows left the tee the sunburst effect was only half as spectacular. Abbott had learned his lesson and from that day on always tried to hit the ball straight, thus almost guaranteeing that it went to the right, and the display returned to normal.

  Anyone who is at all familiar with the game of golf wou
ld suspect that Bradley, always down the middle, would be by far the better golfer of the three, but in fact he was marginally the worst. The main reason for this was that although he invariably hit the ball straight he never succeeded in hitting it very far, whereas Carter and Abbott were both powerful strikers of the ball. After their tee shots Bradley's ball would be typically straight down the middle and about a hundred and eighty yards distant, whilst Carter's ball would be about two hundred and thirty yards distant but forty yards to the left and Abbott's ball a similar distance to the right, thus leaving all three of them approximately the same distance from the green. After their approach shots, and also on Sunnymere’s five short par three holes, Bradley's ball would either end up on the green, or more usually, due to his lack of hitting power, some way short of it, whilst the balls of Carter and Abbott would more than likely be about pin high forty yards to the left and right of the green respectively, thus giving Bradley a distinct advantage. However this advantage was negated by Bradley’s skill with the putter, which was as non-existent as his playing partners' skill off the tee.

  The Red Arrows now drove off. The sunburst followed. Another breathtaking display was underway.

  *

  Grover entered the pro's shop. Despite being the proud owner of a personalised number plate Grover wasn’t one of Tobin's best customers, perhaps being the exception that proves the rule, but he was a steady enough client nevertheless, a couple of new sweaters and pair of new trousers a year man and perhaps new golf shoes every two or three years, so well worth buttering up. Tobin loaded his butter knife and started spreading generously. “And a very good morning to you, Mr Grover,” he said. “Lovely day for it. You must fancy your chances more than somewhat today, my word must you; I was watching you play down the ninth and up the tenth the other day and your swing looked to be in very fine fettle, I've never seen you swinging better, put me in mind of Rory McIlroy but not so willowy. So how can I be of assistance to you? The new Nike range is in, they have some really nice sweaters in their latest collection, better even than is usually the case, and that’s saying something.”