Now it was Latimer. He was a real fusspot, standing behind his ball as if taking very precise aim, before doing some stretching exercises followed by half a dozen practice swings. Above someone yawned audibly and there was a snort of quickly stifled laughter. Finally he addressed the ball and after staring at it for what even to Joe, who was happy to wait forever, seemed a hell of a long time, he swung.
It wasn’t a bad hit; a bit misdirected, so that at first it looked like it was heading towards the left-hand trees, then it curved back into the fairway, bounced, ran to the right-hand edge, and came to a halt some thirty yards back from Rowe’s ball.
‘Sorry about that, Joe,’ said Latimer, shaking his head in rather stagy disappointment. ‘Lucky I’ve got you to put things straight.’
Joe advanced on to the tee. Each step was the last before his dodgy knee buckled beneath him. Each second was the one before he had his seizure. But somehow he kept taking the steps and somehow the seconds kept ticking by. Perhaps it was his certainty that he physically couldn’t do this that kept him going. Why fake illness when any moment now you really were going to collapse in a heap?
But the collapse never came and finally here he was, adrift in space, looking down at that little white orb so many light years away, and waiting in vain for a black hole to open and swallow him up.
The silence was absolute. Not a sound from the terrace above. His three companions stood behind the tee still as statues. Even the birds had stopped singing.
But there was sound in that silence. Now he could hear it, though he doubted if anyone else could. The sound that Porphyry had told him about, the sound that was less intrusive than the music of the spheres to normal human hearing but disruptively cacophonous to the golfer, destroying all his powers of concentration and co-ordination.
He could hear the roar of the butterflies in the adjacent meadow.
Time for the farce to end. All he had to do was step back and say in front of everybody, Listen, you bastards, you may have stitched poor Chris Porphyry up, but you ain’t going to make a fool out of me.
He took a deep breath and tried to persuade his feet to take that step back. Nothing happened. Oh shoot. Collapse was one thing, petrifaction was another. Maybe they’d all just tiptoe away and leave him be. Maybe in years to come people would pay cash money to come and see the famous statue of the man who turned to stone at Royal Hoo.
Maybe…
He said a prayer, but he doubted if it could be heard beyond the stars, so loud now were the butterflies.
But somehow it got through, for from high above he heard a voice reply.
‘Joe!’ the voice called. ‘JOE!’
He looked up and wouldn’t have been surprised to see a circling dove or two.
There were no doves, but he beheld an infinitely more welcome sight.
It was indeed the voice of god, a Young Fair God, holding up a mobile phone.
Yes, still young and fair, but now Christian’s face was the face of a very vengeful deity.
‘They found him, Joe. They found him. They’re on their way.’
Even as he spoke, Joe realized that the faraway sound that had so paralysed him wasn’t a roar of butterflies or anything else. It was the high-pitched, rhythmic wail of sirens, still a long way away but approaching fast, and now detectable by the terrace spectators, who broke their own expectant silence with speculative chatter.
Joe turned his head and looked at the Triangle. They too had heard and their faces were twisted in fearful speculation.
He smiled at them. Now at last his muscles unlocked and he felt he had the strength to step away.
On the other hand, there was a YFG above him, and Joe knew from his upbringing that while God might not dish out His grace too frequently, when He did, there was no stinting and a wise man filled his boots.
He brought to mind what Chip Harvey had said.
Eye on the ball, head still, swing easy.
He swung so easy, without any sense of contact, that for a second he was convinced he must have missed. Except that the ball that the eye in his perfectly still head was on wasn’t there.
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 which 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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Read on for the first chapter now.
Chapter 1
‘He’s all right. You’ll live for ever, won’t you, Connie?’ said Marcus Felstead.
His head was being pumped up and down by an unknown hand. As he surfaced, his gaze took in an extensive area of mud stretching away to the incredibly distant posts. Then his forehead was brought down almost to his knees. Up again. Fred Slater he saw was resting his sixteen stones, something he did at every opportunity. Down. His knees. The mud. One stocking was down. His tie-up hung loose round his ankle. It was always difficult preserving a balance between support and strangulation of the veins. But it was worth it. Once the mud hardened among the long black hairs, it was the devil’s own job to get it off. Up again. He resisted the next downward stroke.
‘Why do you do that, anyway?’ asked Marcus interestedly.
‘I don’t know,’ said a Welsh voice. ‘It’s what they always do, isn’t it? It seems to bloody well work.’
‘You all right then, Connie?’
Connon slowly got up with assistance from the Welshman whom he now recognized as Arthur Evans, his captain.
‘I think so,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘It was that big bald bastard in their second row,’ said Arthur. ‘Never you mind. I’ll fix him.’
There was a deprecating little cough from the referee who was lurking behind Connon.
‘I think we must restart.’
Connon shook his head. There was a dull ache above his left ear. Marcus was rather blurred.
‘I think I’d better have a few minutes off, Arthur.’
‘You do that, boyo. Here, Marcus, you give him a hand while I sort this lot out. Not that it matters much when you only get twelve of the sods turning up in the first place.’
Marcus slipped Connon’s arm over his shoulder.
‘Come along, my boy. We’ll deposit you in the bath before the rest of this filthy lot get in.’
They slowly made their way to the wooden hut which served as a pavilion.
‘Get yourself in that bath and mind you don’t drown,’ said Marcus. ‘I’ll get back and avenge you. It must be nearly time anyway.’
Left to himself, Connon began to unlace his boots. The ache suddenly began to turn like a cogwheel meshing with his flesh. He bowed his head between his knees again and it faded away. He stood up, fumbled in his jacket pocket and took out a packet of cigare
ttes. The smoke seemed to help and he took off his other boot. But he couldn’t face the bath, he decided. He wasn’t very dirty and he hadn’t moved fast enough to work up a sweat. He washed the mud off his hands and bathed his face. Then, after towelling himself down, he got dressed.
The others trooped in as he was fastening his tie.
‘You all right, Connie?’ asked Marcus again.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Good-oh!’ said Marcus. ‘Let’s get into that water before Fred gets in.’
He began to tear his rugby kit off. Within seconds the bath was full of naked men and the water was sloshing over the side. There was a general outcry as Fred Slater settled in. Connon looked at the scene with slight distaste.
‘Goodbye, Marcus,’ he said, but his voice was drowned in a burst of singing. He made his way to the door and out into the fresh air.
He picked his way slowly over the muddy grass towards the distant club-house. The hut the fourth team used had originally been all the accommodation the club possessed, but the present of an adjoining field and a large loan from the Rugby Union had enabled them at the same time to develop another two pitches and build the pavilion. But even here the showers could not really cope with more than two teams, so the Fourth soldiered on in the old hut.
Connon thought ruefully that he had rather missed out on the development. The season the club-house was opened had been the season he retired. All those years in the first team had been centered on the old hut. Now when he was stupid enough to let himself be talked into playing, it was back to the old hut again.
He pushed open the glass-panelled door and stepped into the social room. Tea and sandwiches were being served.
‘Hello, Connie,’ called Hurst, the club captain. ‘Been over at the Fourths? How did they get on?’
Connon realized he did not know. He could not even recollect the score when he had left the field.
‘I don’t know how it ended,’ he said. ‘I got a knock and came off early.’
Hurst looked at him in surprise.
‘You haven’t been playing, have you? Good lord. You’d better have a seat.’
Connon helped himself to a cup of tea.
‘I’m only thirty-nine,’ he said. ‘You’re nearly thirty yourself, Peter.’
Hurst smiled. He knew, and he knew that Connon knew, this was his last season as captain.
‘They won’t get me out there, Connie. When I finish, I finish.’
‘Sandwich, Connie?’ asked one of the girl helpers. Connon recognized her as the girl-friend of the second team full-back. He shook his head, remembering when Mary had used to come down on Saturday afternoon. The catering like everything else had been more primitive then. Once they became wives they stopped coming. Then they tried to stop you coming. Then they even stopped that.
‘I won’t do it again in a hurry,’ he said to Hurst. ‘How did you get on?’
But Hurst had turned away to talk to some members of the visiting team.
The ache was turning again in Connon’s head and he put his cup down and went across the room to the door which led into the bar. This was empty except for the club treasurer behind the bar sorting out some bottles.
‘Hello, Connie,’ he said. ‘You’re early. You know we don’t serve till tea’s done and the girls have got cleared up.’
‘That’s all right, Sid. I just feel like a quiet sit down. It’s rather noisy in there.’
He sank into a chair and massaged the side of his head. The treasurer carried on with his work a few moments, then said, ‘Are you feeling all right, Connie?’
‘Fine.’
He lit another cigarette.
‘Make an exception and pass me a scotch, will you, Sid?’
‘Well, all right. Medicinal purposes only. Don’t let those drunkards smell it.’
He poured a scotch and handed it over.
‘Two shillings and sixpence.’
‘Isn’t my credit good?’
‘Your credit’s bloody marvellous. It’s my accounts which are bloody awful. Two and six.’
Connon dug into his pocket and produced the money. He sat down again and sipped his whisky. It didn’t help.
The door opened and Marcus stuck his head in.
‘There you are, then. I saw your car outside so I knew you must be hiding somewhere. How are you feeling?’
‘Not so bad.’
‘Good-oh. I see you’ve got a drink. Hey, Sid!’
‘No.’
‘Right, I’ll have to share yours, Connie.’
He sat down beside Connon. Connon pushed the drink towards him.
‘Have it.’
‘Here. Watch it or I’ll take offence.’
Connon smiled.
Marcus Felstead was short, bald, and fat. His face was not really the face of a fat man, Connie thought, but of a tired saint. He could not recall the name of the tired saint he had in mind but he remembered very clearly the picture in his illustrated Bible which was the source of the idea. The saint, his sanctity advertised by a dome of light which sat round his head like a space helmet, had been leaning on a staff and looking despondently into the distance which seemed to offer nothing but desert. Perhaps the thing about Marcus’s face was that the fleshiness of it formed a framework round rather than belonged to the thin nose and lips and narrow intelligent eyes which peered at him now curiously.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Connie? You’re not usually knocking the booze back so early.’
‘Well, I did feel a bit groggy. But it’s gone now. How did we get on by the way?’
‘What do you think? Two men short with one of their reserves playing at full-back. Can you imagine? A reserve for a fourth team. Jesus, he made me feel young. They scored another couple after you’d gone. Thirty-two – three it was at the end.’
Connon was surprised. He could not recall any scoring at all, certainly not the kind of regular scores needed to build up a total like that.
‘Who scored for us?’
Marcus looked at him strangely.
‘What are you after? Flattery? You did, you silly bugger. A moment of glory, like the old times.’
Connon drank his whisky absently. He had distinct memories of the game, but they bore no relation to Marcus’s account.
The door burst open and a group of youngsters came in, their faces glowing with exercise and hard towelling.
‘Come along, barman, this isn’t good enough, this bar should be open now!’ one cried.
‘It’ll be open at the proper time,’ said the treasurer, ‘and then I’m not sure you’re old enough to be served.’
‘Me? The best fly-half the Club’s ever had. I’d be playing for England now if I hadn’t got an Irish mother, and for Ireland if I hadn’t got an English father.’
‘And for Wales, if you didn’t fancy Arthur Evans’s old woman.’
Marcus frowned disapprovingly and spoke sharply into their laughter, affecting a Welsh lilt.
‘Somebody talking about me, is there?’
There was an edge of silence for a moment, but only a moment.
‘It’s only Marcus!’
‘It might not have been,’ said Marcus sharply.
Unconcerned, a couple of boys strolled over and sat down at the table. They were only eighteen or nineteen. Still at the stage where they were fit rather than kept fit, thought Connon.
‘Did you play today, Marcus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great! How did you get on?’
‘Lost.’
‘Pity. We won and the Firsts won.’
‘Not playing for the Firsts yet, a young and fit man like you?’
The youth smiled at this attack on his own condescension. ‘Not yet. But I’m ready. I’m just waiting for the selection committee to spot me.’ He grinned, a little (but not very) shyly, at Connon. ‘Didn’t you like my line-out work today, Connie?’
The boy had never called him Connie before. In fact, he couldn’t recollect the boy’s
ever having called him anything. This was the way with these youngsters – noncommittal or familiar, there was no earlier formal stage. Not that I mind, he admonished himself. This is a rugby club, not an office party.
‘I didn’t see it, I’m afraid,’ he replied.
Hurst stuck his head through the hatch which led into the social room.
‘Right, Sid,’ he said. ‘All clear.’
‘Your order, gentlemen. Marcus, you’re on tonight as well, aren’t you?’
‘Christ, so I am. I could have been legitimately behind the bar all this time. Are you staying, Connie?’
Connon shook his head.
‘I’m late already. Mary’s expecting me for tea.’
‘She doesn’t know you were playing, then?’
‘How could she? I didn’t know myself till Arthur grabbed me when I got here and wept Welsh tears all over me.’
‘Best of luck, then. See you tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Come on, Marcus!’ came a cry from the bar. The room was now full and the social room hatch was also crowded with faces. Marcus barged his way through the crowd and was soon serving drinks from the other side of the counter.
Connon held the last of his whisky in his mouth. He felt reluctant to move though he knew he was already late. In fact he tried to catch Arthur Evans’s eye but the little Welshman either missed him or ignored him. Connon smiled at himself, recognizing his own desire to be pressed to stay. A group of young men with their girls crowded round his table and he stood up.
‘Thank you, Mr Connon,’ said one of the girls as she slipped into his chair. Connon nodded vaguely at her, suspecting he recognized one of his daughter’s school-friends under the mysterious net of hair which swayed over her face. She brushed it back and smiled up at him. He was right. Seventeen years old, glowing with unself-conscious beauty. She had a piece of tomato skin stuck in the crack between her two front teeth.
‘You’re a friend of Jenny’s, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘How’s she enjoying college?’
‘Fine,’ he answered, ‘I think she’s very happy there. She’ll soon be home for the holidays. Perhaps we’ll see you at the house. It’s Sheila, isn’t it?’
The Roar of the Butterflies Page 22