4 - Bramley’s Challenge
A couple of days later and Monday morning dawned bright and crisp. The fog that had enveloped the course over the weekend had been mostly whisked away by a chill breeze, leaving only a few stubborn patches lurking around the curved banks of the lake. The yellow stone of the hall glowed amber in the low autumn sunshine as the first leaves began to flurry and dance toward ground.
The greenkeepers were out in force; manicuring perfect lines down the fairways and swishing dew from the greens like expert fly fishers.
Back in the Committee Room they were double and triple checking every detail to ensure that everything was in perfect order.
“And the Orbury Flock?” asked Chives, looking to the Gamekeeper and Head Chef.
“All in hand,” replied a rugged looking man, bedecked in waxen green.
“Are we allowed to know what the blazes it is?” questioned Easter.
“A feast fit for a King, let alone an Earl,” replied Chives, “a celebration of the fare found across the estate and tenant farms. Care to elaborate Chef?”
All eyes turned to the man in the tarnished white tunic, smeared with the stains of his work. “It’s a flock of ten different birds. One inside another inside another and so on.”
The Gamekeeper took up the story. “First comes the little woodcock which is placed inside a partridge, which is in turn put into a pigeon before all three birds are placed inside a pheasant.”
“Wuddy hell, my mouths watewing alweady,” slurped BSJ.
The Chef carried on the recipe. “Next comes a guinea fowl and then a mallard, all of which are placed inside a chicken. Then comes the famous Orbury Duck, which is then stuffed into a goose before the ten bird celebration is complete by encasing the lot into a turkey.”
The gathered men guffawed their approval and slapped their hands on the table.
“And it’s all ready to go?” asked Chives.
“All trimmed, trussed and ready for the ovens,” replied the Chef.
“Then gentlemen, it looks as if we are good to go. Spencer, is the One Hundred assembled?”
“Those that can walk,” replied the Captain.
“A slug of brandy to each of them Brunswick,” Chives called over to the Steward, “ball spotting is a cold old sport. So, the Viscount tees off in one hour. We all know our duties, I suggest we get to our stations and let Bramley’s Challenge and the battle for the goblet commence!”
Forty-five minutes later and the walking wounded of the One Hundred stood in two ceremonial lines that began up in the pro shop, then slinked down the grand staircase of the Coral Hall, across the flagstone floor and out on to the gravel entrance.
Chives worked his way slowly down the line, checking the attire of the men as he went, pausing sporadically to tighten a tie or brush down a dusty fur. Finally he got to the head of the lines and stood to attention opposite Old Bogy as Spencer Cartwright broke off from the end of one of the human snakes to join him. The two men stood in silence as the breeze caught the upper branches of the menacing tree.
“Is it really eight hundred years old?” asked the Captain, happily taking his eyes off it.
“Apparently,” replied Chives, “can you imagine what sights it has seen? The building of the hall, the laying out of the course and two World Wars. Maybe even King George I himself.”
“I don’t like it,” whispered the Captain, “it’s eerie. That dark hollow in its trunk looks like a screaming mouth and the knobbly old branches at the side look like arms trying to pounce on you every time you come out of the hall. Especially at night.” He shivered.
“Sounds like you need another brandy,” mocked Chives before his attention was caught by the sound of an approaching car, its front wheels greeting the start of the gravel with a hungry crunch. “Here goes Spencer. Show time.”
The black limousine swept around the curving drive that circled Old Bogy and came to a halt in front of the two men. Brunswick stepped forward from behind Chives and opened the car door. The Viscount stepped out resplendent in his russet fur over his immaculate golf attire; russet sweater, black trousers and white golf shoes.
“Sir,” greeted Chives, shaking him by the hand, “welcome to Bramley’s Challenge and may I wish you the best of luck in your challenge for the goblet.”
“Thank you Chives,” replied the Viscount, “I meant to check with you the other day if caddies were allowed?”
“Of course, I’m sure any of the hundred would be honoured to assist,” replied the secretary with a sweeping arm to invite the Viscount to choose from the gathered men.
“Oh no. I was thinking more of my own man, someone who knew my game a little better. I presume it is acceptable to use a non-member to carry my bag?”
“I, er, Bill?” delegated Chives to the Competition Secretary who was at the head of one of the lines.
“Of course,” said Bill, “it’s all in line with the rules of golf.”
“Excellent!” cried the Viscount, “I thought as much. It’s okay Johnnie,” he called, ducking his head into the back of the car, “you can come out to play.”
For a second nothing happened. The men within earshot all craned forward to catch a glimpse of the rear of the car. Then suddenly, a fluorescent orange stockinged legged stepped from the car. There was an audible intake of breath. Even Old Bogy seemed to gather in its branches in surprise. At the end of the lurid legs, the golf shoes were a gleaming white and the skintight stockings stretched to his knee where his plus fours began. The white tailored cloth of the trousers was splattered with bright lurid disco balls, his legs a dazzle of crimson, turquoise, gold, amethyst, cyan and magenta circles. His sweater was white to his chest before one shoulder burst back to life with a further array of coloured balls. The arms and collar were jet black.
“Lamplighter!” exploded Chives.
“So good to see you again Mr. Secretary,” said a confident sneering voice.
Chives turned to the Viscount. “You said a non member, we just agreed to a non member.”
“Oh but I thought he was?” grinned the heir, his foppish grey hair stirring in the breeze from the centre parting.
“He!” shouted Chives, “he, is an ex-member! There is a difference.”
“Ex-member? Non-member? I’m sure my memory serves me well but I can’t recall ever seeing such terms in the rule book, eh Bill?” said the Viscount, turning to the Competition Secretary. Bill opened his mouth to speak but unusually for him found that the words just didn’t come.
“Besides, he’s only an ex-member for a few more days, isn’t that right Johnnie? Soon be back in the fold once these old farts have been sliced into the gutter on Tuesday.”
“How very apt,” replied Lamplighter, “Chives about to be chopped!”
“Now Mr. Secretary,” continued the Viscount, “for the sake of decorum may I suggest that we just get on with the day?”
“Very well,” conceded the secretary eventually after a lengthy pause, “but can he at least get out of those ridiculous clothes?”
“And step into what,” asked Waffham, “his club colours? I wouldn’t want to give you a coronary like my poor grandpapa, one such death in a week is surely enough for the old place. Shall we move on?” At that the Viscount and Lamplighter set off up the avenue of the One Hundred towards the heart of the clubhouse.
Bill stood beside Chives and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “Steady as she goes Jim. Let him have his fun, we both know who’ll be laughing come next week.”
Following the two men at a respectable distance, Chives let out a deep sigh as he watched them climb to the top of the grand staircase and disappear into the pro shop.
“Alright gentlemen, it is time, please make your way to the sixteenth tee. You all have your notes,” he shouted, “anyone who doesn’t know where they should be going then come and see me now. On your way!”
At the signal, the mass of russet blazers broke from their orderly ranks, snaked around the old tree
and began to creep up the eighteenth fairway. Some of the One Hundred sped ahead, their gate sprightly and strong. Others meanwhile could manage little more than a shuffle.
“What’s the collective noun for a group of foxes,” asked Chives as he, Spencer Cartwright and Bill watched the migration.
“A skulk I think,” replied Bill.
“Indeed it is,” replied Chives, “my point entirely. Skulk by name, skulk by nature.”
“Quite,” agreed Bill, “they are not a happy bunch.”
“And they’re not alone,” admitted the Club Secretary, “but alas, you’re right Bill. We must bite our tongues and bide our time. We know what the final outcome will be. In the meantime we continue to do our duty to the best of our ability. We mustn’t sink to their level.”
“Here, here!” replied the other two men together, before the three of them climbed the majestic staircase.
Inside the pro shop, Peters was deep in conversation with the Viscount, for once his bow tie almost horizontal. Chives caught the professional’s eye and the pot bellied man managed to bring the chat to a polite halt before ducking back behind the counter. Chives took a long slow lungful of air.
“Sir,” he began, the words memorized from the little black book, “it is a great honour as the interim head of the estate to offer you Bramley’s centuries old challenge for the silver goblet. Please follow me.”
The party passed through the Lounge and on into the southwest tribune before turning into the Committee Room. Leading the march, Chives took them around the oak table before coming to a halt in front of the fireplace. All eyes now looked up to the silver goblet twinkling in the alcove above the fire.
Reverently Chives reached up with both hands and cupped the precious goblet in his palms. Turning like a priest to celebrate the Eucharist, he held the vessel up before whispering in an awed tone. “Bramley’s goblet.”
“Beautiful,” whispered the Viscount, his hands instinctively reaching up to touch the silver.
“Magnificent,” purred Lamplighter, stroking the engraved sides, “is it old?” he asked.
“Very old,” replied Chives.
“Worth a few quid then?” questioned the man who was many years younger than the others present. His shortish hair was highlighted with cream streaks and clipped at the sides to reveal his darker natural colour. Two perfectly cut long side burns swept down to a sharp point, framing an equally well-trimmed mustache and goatee.
“Almost priceless,” replied Chives, “it’s carved with floral designs inspired by the estate and commissioned by the seventh Earl in honour of Bramley for guiding him and his son through the difficult year of 1861 to bring golf and stability back to The Orbury. It has only been played for on four occasions and each time by just one single competitor. The incoming Earl. Albeit belatedly for the seventh Earl who had to repair and then complete the great course after the damage inflicted by his brother.”
Chives tried to pull the goblet to his chest but couldn’t shift it from Lamplighter’s grasp. The caddie had the object clamped in a vice like grip and seemed mesmerized by the dancing light from the chandelier above, flickering and flashing off the embellished surface. The secretary gave a sudden yank and finally freed it from Lamplighter’s fingers.
“The challenge is simple,” went on the Club Secretary, “to drive off from the sixteenth tee and to strike the ball as permitted by the rules of golf before eventually holing out on the third green. Three thousand one hundred and fifty-four yards as the crow flies. Par thirty-two.”
“Par thirty-two!” exclaimed the Viscount, “bloody hell. Peters, quick, get me a score card.”
“Do you accept the challenge?” pushed Chives.
“Hold on, hold on,” snapped back the Viscount as he took the scorecard from the professional and turned it over to peruse a map of the course. “So, sixteenth tee,” he said placing his finger accordingly at the top of the card.
“To the third green,” finished Lamplighter, placing his own digit down in the bottom left corner of the illustration.
“Blimey, it’s virtually impossible,” muttered the Viscount.
“Nonsense,” countered Lamplighter, “it’s a piece of p-”
“It may appear easy,” interrupted Chives, “or rather, it may be easy to complete, but is it so easy to win?”
“What do you mean win? I thought you said I was the only one playing?”
“Today, yes. But this is a competition that strides across time. Your fellow competitors are your forebears. Each Earl from the seventh onwards has taken the challenge and their scores are engraved here, on this side of the goblet.”
“And if I beat them I win?” asked the Viscount.
“Sort of. You see the beauty of this challenge is that you have never truly won. After all, you might end up getting beaten by those who follow in future times. Instead you get the honour of knowing that you are the current leader, and your name and score get engraved on the leader board on the other side of the goblet. As the current holder you would then be eligible to drink from it at the banquet of the Orbury Flock this evening,” replied Chives.
“What if he loses?” asked Lamplighter.
“Then there is a forfeit.”
“Which is?” asked the Viscount nervously.
“You have to provide the wine at the banquet.”
“For the whole top table?” asked the Viscount cautiously.
“No, for the whole One Hundred!” replied Chives.
“B-But that would cost thousands,” bemoaned the heir apparent.
“But surely that is but a small price to pay for immortality,” teased Chives. “So, Sir, do you accept Bramley’s challenge?”
“C’mon Bertie,” encouraged Lamplighter.
“But what if I lose? I’m not sure that I can afford that.”
“Are you mad? Look around you,” cut in Lamplighter, “you said yourself, in four days time all this will be yours. What feels like hundreds now will become pence and the thousands will feel like pounds.”
Viscount Waffham glanced around nervously at the expectant faces.
“Well?” prompted the secretary, extending the goblet towards the heir, “immortality?”
“I accept!” blurted Viscount Waffham suddenly as the exquisite goblet shone before him.
“Excellent,” replied Chives as Lamplighter laid a congratulatory hand on the heir’s shoulder, “then let us waste no more time. The game is afoot gentlemen. To the tee!”
Chives led the way, accompanied by Bill and Spencer Cartwright with Viscount Waffham and Lamplighter, a golf bag strapped across his back, bringing up the rear. The rattling of the club heads clanked in time with their strides as the five men marched in unison. As they made their way back up the eighteenth fairway, the ground began to rise slowly up towards the tee. The trees closed in to form a narrow corridor, a tight drive when playing the hole. Just before the tee the trees suddenly stopped to allow a panoramic view of the whole estate. Raised up from the ground around it, the huge tee, accessed by a grand staircase, also shared the lofty perch with the slender memorial to the fifth Earl Orbury. The decorative finger towered over the surrounding land, reaching for the skies. Immediately behind the tee, away towards the east, a wood began to close in with the great boughs and gnarled branches of the interlocking trees cutting out the daylight. Skirting around the perimeter of this dank brooding woodland, a path linked the eighteenth tee to the seventeenth green.
The party continued on down the seventeenth and eventually made their way to the start point at the sixteenth tee. Lamplighter eased the bag from his back and placed it next to the white tee markers, two spindly legs snapping out for support as the bottom touched the ground.
“Any chance of playing off the senior’s tee?” pleaded the caddie, pointing to the yellow tee blocks some twenty yards ahead, “every little helps.”
Bill Muir was ever ready with a ruling. “I’m afraid not, the rules of the challenge are very clear. Play is to be f
rom the white tee.”
“Oh well,” shrugged Lamplighter, “you can’t blame a caddie for trying.”
“Sir, some other rules,” continued Bill, “firstly to make things as even as possible, you are allowed the use of the same document that all previous competitors had at their disposal. Namely the original plans of the course.” He pulled out an old cream folded map and a scale rule.
“Oh I don’t need that, Johnnie has got his satnav gizmo,” replied the Viscount, his caddie holding up the device.
“Sadly not,” said Bill as Chives snatched the device from Lamplighter’s fingers.
“Hey!” cried the caddie, trying to retrieve it.
“You’ll get it back,” said Chives, “but rules are rules, no matter how old they are.”
“Secondly, there are no areas of out of bounds. So down the left of the first between that and the ninth is in play. You can play the ball anywhere you like. Outbounds, inbounds, indoors or outdoors. And lastly, please be aware that rule 27-1c does not apply.”
“And for those of us who haven’t swallowed the rule book?” snorted Lamplighter.
“The five minute rule for finding a lost ball does not apply,” answered Bill, “you can take as long as you like.”
The Viscount eyed up the Competition Secretary suspiciously. “It’s most unlike you to willfully allow one of the rules of golf to be disregarded so readily.”
“Yes it does stick in one’s craw. But we are just trying to ensure parity. Suffice to say that when the seventh Earl took up the challenge we think that the rules of golf were probably a little woollier. We doubt they had a time limit on a lost ball. But other than that, we’re happy that the rest of the rules of golf should apply. I will keep the score as we go and if you want any rulings then please just ask me for help. May I wish you the best of luck, Sir!”
“Hold on, hold on,” broke in Lamplighter, “you never told him what score he had to beat.”
“He never asked,” replied Chives mischievously.
“Well I’m asking now,” said Viscount Waffham.
“In that case you’ll be pleased to know that no one has yet managed to beat par.”
“Well that gives me some chance. How many over?”
“None,” interjected Bill. “Whilst no one has managed to beat par, one man has managed to equal it. Thirty-two leads the way.”
“Who? Bound to be dear old grandpapa,” said the Viscount sarcastically.
“No, he failed I’m afraid,” said Chives. “The year our leader played was 1861, the first man to take on the challenge, the seventh Earl.”
Lamplighter gave a snort. “Cheating bugger, I bet all these trees were only about four feet high then.”
“Right then, Sir,” said Chives, “I’ve marked up a ball for you. All the One Hundred have been told of the mark so they will be able to easily identify it when spotting. So, over to you,” he concluded, tossing the ball to the heir.
Viscount Waffham caught it and tossed it on to Lamplighter who proceeded to polish it like a cricket ball on his trousers.
“So,” whispered Waffham to his caddie, “what do you think?”
The two men stood on the tee and took a look around. Just off to their right the long thin green of the fifteenth curled around the edge of the lake.
“Going right is not an option,” said Lamplighter. He pointed to the far side of the lake, “the wood is just as thick over there as it is off to our left.”
“Agreed,” replied Viscount Waffham, “how far is it to the seventeenth fairway? Is there any chance that I could drive it across the edge of the lake and then right over trees?”
Lamplighter opened up the old creased drawing and laid it out on the ground, tracing his fingers across the detail to locate their current position. Taking the small-scale rule from his pocket he laid it in a direct path to the centre of the seventeenth fairway.
“Something like two hundred and fifty yards, maybe even two-sixty. But it’s all carry.”
“Flipping heck.”
“But take a look at this,” said Lamplighter, beckoning his friend down to the course map as he placed the end of the ruler on the island green of the sixteenth and then lined its straight edge right down the centre of the seventeenth fairway. “If you can hit the centre of the green, according to this you’ll have a clear line of sight right down the throat of the seventeenth.”
“How old did you say this map was?” asked the Viscount.
“It dates right the way back to 1861 when they finished the course,” replied Chives.
“Can we trust it?”
“Of course, every single tree planted was painstakingly drawn in place. Mind you, they are somewhat bigger now than they are on there,” joked Chives.
“Then that’s our plan,” said the Viscount, “so what do we have to the centre, Johnnie?”
“All yardages on the normal card are to the centre of the green so you have exactly one hundred and twenty-seven yards. But be careful, the pin’s at the back, you’ve got to put that right out of your mind. You could probably get away with anywhere on the front half, but start going beyond that, towards the back part of the green, and you’ll start to lose the angle down the next fairway.”
“Weapon of choice?”
“Well, there’s a slight breeze against as normal coming down off the lake so either a softish eight or a big nine,” recommended the caddie.
Viscount Waffham stood in the centre of the tee, arms by his side, chin raised and eyes closed to gauge the strength of the breeze. “It might be a nine for you, but I’ve got a few more years on me than you so I’ll go with the eight,” he decided.
Taking his ball from Lamplighter he plunged a red castle tee into the ground and placed the ball atop, noticing as he did the ‘11E’ mark penned by Chives in permanent red ink.
“Good luck,” said the secretary, as his words of good luck were echoed by numerous hidden members of the One Hundred who were skulking around in the undergrowth.
The Viscount tightened his glove with a scrape of Velcro before taking his stance. He waggled the club head nervously a couple of times before taking a last long look at the target. His backswing was perfect and as he swung through the shot there was barely a sound as the ball launched off the sweet spot and soared into the air.
“Beautiful Bertie,” cried his caddie, “beautiful.”
“Be the right club,” encouraged the Viscount, watching earnestly as the ball seemed to hang in the air, the breeze resisting its flight. Accompanied by the sound of distant birds upon the lake the ball fell towards the island and landed with a soft thud on the front portion of the green.
A cheer went up around him as he turned and slapped the upraised palm of his caddie.
“One,” shouted Bill, notching up a mark on his scorecard as they all set off round the lake to the sixteenth green. The marooned oval of land sat majestically upon the calm water. Devoid of any shrubs, trees, bushes or plants the slanted disc was a soft carpet of emerald grass. Built at an acute angle, the raised back rose ten feet out of the water whilst the front lip of the trimmed apron dipped graciously into the lake. Connecting it to the shoreline was a low wide arched bridge, wide enough for a four-ball to walk across in a line.
Viscount Waffham and Lamplighter jogged over the bridge, anxious to get behind the ball and assess its line down the seventeenth fairway. The younger, and lighter, man got there first and with the bag still on his back he knelt down and extended his arm as if aiming a rifle. Raising his thumb for a sight he closed one eye and look along his limb.
“Wunderbar!” he exclaimed just as the puffing Viscount came to stand behind him and look down the line.
“Not bad for a sixteen handicapper,” he purred as Lamplighter once again opened out the old map.
“You’ve got two choices. First option is an iron for safety. You’ll probably need at least an eight or a seven iron to make the start of the fairway, maybe a little bit more. Or alternatively you take your five w
ood. The gap gets wider the further down the fairway you hit it.”
“If I keep taking irons I’ll be lucky to break fifty. Five wood,” requested the Viscount decisively.
“Good man,” encouraged Lamplighter as his man took his club of choice and launched into a reckless practice swing.
Chives winced as the club sliced a three-inch wide divot out of the immaculate green. “Poor old greenkeeper will be crying in his beer when he sees that,” he whispered to Bill.
Viscount Waffham stepped a few paces behind the ball to get his line. He raised the club to eye level, extended his arms to full stretch and pointed them at a distant tree on the other side of the lake. Keeping a keen eye on the faraway target he slowly stepped back to address his ball. Again a few nervous wiggles. Once more his shoulders turned square but as he began his downward stroke, fear of a bad shot seemed to get the better of him and his weight rocked onto his back foot. Off balance he opened up his body as he struck his shot, slicing right across the line of his intended target.
“Bugger!” he exclaimed immediately as he watched the ball fly left off the tee. Once over the water it just clipped a few leaves on the trees to the left of the seventeenth tee before the spin of the slice really started to take hold. Changing direction like a boomerang it started to bend out to the right towards the lake.
“Sit!” he shouted with blind hope. “Sit!” Although the ball continued to curve towards the water it was now starting to lose height. As its power started to fade the spin upon the ball increased as the light breeze magnified it. This late effect saved the ball from a watery grave. Instead it struck a mighty bough of a weeping willow, the last tree before the eastern bank of the lake turned into a grassy shoreline. Even from a distance, back on the island green, they heard the low thwack.
Chives, Bill Muir, the Viscount and Lamplighter all whipped their heads about wildly to try and catch sight of the deflected ball.
“I didn’t see it drop,” said Bill.
“Nor I,” replied Chives, just as the seventeenth was drowned in a wave of russet clad ball spotters emerging from cover.
Scampering forward the four men joined the search as scores of eyes scanned the ground for the white ball. The minutes stretched on.
“What if we can’t find it?” asked Lamplighter to Bill as their paths crossed in the gloom of the wood to the left of the fairway. “Being allowed more than five minutes is all very well but we can’t spend all day out here. Besides it might have cannoned off straight into the lake.”
“Thankfully that’s unlikely,” replied the Competition Secretary, “apparently a number of chaps said they heard a second thud in these trees so it’s got to be in here somewhere.”
“If it goes on too long he’ll have no choice but to declare it lost,” said Lamplighter.
“Aha,” said Bill with an amused grin on his face, “a common error, but there is nothing in the rules of golf about declaring a ball lost. No such thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure!”
“Then we could be here all night then.”
“He does have other another option. He can, at the cost of a penalty stroke go back and drop a ball as close as possible to the point from where he struck his last shot.”
Just then they heard a muffled cry from a little way off.
“They’ve found it!” exclaimed Bill.
The seventeenth hole was a sharp dogleg left. It was a hole of two halves. The first half, the fairway, was at normal ground level. However the second half climbed steeply up to a raised green. All the land surrounding the memorial, and the flat plateau at the top it shared with the seventeenth green and eighteenth tee, rose sharply upwards.
Picking their way through the darkness they forced their legs up the incline trying to find the successful spotter.
“Bloody hell!” puffed the sweating Viscount as he finally pushed his way through the throng of members crowded around his ball, to find it nestled up against one of the large trunks and surrounded by dense fern. “This is going from bad to worse. What are my options if I can’t play the ruddy thing?”
“Rule 28, ball unplayable,” replied Bill, “you’ve got three options. One; take a drop within two club lengths, no nearer the hole.”
“No nearer the hole?” complained Waffham, “are you taking the piss? It’s almost a bloody mile away!”
“Fair enough,” said Bill awkwardly, “how about dropping the ball as far back as you like as long as it is on a line with the pin and where your ball currently lies?”
“On a line with the pin? Have you got a x-ray telescope that can see through hillsides?”
“Or your third option,” went on Bill optimistically, “is to take a penalty of one shot and then go back to as close as possible from where you last played it.”
“Back down on the island?” said the Viscount, throwing the suggestion open to his caddie.
“That’s what got you in this trouble in the first place. Besides, are you sure that’s unplayable? I could easily hit that?” encouraged Lamplighter.
“How?”
“Grip right down on the shaft,” suggested the caddie, “here, like this.” Lamplighter took out a wedge and gripped the club with both hands about a foot away from the club head. Standing away from the ball he took a couple of short, stubby little swings, chopping down on the leaves and twigs blanketing the ground. “What’s more,” he continued, “you’ve only got to shift it twenty or thirty yards further up the hill, come and see.”
The two men went on alone, struggling up the steep ground.
“Get up passed this tree and look,” Lamplighter ducked and pointed through the interwoven canopy to a lighter patch in the distance, “there, can you just see the tip of the memorial? That means the eighteenth tee is more or less on that alignment. Get up to there and you’ll have a clear line down to the hall.”
“I’m not so sure. This bloody wood is just so dense, so steep!” said Viscount Waffham as they made their way back down to his ball. “Perhaps I would be better off back on the island. Get a good shot away and play the seventeenth as normal.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s easy, here look,” again Lamplighter clutched down on the wedge.
“You play it for me.”
Bill stepped in. “That’s not allowed I’m afraid, it’s not in the rules of golf.”
“How do you know Bramley didn’t take a couple of swings for the others? You said yourself the rules were a bit, how did you put it, woolly?”
“I-I’m not sure. We really should stick within the rules.”
“It’s hardly a crime. After all it’s no different to greensomes or foursomes, you’re just taking alternate shots. You’re still playing one ball, still taking the same amount of strokes.”
Bill stalled, looking to Chives for help. The Club Secretary considered it for a moment and then nodded his assent.
“Alright, go on then,” conceded Bill.
“Good man,” exclaimed the Viscount, “c’mon Johnnie, do your magic.”
Lamplighter stepped up to the ball, his disco ball outfit almost fluorescent in the gloom of the wood. A safe distance away he took another few practice swings before settling over the ball, his back crooked and his knees bent so that he could get down to the ball on the severe hanging lie. But as he drew back the club on its tiny little backswing the club face got caught on a thick fern behind, that flicked the club off line and as he stabbed at the ball he struck mostly tree stump, only managing to move the ball a couple of yards further up the hill.
“Bloody hell Johnnie, you arse! That doesn’t count,” he bleated, “that doesn’t count, you were right, it has to be me. His shot doesn’t count.”
“Sorry Sir, you can’t have it both ways. Three!” called Bill.
“That’s the last time I listen to you,” moaned the Viscount. “Give me my three wood and stand up there so you can see where it goes, I’m going to just larrup this one as hard as I can.”
“Bertie, do you think that’s wise?”
“A damn sight wiser than trying to use a bloody midgets club, now stand up there where you can’t do any more damage.”
He didn’t hang about and swung an angry blow. He caught it sweetly but it never got passed the first tree. Everyone in the vicinity ducked as it ricocheted off branches and trunks above their heads. As the knocking stopped they looked up silently and waited to hear it drop. Noting happened for a few seconds before it suddenly fell from the sky, struck Lamplighter on the shoulder and rolled into a space between the trees.
“Oh very bad luck, Sir,” apologized Bill, “rule 19-2. Ball in motion deflected or stopped by player, partner, caddie or his equipment. One stroke penalty I’m afraid. Five!!”
Viscount Waffham scowled at his caddie, stepped up to his ball without a word and once again smacked it as hard as he could. The white ball whistled through the intricate cobweb of twigs and spurs without clipping so much as a leaf.
“It’s out!” came a distant cry.
The eighteenth tee was a wonder. A huge flat dais raised up from the hilltop, connected to the surrounding land by flights of wide stone steps flanked with carved balustrades. Between the seventeenth green and the eighteen tee, was the inspiring memorial to the fifth Earl. Standing at one hundred and twenty feet high the Corinthian column dominated the landscape, towering over the hall half a mile away. Standing on the tee you could see the whole estate. The tenant farms and deer park away to the west, the sprawling hall below and beyond that the lonesome finger of the Memorial to the Unknown Airmen atop a twin hill mirrored on the other side of the great building.
Despite the fact that his ball was a hundred yards further on, Viscount Waffham couldn’t resist climbing the stairs and stepping on to the tee. Lagging a modest distance behind, Lamplighter followed him up.
“Still mad at me?” asked the caddie.
Waffham smiled. “I never could stay angry with you for long, you know that.”
“I know, but it was a bloody awful shot,” he said as they both laughed.
“Do you remember me telling you about this view, all those years ago after lights out?” said the heir.
“Of course. ‘One day it will all be mine’ you said,” recalled Lamplighter. “To be honest I thought you were talking bollocks, getting stir crazy.”
“You never told me that!”
“Well crazy or not, it kept me going as much as you,” the caddie admitted. “I never tired of you describing the evening sun setting over the trees, its dying light shimmering off the lake. And now it’s all yours.”
Viscount Waffham turned with affection. “Ours Johnnie, just like I promised.”
“Sorry Sir,” shouted Chives from the path below, “if I could hurry you, there’s nothing worse than burnt birds at a banquet.”
The heir acknowledged him with a wave.
“Have you asked him yet?” said Lamplighter.
“No, I am trying to wait for the right moment.”
“You can’t put it off for long, I need to give her fifteen thousand by Wednesday or...”
“Or what?”
Lamplighter paused, casting his eyes to the ground. “Or there’ll be consequences,” he said eventually.
“Beware the expectant mother eh?” prompted the Viscount.
“Something like that,” replied Lamplighter.
The Viscount rested his hand on his caddies shoulder. “I promised you I’d sort out this matter. I’ll get the money, I promise.”
“You promised that over a month ago, her patience is running thin. I’m trying to keep a lid on it but Muxcombe is on to me.”
“Two days Johnnie, you’ll have the money in two days I promise. I’ll think of something. Now, come on, let’s show these buggers what golf is about!”
The Hacker (Volume One) Page 5
