Green Fees - Tales of Barndem Country Club

by Brian Alford

  Henry tried to reach forward to grab the cup but half fell across the bar in an undignified sprawl. “Give it here, it’s as good as won. Oh shit!”

  Lucy waved an admonishing finger. “Let us get one thing straight Henry. We ladies do not tolerate swearing or cursing. It is a serious breach of etiquette. You utter one word out of place and you will be fined. And if you persist you will be penalised a shot. Understand?”

  Henry had managed to restore himself to some semblance of order. “Yessir!”

  “It’s M’am and don’t be sarcastic.”

  “Nosir, er M’am.”

  Lucy glared at Henry with such intensity that he could feel himself withering on the spot. Content with having put the man firmly in his place she retreated to the far end of the bar to discuss tactics with her companions. Vic had observed the incident with considerable discomfort.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea? I’ve got a nasty feeling about this. We still haven’t found out what this special handicap is yet.”

  Bill too was worried. “Yes, it’s not too late to back down Henry.”

  Henry angrily fell off his stool and headed towards the changing room. “Back down? Back down bull. Come on let’s go.”

  Word had spread of the challenge match and on the first tee a small crowd had gathered to watch the match. Henry was busily and vainly trying to re-assure his doubting compatriots that it would be a doddle when a loud authoritative shout was be heard from the direction of the changing rooms.

  “Henry, I want you all to come with me. Come along we haven’t got long.” It was the unmistakable voice of Lucy who was standing in the doorway that led to the ladies section.

  Eager to prove that he was not afraid Henry strode forward and arrived a little way before the others. As Lucy spoke to him his eyes widened in disbelief and his face flushed in rage. As the others arrived Henry exploded. “What? No bloody fear!”

  Lucy shrugged her shoulders and turned to leave. “Then you must pay the forfeit.”

  “Forfeit, what bloody forfeit? What’s she talking about? Nobody said anything about any forfeit.”

  Vic was nodding his head slowly. “Er, I’m afraid you did Henry. No booze for a week if you chicken out.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Am I to presume that all this blustering is about the handicap.”

  “Bloody right it is.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  Henry took the tiniest of instants to decide between continuing with the match and having to stay sober for a week. Sufficient time in fact for his brain to signal to his legs to move. A few minutes later the four men emerge dressed in the most cumbersome of women’s golf clothes, a heavy tweed skirt and blouse which was obviously concealing a heavily padded bra. The assembled crowd looked at the comical sight disbelief followed almost instantly by hysterical laughter

  Lucy was smirking rather than laughing. It was funny but she was determined not to lose sight of the serious issue behind the farce. Politely she pointed to the first tee. “Ladies first.”

  Trying to summons some vestige of dignity Henry strode forward as best he could in the constricting skirt, picked a club out of his bag and strutted onto the tee to play. Waving the club uncomfortably in front of him Henry fidgeted for a some considerable time wrestling with the padded appendage in front of him. Though amused by Henry’s obvious discomfort, Lucy was becoming impatient. “Come on Henry, it’s quite simple. You’ve just got to decide whether you are an under or an over.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to swing either under or over.”

  “What?”

  Lucy jiggled her ample bust, an action that proved ill-advised since it caused Henry’s eyes to bulge and move his mind off into a totally different direction. “Look stop trying to put me off.”

  While Vic shook his head in despair Bob made a futile attempt to demonstrate the problem. “You know, over the bumps or under the bumps Henry.”

  Henry was beginning to sound like a frustrated parrot. “What?”

  Vic finally boiled over. “I don’t believe it! The boobs Henry, you’ve got to swing the club over the boobs or under the boobs. That’s the handicap, coping with the boobs. Though I’m beginning to suspect your brain is enough of a handicap.”

  At last the penny had dropped. “Oh right! You mean? No problem.”

  With a degree of brutality no woman would ever subject to the part of the anatomy in question, Henry shuffled the padded bra into a more comfortable position. Being short in stature he was obliged to addresses the ball by standing a long way back and stretching over the top of the handicap. After a period of fidgeting he stood up, moved closer to the ball and lowered the club to below the handicap. This proved to be a bad move since when a swing was finally attempted it resulted in Henry hitting his right foot, much to the amusement of the watchers. Angrily dropping the club Henry hobbled around in pain.

  “Ahhhhh…. damn and blast.”

  Lucy was losing her battle in trying not to laugh. “That breach of etiquette will cost you a contribution to the charity box later.”

  “Stuff your bloody etiquette my bloody foot hurts!”

  “That will be two contributions. And if I hear another curse you will be penalised a stroke. Are you ready to concede defeat?”

  “No I’m bloody not!”

  Bill could contain himself no longer. “Come on Henry, best foot forward, whichever that one is.”

  Lucy had taken it upon herself to mark Henry’s card and was determined to ensure a score which bore more resemblance to reality than was normal for Henry. “Oh by the way Henry, that’s two.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes, the air shot counts as one, you’ve been penalised for swearing. so this is your third shot. You’re now playing three.”

  “Right, that does it!”

  When the pain in his foot had subsided sufficiently for Henry to stand he retrieved his discarded club and began the set up ritual once more. Finally set Henry took a big heave at the ball, pirouetted, turned a full circle and fell to the ground. Somehow contact was made with the ball which managed to trundle along the fairway accompanied by applause and cheering from the on-lookers including Lucy.

  “Mmm, not very elegant but effective.”

  Henry was about to reply but prevented by Vic. “Better be careful what you say Henry. You’ve already got two fines to pay for swearing.”

  While Vic was restraining Henry, Bob had sheepishly walked over to where Lucy was standing a safe distance from the action and began whispering something in her ear. Lucy gestured with a shake of her head and shrug of her shoulder and a bemused Bob returned to join the others.

  Bill was concerned about the worried look on Bob’s normally placid face. “What’s the matter Bob?”

  “I just wanted to know if I was supposed to wear anything under this skirt.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “Well they say Scotsmen don’t wear anything under their kilts and I just wondered, well you know.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Have you got anything on under the skirt?”

  “I’d rather not say but I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Hastily Bob rushed back to the changing room watched by a puzzled Vic. “Where’s he going? What did you say to the poor chap Lucy?”

  “I simply said it was optional as to what he wore under the skirt but that he should remember that some of the nettles on the course are at least bum high.”

  Henry and Bill looked at each other with a mild degree of horror and both dashed off to the changing room. Lucy turned to the smiling Vic. “How about you? Are you alright Vic?”

  “Me? Yes, fine thank-you. I have no intention of going anywhere near any nettles.”

  “How about brambles? Or wasps, now there’s a thought. Imagine a wasp stinging….”

  “Er, perhaps I’ll just go and see how the others are getting on.” With that Vic to
o disappeared back to the changing rooms.

  Finally the match got underway and slowly the men came to terms with their changed attire. Well, three of them did, Henry continued to struggle. At the third hole following Henry’s wild second shot his ball landed near one of the lady players who kicked it in a bad tempered way into a nearby patch of nettles. The lady players watched with uncontrolled amusement as Henry crept through the nettles in distress to play the ball. After a great deal of painful complaint the ball finally emerged followed swiftly be a screaming Henry being closely pursued by a wasp. Henry ran past his playing partners who watched in amazement. They had never seen Henry run before. In fact they always believed that from the way he tottered about, the booze had gotten to his legs.

  As usual no one had told the Japanese what was happening and a four ball set off behind the grudge match blissfully unaware of the strange battle preceding them. So slow was the progress of the titanic struggle that the unheard of event of a Japanese four ball catching up with a match in front occurred at the fourth hole.

  To the left of the long fourth hole fairway a deep water hazard lay ever eager and receptive to the wayward shot. Such shots were in plentiful supply from Henry’s clubs especially as he struggled manfully with the womanly handicap. Inevitably the hazard welcomed Henry’s ball and it lodged in the bank near the edge of the water. Normally Henry would have given the ball a friendly nudge to a more circumspect position but given the adherence to the rules being observed by Lucy, Henry was left with no choice but to play the ball where it lay. Standing ankle deep in a water hazard Henry attempted to strike a ball on the bank while Bill squatted behind him holding Henry’s skirt up out of the water. A mighty and unsuccessful swipe at the ball saw Henry tumble backwards into the water dragging Bill with him.

  This aqueous performance had been observed by the following Japanese players as they waited patiently for the English ladies to play. Seeing their predicament the gallant Japanese sprang to the rescue and attempted to help Bill and Henry out of the water It was perhaps inevitable that the net result was that overwhelmed by the weight of Bill and Henry the Japanese too ended up waist deep in the water hazard. Still gallant despite the disconcerting bad temper of the English ladies the Japanese helped Henry and Bill up the bank and back onto the fairway.

  After a difficult and treacherous struggle the Japanese managed to extricate themselves from the water hazard.

  “They build them big in this country!”

  “And they need to shave more regularly too!”

  Disillusioned and wet the Japanese trudged back to the clubhouse. No self respecting Japanese golfer would have been seen dead in such a state of disarray and a change of clothes was called for. An unspoken resolution never again to help the rude English ladies accompanied each of them on the long trudge back.

  Bill and Henry were left with a predicament. The uncomfortably heavy tweed skirts had become even more uncomfortable and even heavier as the result of their mishap. But Lucy would have no truck with their pleas for a change. If they stopped then the would forfeit the match. So it was uncomfortably on to the next hole and past the garden of the miserable golf hater, Justice Rate.

  It was early Friday afternoon and experience had told Justice Rate that this was a safe time to be in his garden. Later in the day the course would be busy but there was always a definite lull around lunch times especially on Fridays. Of course he was not to know that today would be different. Sure enough as if attracted by a powerful magnet Henry’s drive cleared the high netting and landed into the back of Justice Rate’s garden and landed near to where he was sitting in his lounger. Justice Rate was not best pleased.

  “Gaa! Bloody golfers!”

  Rate angrily got out of his chair and picked up the ball. He never returned a ball and always disposed of them in his rubbish bin as a matter of principle. Though the legal position of this action was uncertain, he was after all a Justice and no one dared argue with him. As he was about to place the ball the bin Justice Rate heard bad tempered cursing from the other side of the fence bordering the course. Peering over the fence he saw the back of Henry foraging in the rough nearby. This seemed like a good chance to give vent to his irritation.

  “Oi! Is this bloody thing this yours?

  Startled Henry turned round and Justice Rate’s demeanour changed dramatically when he saw he was addressing what appeared to be a woman. Annoyed and bad tempered he might have been, but he was still a gentleman. “Oh, I do beg your pardon madam. I thought it was one of the other idiots. I mean, not that you are an idiot, it’s just that I thought…”

  Henry instantly recognised the man who had maligned and belittled him in court over the Argylle vs Hinkley case. Trying his best to imitate a female voice only at least two octaves too low Henry fluttered his eyes at the shocked Justice. “That’s quite alright you gorgeous man. I am most terribly sorry. Silly little ball just won’t go straight. I can’t do a thing with it.”

  Lost for words Justice Rate lobbed the ball in Henry’s direction. Henry curtsied and somehow managed to remain on his feet, no small achievement. “You’re too kind, but unfortunately I will have to have a stroke for that.”

  Henry grinned widely and Justice Rate watched with deep suspicion as Henry beat a rapid retreat. In Henry’s eyes it was a major victory which he related enthusiastically to the disbelief of the others. He had, as he so colourfully related, “put one over on the bad tempered old bastard.” Unfortunately Henry’s victory was Barndem ladies loss. From then onwards Justice Rate became less than friendly towards the lady players and extended his hostility to all Barndem members irrespective of gender.

  It was with immeasurable relief that many hours later the four men eventually found sanctuary back in the bar. Safe in their familiar corner the Scotch tasted sweeter than they had ever known. Bill was still brooding about the indignity of the whole event and of being hauled into the water hazard and having to fend off the unwelcome attention of the Japanese. “Next time you want to pick a quarrel with our lady captain Henry, leave us out of it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re moaning about, my legs are covered with nettle stings and I refuse to discuss where that wasp was trying to get me. As for those Japanese, I swear one of them was trying to peek up my skirt.”

  Bob still bore the sheepish and slightly embarrassed look he had borne all day. “He probably just wanted to see if it was true what they say about Scotsmen.”

  Bill was still seething. “Can we just drop the whole subject?”

  An unusual silence fell on the four men. Even Henry who was prone to brain dumping nonsense just to hear his own voice, kept his thoughts to himself. It was therefore something of a shock for Lucy to enter the bar to be greeted by complete silence. Approaching the four men she began to wonder whether she had perhaps gone just a little too far. The thought lasted the briefest of instants and was gone.

  “Come on you guys. Its only a game.”

  It was Vic who broke the silence. He sensed how rude they must have seemed. On the corned of the bar stood the small silver cup Lucy had donated for the match. Picking up the trophy he handed it to the lady captain. “I suppose this is yours by rights Lucy. It should have a name really.”

  Lucy grinned insufferably widely. “It has, it’s called the 40D Cup, just as a little reminder.”

  14

  Sniffing Tom

  In the infinite and colourful variety of human beings there are a few souls who are to be pitied. Somehow they do not quite fit in and spend their lives wandering round the fringe of society without quite joining it. Maybe they do not receive an invitation, perhaps they choose to reject the company, but more often there is something not quite functioning one hundred per cent in their minds. Their behaviour is a little odd and usually they recognise it themselves but something compels them to act in a way which alienates them. They become souls who are lost to society.

  One such character is the peeping Tom. Often harmless in themselves they are
none-the-less a source of distress to their victims. For the peeping Tom the adage “there’s no harm in looking” simply does not apply. It is strange that for a society that spends an inordinate amount of time money and effort making itself attractive and trying to be noticed the peeping Tom should be so frightening. Perhaps it is because we are caught unawares, the looker has not been invited. Or is it perhaps the peeping Tom themselves that is frightening? What is their motivation? Are they dangerous? We want to be seen but only by a specially select group and that group does not include the peeping Tom.

  Barndem had a peculiar and far more disturbing manifestation of such a lost soul, a sniffing Tom. This particular soul had an obsession not with peeping but with sniffing. He had a fetish for sniffing female clothing, but only of course if it had been worn. The more recently the wearing the better and if it was still warm … but perhaps further details are best left to the imagination.

  A sniffing Tom is less conspicuous than his peeping equivalent since he can pursue his desire in secret. Whereas a peeping Tom always runs the risk of being seen and caught himself the same is not true for the sniffing Tom. His only risk is in the acquisition of the garments which can be done discretely and at little personal risk. The presence of a peeping Tom is usually traumatic and something of a shock, but the presence of a sniffing Tom only becomes noticed by degrees. Indeed a careful and temperate sniffing Tom may not even be noticed at all.

  The disappearance of odd items of clothes in a busy locker room is commonplace and losses can be attributed to any number of plausible causes. Someone else in the locker room may have taken the item by mistake during the hurried stuffing of dirty clothes into a bag. Quite often the mistake is not noticed until the hastily stuffed bag is unpacked at home. There can be few people who, having overcome the revulsion of finding someone else’s soiled underwear in their bag, would be so scrupulously honest as to return an unwashed item of underwear. In any event upon their return such items would simply reside in a large dustbin in the corner of the locker room until such time as the bin became full and the contents thrown away.