His arthritic knee was definitely worse. It was now twice as big as his other knee, which itself was twice as big as it should be, on account of it having water on it.
Galloway had twice tried to steer the conversation on to another subject, but to no avail. He would have had more chance trying to stop a cattle stampede with a water pistol. When Hanson had stopped to draw breath - which incidentally he was becoming much shorter of these days whenever he walked up hills, the doctor didn’t know why but then he didn’t know anything – Galloway had remarked, “I believe the weather's going to turn colder tomorrow.” Hanson had immediately replied with, “It won't be as cold as my foot. It’s like ice my foot. Hardening of the arteries you see. Not a thing to be done for it,” he added, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and setting his dry cough off again.
Galloway hadn't bothered to make any further attempts to stem the flow, satisfied that having inadvertently drawn Hanson's attention to his cold foot he had caused him to miss out his sore shins and fallen arches. Hanson now moved on to the verruca on his heel, no better, and then to the last of his maladies, his hammer-toe, which was now worse since the last time they had spoken due to it having developed a painful corn on it. He had seen a chiropodist last week and she had never seen anything like it in her life, had never set eyes on such a nasty looking corn and hoped never to set eyes on another, it was far beyond her scope, he would need an operation, but there was a four year waiting list so he'd just have to go on suffering.
At least I won't have to go on suffering, thought Galloway, as he breathed a sigh of relief on the completion of the tour of Hanson’s sick body, having had more than enough of his ailments. Pleased that he would now be able to concentrate on his golf Galloway congratulated himself that he’d got off relatively lightly this time as the last time they'd played together they’d reached the ninth green before Hanson had completed his catalogue of illnesses.
They continued walking down the fairway towards their golf balls.
“And the wife is just as bad,” said Hanson. “She has this....”
9.30 a.m.
H Jackman (8)
P Keaney (12)
B Littler (17)
Waiting to tee off at the first, Harry Jackman, Peter Keaney and Bernard Littler were all standing deep in thought. Mr Captain, observing this from a few yards away, was about to ask them if he could help them with whatever problem they appeared to be wrestling with when suddenly Jackman shouted out the single word “Fluffing!”
Keaney and Littler considered Jackman’s proclamation for a moment or two, but without any great enthusiasm. Littler wasn’t keen all. It was better than nothing he supposed, but it wasn't the one. Keaney felt much the same way. “Not bad,” he said, “But I’m sure we can do better.”
The three gave the matter further thought and Mr Captain was again about to break in on their musings to see if he could be of assistance when Keaney, suddenly inspired, cried out “Mucky Nell!”
Jackman and Littler were immediately impressed. This was more like it.
“Oh yes,” congratulated the former, “Yes, I like that. I like that a lot.”
“Me too,” said Littler. “It sounds just the ticket.”
Jackman turned to Mr Captain and called, “What say you, Mr Captain?”
“What's that, Harry?” said Mr Captain, closing in on them.
Jackman explained. “Now that we aren't allowed to swear we're trying to find a suitable alternative for when we feel the need to say effing hell. Peter has suggested 'Mucky Nell’.”
“We've already got an alternative for the C-word,” Littler added.
“Kunt,” said Keaney. “Spelt with a 'K'. An old Norse word we’re told. It means a young cat, apparently. It will need your approval, of course.”
“Well it won't be getting it,” snapped Mr Captain, and made a mental note to add the K-word to the list of other words that were banned.
“But what do you think to Mucky Nell as an alternative to effing hell?”
Mr Captain treated the threesome to a withering glare. “What I think is that the three of you would be far better employed concentrating your minds on not using the F-word or the C-word, thus safeguarding your position as members of this golf club, rather than wasting your time trying to find alternatives for them,” he barked sententiously. “One man has already booked himself an appointment with the General Committee this morning.”
“For swearing?” asked Little.
“For swearing,” affirmed Mr Captain.
“Who was it?” said Jackman.
“George Fidler.”
“Mucky Nell!” said Keaney.
*
The best place to thieve golf balls, Jason had found, was about halfway down the long par five third, where rich pickings were always to be had. This was because the area where the balls came to rest was in a hollow in the fairway, which gathered them in, and which was obscured from the tee some two hundred and fifty yards distant by a large hillock. Thus after all the tee shots had been played it gave a ball thief ample time to climb over the boundary wall, purloin one of the balls, and be safe back over the other side of the wall before the golfers came into view. Not wishing to cook the goose that laid the golden eggs, Jason only ever took one of the balls, as to take more might lead the golfers into suspecting something was amiss, whereas one lost ball wouldn't draw any suspicion, a single golfer losing his ball being nearer the norm at Sunnymere rather than something out of the ordinary. And why take the risk? Golfers in groups of three and four were like buses, there'd be another one along in a few minutes, and he'd be able to steal one of their balls too, to add to his booty.
One such ball now skipped down the hill and came to rest in the hollow, joining the two that were already there. Jason wasted no time about it, nipped over the wall, ran quickly onto the fairway, pocketed the nearest of the balls, and was back behind the wall and into hiding in the time you could say Dunlop 65, which is what the ball happened to be.
*
Tobin wasn't at all happy about the fact that Grover's Nike sweater had stretched; or titted, as Grover had so graphically described its condition. Something was definitely wrong. In the professional’s experience Nike sweaters had never stretched before and he must have sold hundreds of them in the seven years he'd been dealing with the company, although, as far as he knew, none of the men's sweaters he had sold thus far had ever been subjected to having a pair of ladies’ breasts in them for an hour or two. But even bearing that in mind it shouldn’t have happened; this was a quality garment you were talking about here, surely it should have reverted back to its original shape once the offending breasts had been removed? Tobin decided the only thing for it was to conduct an experiment in order to find out for certain. Darren was the chosen guinea pig. “Put this on, Darren,” he said to his assistant, handing him a Nike sweater, “I want to try something out.”
Unquestioningly, for you do not question the motives of a man who is smart enough to know the golf kit requirements of every member of the club, Darren slipped the sweater over his head.
Tobin looked around for something that might fill in as breasts. Golf balls? Too small. Golf shoes? Too big. And the wrong shape, unless you were trying to duplicate the pendulous appendages of Mrs Rattray. Golf club head covers? They would do perhaps, if stuffed with something to make them firm. He took a few pairs of socks from a shelf and stuffed a couple of pairs into each of the two woollen head covers, then put the covers up Darren's sweater in the approximate position of a pair of breasts.
Darren looked down at his newly-acquired falsies. “Awesome.”
“Leave them there for an hour or two, we'll see if they stretch the sweater any,” said Tobin. However as he stepped back to inspect his handiwork he observed that the breasts weren't quite right, the right one being a bit higher than the left and the left one a touch too far left, so he took one in each hand and commenced to jiggle them around to get them in the right position.
And was thus indirectly responsible for contributing hugely to the spoiling of Mr Captain’s Day.
*
The quick walk from her home to the golf club had made Millicent's throat dry – she hoped it wasn't one of her summer colds coming on – and she had decided on her way to the clubhouse to await the arrival of Daddy Rhythm that she would call in at the pro's shop for a tube of those eucalyptus lozenges he sold. She would have bought something for her throat elsewhere had it been convenient, as she didn't at all care for Tobin. She didn't care for tradesmen in general, considering them a necessary evil, but she especially didn’t like avaricious charlatans like Sunnymere’s professional.
In consequence of this she patronised his shop only when absolutely necessary, and even then only for articles she couldn't readily obtain elsewhere, such as golf clubs and balls. The clothes she golfed in were purchased from Debenhams in Derby, where one could guarantee the quality, and whose sales assistants didn't try to sell you the entire contents of the shop every time you set foot in it.
In fact Millicent, aided and abetted by Mr Captain, planned to get rid of Tobin at the earliest possible convenience. It was just a matter of how and when, and of the right opportunity presenting itself.
It had dawned on Millicent some time ago that Tobin was relieving the members of Sunnymere of a great deal of their money. She didn't know how much exactly but she suspected it was a very substantial amount. The man drove a this year's registration Mercedes SL for goodness sake and you didn’t buy those with tram tickets. An educated guess at Tobin's annual turnover, arrived at by a combination of spending long periods watching people enter his shop and observing what they came out with, and simply by asking golfing friends what they had bought from Tobin on the pretext of comparing prices, put the figure in the region of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. Profits, so far as she was able to discern, would be at least a hundred thousand pounds. Why should that hundred thousand pounds go to Tobin, she had asked herself? Why did it take the services of a professional golfer to sell sweaters and shirts and trousers and such? Anyone could do that. Get rid of Tobin and the hundred thousand pounds profit, less the government minimum wages you would have to pay for a couple of young shop assistants to run the shop, would benefit the club. Especially the ladies’ section, whose locker room was in dire need of a new carpet and pretty curtains, if not a complete make-over including a more extensive and luxurious powder room and a Jacuzzi. But with the best part of a hundred thousand pounds extra income coming into the club every year plans could be made for even more than those absolute necessities.
*
Whilst he was still jiggling Darren’s artificial breasts around, something suddenly dawned on Tobin. The thought of it caused his jaw to drop in surprise. “She hasn't got any tits!” he blurted out.
“What?” said Darren.
“Grover's wife! She hasn’t got any tits!” He quoted from memory, “Grover, Betty. Nike Sweaters, bust 32, A Cup. Betty Grover hasn't got any tits, Darren!”
“I beg your pardon!” came an outraged voice from behind him.
Tobin wheeled round. Standing there was Millicent Fridlington, her body quivering with indignation, her face absolutely livid.
His mind fully occupied with getting Darren's artificial breasts positioned correctly, followed immediately by the realisation that Betty Grover had no breasts to speak of and therefore couldn’t have done to Grover's sweater what Grover had alleged they had, Tobin had failed to notice Millicent enter the shop. When he did, courtesy of Millicent’s outburst, he knew immediately that he was in trouble. Big time. If it had been a male member whom he had just informed that Betty Grover had no tits he might have got away with it, and even some of the lady members might not have been too concerned, especially the ones who did have tits, indeed they might even have been pleased; but it wasn't a male member, it was that bloody dragon Millicent Fridlington, the wife of Mr Captain!
“S....Sorry, Mrs Fridlington,” Tobin stammered. “I didn't see you there.”
“I would have thought that was entirely obvious,” Millicent stormed.
“Or I would never have said it.”
“Oh, so if I hadn't been here it wouldn't have stopped you saying that horrible thing about poor Mrs Grover?”
“Wh….what?”
“Or fondling that young boy in that disgusting manner, like some perverted paedophile?”
By this time Tobin was floundering like a freshly caught mackerel in the bottom of a fishing boat. “Wh….what?” he stammered. “No. I mean….well it just slipped out, Mrs Fridlington, I didn’t mean anything by it. Of course Mrs Grover has got tits....breasts….bosoms. Not that I go around looking at women’s....And I wasn't fondling Darren, I was just....”
Millicent interrupted him, raising her hand like a particularly officious traffic policeman. “You can save your ridiculous excuses for my husband. Although I doubt very much it will do you any good.” With that she turned on her heel and walked out of the shop, a far happier woman than when she had walked in. The opportunity to get rid of Tobin had presented itself. It would be taken, and without delay.
*
Garland, Harris and Ifield reached the top of the hill at the third and started the descent that led to the hollow in the fairway some hundred or so yards away. All three had hit decent tee shots and fully expected to find their balls on the fairway, although Garland's shot had been a little farther left than he had intended, and with the bit of accidental slice he usually put on the ball he thought he might just have ended up in the fairway bunker placed there for that very purpose. On the walk to their balls Ifield and Harris conjectured on this likelihood. “I wonder if the gentleman is in the bunker,” said Ifield, “or if the bastard is on the fairway?”
In fact, when they arrived in the hollow Garland was neither.
“That's odd,” said Garland. “I didn't think I was all that far off line.”
“Must have got a bad kick,” said, Harris. “Threw the ball into the rough probably.”
The three of them searched around in the long grass between the fairway and the boundary wall but without success, except that Ifield found a ball he had lost there the last time he played, which he said was 'just his bloody luck', and the five minutes allowed by the rules for searching for a lost ball were almost up and the frustrated Garland was about to set off on ‘The Green Mile’, the long and lonely walk back to the tee to play another ball, when Jason coughed.
It wasn't a very loud cough, not much more than a clearing of the throat, but it was loud enough to attract Garland's attention.
Making as little noise as possible Garland crept over to the wall and peered over the other side. His luck was in. Had he been a few yards farther on or back Jason would have seen him and escaped, but the boy was directly in front of him, and before he could make a run for it Garland grabbed him by the hair.
“What have we here then?” he said, in triumph.
“Ow, you're hurting me!” protested Jason, squirming and trying to unclamp Garland's hand from his hair. “Let me go, you’re sodding hurting me!”
“Shut it you little toerag,” said Garland, tightening his grip on Jason’s locks. He dragged him bodily over the wall, took him by the scruff of the neck and frog-marched him over to the fairway where Harris and Ifield were waiting with interest. “The little sod’s pinched my ball,” he explained to them.
“I haven’t and you can’t prove it,” said Jason.
Garfield grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him round. “Empty your pockets!”
“I'm going to report you for child abuse. You’re not allowed to do things like that nowadays, you’re not even allowed to touch me.”
“Shut your ugly little cakehole and empty your pockets!”
“No, and you can't make me,” said Jason, defiantly, jutting out his bottom lip.
Garland shook him violently. “I said empty your pockets you little twat before I empty them for you!”
There was no way Jason was going to empty his pockets, his mobile phone was in there for a start, and he certainly didn't want the man getting hold of that, adults could be mean, and this one looked very mean and he might damage it just for spite or even pinch it. He put his hand in his right hand trousers pocket and pulled out the golf ball. Garland snatched it off him and identified it as his own. “Just as I suspected.” He glared at Jason. “This is mine. You’ve just nicked it off the fairway.”
“I thought it was lost.”
“You'll wish you were lost when I've finished with you, you horrible little turd.”
“What are you going to do with him, Mr Vice?” asked Harris.
Garland thought for a moment. “Have either of you got any rope on you?”
“Christ you're not going to hang him are you?” said Ifield, not completely convinced he was speaking only in jest. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?”
“Don't tempt me, Justin. No, I'm going to tie him to my trolley until we get round to the ninth if I can find anything to tie him with, then turn him in.”
“I've got a spare pair of shoelaces in my bag,” offered Harris.
“They'll do.”
*
Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas were by now nearing the thirteenth green.
“Eight ounces of cheese,” said Mrs Salinas. “Two ounces of....”
Mrs Quayle, a stickler where the accuracy of recipes was concerned, butted in. “What sort of cheese?”
“Sorry Miriam, I forget exactly the cheese that Delia stipulated.”
“Blast.”
“It will need to be a mild cheese, though. Nothing too overpowering. Certainly not parmesan or a blue cheese. I used Wensleydale.”
“Oh Harold and I went there a few weeks back, Wensleydale,” said Mrs Rattray.
“Beautiful, isn't it,” said Mrs Quayle.
“Absolutely lovely,” said Mrs Salinas.
*
Due no doubt to being distracted by the sight of Carter being chased by the teenager with the enviable penis it wasn't until he was approaching the second green that Armitage realised he hadn't eaten the space cake.
Captain's Day Page 8