Green Fees - Tales of Barndem Country Club

by Brian Alford

  Agnes’ frantic waving and splashing had attracted the attention of several swans that had been lazily floating nearby. Perhaps it was the flapping of her baggy white jumper or just curiosity but they definitely took an interest in the strange spectacle. As they swam ever nearer Agnes began to scream and shout in panic. The startled creatures began to flap their wings and peck at Agnes as she waded frantically towards the shore.

  Vic and Bob raced to where Agnes was struggling to climb the slippery bank of the lake. Her efforts were being hampered by the swans which continued to peck at her jumper and splash water over her. With a monumental effort Vic and Bob hauled the sodden Agnes out of the lake as the swans, happy they had seen off the strange intruder swam away. Though she thanked her rescuers it was purely an instinctive reaction for a moment later she assailed all four men with a tirade of abuse.

  Later, Agnes forgave her poor little Henry. The poor man had been led on by his nasty friends. Nasty was not exactly the expression Agnes used to describe the companions but decency forbids the accurate recording of words which should never have crossed the lips of a lady. Suffice it to say that Agnes was never again invited to attend Ladies Night. And henceforth Henry had to settle for lonely expensive evenings on his own at the club bar when Ladies Night came round; his dark view of women completely verified.

  8

  Come Rain or Shine

  To the dedicated golfer there is almost nothing short of death or snow which will prevent the playing of the game. There have even been attempts to overcome the wretched intervention of snow by the use of such devices as brightly coloured fluorescent balls. Though these have proved useful to fanatics who insist on playing after dark they have enjoyed little success in the snow. They foolishly relied on a modicum of accuracy from the striker to determine approximately where the ball would land. And as that rare animal the honest golfer will admit the ball always seems to fly straighter and further in the minds eye than it does in reality. Self delusion makes determining the actual location of a ball extremely difficult. Then there is the problem of the need to sweep the green clear of snow before a putt can be attempted.

  There are other occasions when it is not possible to indulge the addiction. These occur when the woolly minded, conniving, whining, petty dictators of the green committee decide that the course is too wet or waterlogged to play and the grass would be damaged. Such frustrating occasions are few but there are compensations and solace can always be sought in the clubhouse bar and hopefully un-waterlogged Scotch.

  At Barndem a waterlogged course was rarely a problem due to the intricate system of drainage ditches which crisscrossed the course. These were a remnant of the original estate and had been dug several centuries earlier to support the farmland. Only during the wettest of winter spells did the stream known as Lovers Brook overflow and flood the area surrounding the thirteenth tee. Apart from this rare event very little prevented the members of Barndem enjoying their sport virtually every day of the year. But of course when it came to Henry, any generalisation no longer applied.

  It was a typical Thursday, mid morning at Barndem. Bob, Bill and Vic were sitting in their usual corner at the bar getting rather anxious because Henry was late. Henry’s absence was rather odd since he was usually first to arrive. Not only was he anxious to commence the day’s tippling but arriving first meant that he usually managed to avoid having to buy a round of drinks. Even Colin the club steward was beginning to become concerned. Somehow the day did not feel right without the usual battle of wits with his long standing adversary. It was as if the day had not quite got going. His daily set to with Henry always got his adrenaline flowing and set him up for the long day ahead. He looked up at the clock on the wall above the door which formed the entrance to the lounge from the locker rooms.

  “Trouble’s late isn’t he?”

  Bill glanced at the same clock. “Its pension day. He’s usually a bit late and if he overslept then he might have had to queue longer than usual.”

  “Well if he doesn’t come soon you’ll miss the game. You know you’ve got to tee off by eleven o’clock on Thursdays. Specially today, the ladies have got a match starting at twelve.”

  “Don’t worry about Henry. He’ll be here. We haven’t missed a game for three years. We always play, come rain or shine.”

  Colin was intrigued. “Three years? So what happened three years ago to make you miss a game?”

  Bill looked up to the ceiling and nodded in the direction of Bob. “Ask Bob.”

  Bob had been daydreaming but woke at the sound of his name. “Ask me what?”

  “Tell Colin about the time you decided to take us for a drive in the countryside.”

  “Well that’s what we did. We went for a drive in the countryside. Nice countryside too.”

  “French countryside yes! He had this idea to take the car by train to the Lake District. You know one of those trains you drive on and drive off at the other end. Well we all fell asleep in the car and only woke up once we had driven off, in France. Somehow, Bob had driven onto the wrong train. To this day I still don’t understand why he didn’t think it strange we were crossing the English channel.”

  “I thought it was one of the lakes.”

  Vic was smiling to himself at the memory. “Never mind I enjoyed the trip. Especially as it was a surprise. Henry enjoyed it too, all that cheap whisky. Mind you it was a bit of a surprise for the customs men when four people arrived back in Britain without passports. They thought we were illegal immigrants especially since Henry was so drunk he was talking gibberish.”

  “Talk of the devil.” Colin nodded in the direction of the lounge door where Henry was hobbling in helped by a pair of ancient wooden crutches. “Looks like the game’s off after all.”

  Bill was trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement at Henry’s obvious discomfort. “What’s this Henry, some new form of handicap? ‘Cos it looks a pretty lame handicap to me.”

  Henry blustered in a combination of pain, anger and shortage of breath. “Handicap be damned, it’s gout and it bloody hurts. So you can stop taking the piss for a start.”

  Bill was still giggling to himself. “Aha! Gout, the curse of the drinking man! It was bound to get you one day.”

  Bob was ever receptive to yet more useless infor­mation. “Is that what they say? Gout comes from too much drinking?”

  “Uh-huh, and Henry’s got gout despite the fact Colin waters the Scotch. Think how much worse off you’d be if Colin didn’t water the Scotch Henry.”

  Colin cringed and held up a restraining hand. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Don’t start him off. The usual Henry?”

  Henry banged one of the crutches on the floor nearly falling over in the process. “Dammit man, I’m on the wagon, doctor’s orders, no booze for a bloody week.”

  Bill placed both hands on the bar and pretended to stagger. “My god, I think I felt the earth move. Call the papers, call the television, the world as we know it has ended. Henry’s on the wagon.”

  Colin was enjoying the discomfort of his adversary. “That’s bad news for club funds. Membership subscriptions will be going up dramatically next year.”

  Henry glared angrily. “It’s no laughing matter. It hurts like buggery. I’m afraid we’ll have to scrub the game today.”

  Bill waved an admonishing finger. “We won’t have to scrub the game Henry, you will. The Good Lord isn’t punishing us for our excesses. He’s punishing you. There’s nothing to prevent us gout and play.”

  Henry banged a crutch on the ground again. “I’ll bloody punish you in a minute.”

  “You’d have to catch me first and I hardly think you’re in a condition to catch anything.” Bill stood up and smiled mockingly. “Well, we might as well get going.”

  Vic had been viewing events with mild amusement but had also been quietly scheming. “Just one moment. I think I’ve got an idea. Colin, is George around?”

  “The green keeper? Yes I think so, he’s probably in his
shed at the moment. He always hides when he knows you lot are about to go out on the course. Something about wanting to live to an old age.”

  Vic scowled. “I’ll ignore that remark. I suspect George is keeping out the way of the ladies. OK chaps, I’ll see you on the first tee in about twenty minutes. Henry, bring your clubs and for gods sake have a Scotch, I couldn’t stand the thought of playing a round of golf with you sober!”

  Vic finished his drink and headed towards the lounge door watched by the puzzled group. Bill turned to Colin with an unspoken inquiry. Equally puzzled Colin shrugged his shoulders in response. “Don’t look at me, I only work here.”

  Colin frowned as the words left his lips; it was bait for Henry. Fortunately, pain and discomfort seemed to have made Henry forget his usual derogatory riposte to this familiar comment from Colin. “In that case you can get me a bloody drink.”

  “What about doctor’s orders?” taunted Bill.

  Henry banged the bar in frustration. “Stuff doctor’s orders. I’ll drink the pain away.”

  Bill started at the bang and assumed the attention was meant for him. “Get the man a drink Colin before he turns violent.”

  Some twenty minutes and several whiskeys later Bill and Bob had managed to coax the moaning, hobbling Henry to the first tee and sat him on a bench nearby. Like the three wise monkeys they sat in silent anticipation and waited for the mystery of Vic’s unusual activity to unfold. From the direction of the car park a whining sound could be heard coming closer and closer until Vic came slowly into view riding on an electric golf cart.

  Bill was the first of the dumbstruck trio to speak. “What the? Where on earth did that come from?”

  Vic grinned in triumph. “I just happen to know that George does a little bit of buggy maintenance on the side and we did a little deal.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “I promised to keep quiet about his little sideline if I could borrow this for a couple of hours. Henry can ride round the course in this buggy and sit on a shooting stick to play his shots.”

  Bill tapped his head knowingly. “Brilliant! The man’s a genius, …. I think.”

  Vic got out of the buggy and gestured to Henry to take his place. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

  Though a naturally impetuous man, or rather a man given to little thought to controlling his actions, even Henry was doubtful. He had been looking forward to putting his feet up and relaxing over a few drinks despite doctors orders, and here he was being humped off the bench and onto the shooting stick which had been thrust disrespectfully into the grass on the first tee. As Henry sat uncertainly on the shooting stick favouring his less painful leg, Bill handed him a long iron.

  “Come on then. I can’t wait to see this.”

  Henry glared and waved the club jerkily over the ball in front of him. After much careful deliberation Henry swung at the ball and toppled sideways with the momentum of the swing. Prostrate on the floor Henry produced a stream of abuse while helpless with laughter, the others picked him up and deposited him back on the shooting stick.

  Henry was either a very determined or a foolhardy man. Whatever the truth he did at least sometimes learn just a little from his endless mistakes. Swivelling slightly to the right and placing more weight on his tender right foot to balance more effectively Henry took another swing at the ball. This attempt proved to be much more successful if somewhat painful to his ailing foot, and the ball was propelled on a bouncing erratic course down the fairway accompanied by a loud cheer and applause from the others. Henry and clubs were helped into the buggy from where he watched with some satisfaction while the others teed off with the usual varying degrees of success.

  After several unsuccessful attempts to put the buggy into forward motion Henry finally mastered the controls and the buggy set off down the fairway followed by the three close attendants. The first few holes were completed without mishap and despite his misgivings and his naturally clumsy nature Henry was beginning to cope with the handicap of his painful foot and even enjoy the experience. But with Henry things were never smooth for long.

  On the fairway of the fifth hole the quartet were gathered near Henry’s ball some 80 yards away from the green at the bottom of a gently rising slope. Bill was a creature of habit and it was always at about this point that he took a quick nip of whisky to fortify him for the hilly climbs that characterised this part of the course. Rummaging in his golf bag he retrieved a large hip flask from which he took a nip. Teasing, he offered the flask to Henry. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a quickie Henry?”

  “Wouldn’t I? Give it here.”

  Henry took a long, satisfying gulp from the flask. As he was about to take another Bill snatched the flask from his hand. “Oi! Steady on. Remember you’re driving. Does anyone know the penalty for being drunk in charge of a golf buggy?”

  Vic was not happy about the exceedingly slow progress they were making. “No but it doesn’t have any lights so if you don’t get a move on Henry you won’t be able to see to drive it back.”

  Struggling out of the buggy Henry managed to execute yet another shot that bundled the ball nearer the green before clambering back on board. Clumsily plopping his sizeable bulk into the seat the buggy rocked and began to slowly roll backwards. Unable to see what was going on Henry panicked. “What’s happening? Who’s driving? Help!”

  Bill set of in pursuit as the buggy began to gain momentum. “You daft bugger, you forgot to put the hand brake on.”

  Henry began to yell with a mixture of panic and pain caused by the buggy jostling his throbbing foot. The buggy picked up speed too fast for Bill who gave up the uneven chase and stood and watched as the buggy headed for a large bunker back along the fairway. With a final yell of pain from Henry the buggy crashed into the bunker dumping its complaining passenger onto the ground. Henry lay in a dazed state on the muddy turf as the others ran towards him. About twelve inches away from the prostrate Henry was a mole hill from which emerged a curious mole. As Henry rolled over in an attempt to rise he came face to face with the mole. Henry screamed and the frightened mole disappeared rapidly back into the mole hill.

  Being the youngest and fittest Bill was the first to arrive at the distressed man. “What’s all the noise Henry?”

  “A mole, I was attacked by a blasted mole!”

  “A mole? Big was it? Savage with large teeth?”

  “Just bugger off and help me up.”

  “I can’t do both at the same time. Which would you like me to do first?”

  “Stuff the wise cracks.”

  Bill’s struggle to help Henry’s considerable bulk off the ground was not helped by the fact that he could not stop giggling. “That really must have been a very upsetting experience.”

  “Oh, go take a run!”

  Accompanied by much grunting and straining the three men managed to right the upturned cart and help Henry back on board.

  The fifteenth fairway at Barndem rises sharply towards an elevated plateau green. It is a climb to be undertaken with caution especially by those of advanced years. For Henry the ascent presented no problem as the buggy slowly but surely laboured its way up the hill. For the trio following, progress was not so sure. It was hot and a typical prevailing headwind was making progress difficult. Increasingly their breathing became heavier and their progress slower. Seeing his faltering companions lagging behind Henry stopped the buggy to let them catch up.

  Reaching the buggy first Bob leant against the stationary vehicle and mopped his sweating face with a small grubby towel, long overdue for a wash. “Phew, I say, I don’t know about you two but the sight of Henry just sitting in the buggy being carried along while we have to walk is making me tired.”

  Bill came and leant beside Bob. “I know what you mean. Henry would seem to have a big advantage, after all the main problem with golf at our age is not so much hitting the ball as completing the round. I wish I could ride round on a buggy. You reckon there’d be
enough room for us on there too?”

  Henry shook his head emphatically. “No way! There isn’t room.”

  Bob and Bill looked at each other and spoke simultaneously. “Oh yes there is, come on shove over.” With a hefty shove of Henry’s bulk they both clambered on board.

  Bill shoved Henry further over making a small gap on the front seat. “Come on Vic, There’s plenty of room.”

  Vic frowned doubtfully. “I’m not sure about this. It seems to me…”

  “Oh do shut up and climb on.”

  Obediently Vic too clambered on board as the buggy swayed violently under the assault. Henry was hanging on to the steering wheel trying to steady himself. “I don’t think I like this!”

  Bill slapped him on the back. “You don’t have to like it, you just have to drive. Home James and don’t spare the horses.”

  Bob looked puzzled. “It hasn’t got any horses. Its electric.”

  Bill shook his head in disbelief. “Home James and don’t spare the electricity.”

  Bob was even more puzzled. “Who is James?”

  Slowly and with a great deal of protest from the motor, the buggy began to move almost imperceptibly up the hill, hesitated and then began to roll backwards towards an irrigation ditch at the bottom of the slope. With considerably more dignity than the yelling occupants the buggy slid into the ditch toppling out its passengers. Bill, Bob and Vic crawled out of the ditch and sat on the bank amused to see Henry sitting up to his waste in water.

  Having carefully chosen his words Henry exploded. “You stupid buggers!! Just wait till I get out of here, I’ll ….”