‘Good show, Sidney,’ said the chairman of Southend Rotary Club, handing over a brand new set of golf clubs to the winner.
‘Blue one hundred and seven,’ the chairman announced as Sidney left the stage and headed back to his table, the golf clubs slung over his right shoulder. He slumped down in his chair and managed a smile when his friends, including the member who had won the gardening implements, came over to congratulate him on drawing first prize in the annual raffle.
Once midnight struck and the band had played the last waltz, everyone stood and joined in a lusty rendering of ‘God Save the King’.
As Mr and Mrs Chapman made their way home, Sidney received some strange looks from passers-by who had rarely seen a man carrying a set of golf clubs along the seafront, and certainly not at twenty to one on a Sunday morning.
‘Well, Sidney,’ said Sybil as she took the front door key out of her handbag, who would have thought you’d win first prize?’
‘What use is a set of golf clubs when you don’t play golf?’ Sidney moaned as he followed his wife into the house.
‘Perhaps you should take up the game,’ suggested Sybil. ‘After all, it’s not long before you retire.’
Sidney didn’t bother to respond as he climbed the stairs. When he reached the landing he pushed open the hatch in the ceiling, pulled down the folding ladder, climbed the steps and dumped the golf clubs in the loft. He didn’t give them another thought until the family sat down for Christmas dinner six months later.
Christmas dinner at the Chapman household wouldn’t have differed greatly from that in a thousand other homes in Southend in 1921.
Once grace had been said, Sidney rose from his place at the top of the table to carve the turkey. Sybil sat proudly at the other end of the table while their two sons, Robin and Malcolm, waited impatiently for their plates to be laden with turkey, Brussels sprouts, roast potatoes and sage and onion stuffing. Once Sidney had finished carving the bird, he drowned his plate with thick Bisto gravy until the meat was almost floating.
‘Superb, quite superb,’ declared Sidney, digging into a leg. After a second mouthful he added, ‘But then, Sybil, everyone knows you’re the finest cook in Southend.’
Sybil beamed with satisfaction, even though her husband had paid her the same compliment every Christmas Day for the past eighteen years.
Only snippets of conversation passed between the Chapman family as they dug contentedly into their well-filled plates. It wasn’t until second helpings had been served that Sidney addressed them again.
‘It’s been another capital year for Chapman’s Cleaning Services,’ he declared as he emptied the gravy boat over the second leg, ‘even if I do say so myself.’ The rest of the family didn’t comment, as they were well aware that the chairman had only just begun his annual speech to the shareholders.
‘The company enjoyed a record turnover, and declared slightly higher profits than last year,’ said Sidney, placing his knife and fork on his plate, ‘despite the Chancellor of the Exchequer, in his wisdom, raising taxes to fifteen per cent,’ he added solemnly. Sidney didn’t like Mr Lloyd George’s coalition government. He wanted the Conservatives to return to power and bring stability back to the country. ‘And what’s more,’ Sidney continued, nodding in the direction of his older son, ‘Robin is to be congratulated on passing his Higher Certificate. Southend Grammar School has done him proud,’ he added, raising a glass of sherry that the boy wouldn’t be allowed to sample for another year. ‘We can only hope that young Malcolm’ – he turned his attention to the other side of the table – ‘will, in time, follow in his brother’s footsteps. And talking of following in another’s footsteps, when the school year is over I look forward to welcoming Robin into the firm where he will begin work as an apprentice, just as I did thirty-six years ago.’ Sidney raised his glass a second time. ‘Let us never forget the company’s motto: “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”’
This was the signal that the annual speech had come to an end, which was always followed by Sidney rolling a cigar lovingly between his fingers. He was just about to light up when Sybil said firmly, ‘Not until after you’ve had your Christmas pudding, dear.’
Sidney reluctantly placed the cigar back on the table as Sybil disappeared into the kitchen.
She reappeared a few moments later, carrying a large Christmas pudding which she placed in the centre of the table. Once again, Sidney rose to conduct the annual ceremony. He slowly uncorked a bottle of brandy that had not been touched since the previous year, poured a liberal amount over the burnt offering, then lit a match and set light to the pudding as if he were a high priest performing a pagan sacrifice. Little blue flames spluttered into the air and were greeted by a round of applause.
Once second helpings had been devoured and Sidney had lit his cigar, the boys became impatient to pull their crackers and discover what treasures awaited them.
The four of them stood up, crossed hands and held firmly on to the ends of the crackers. An almighty tug was followed by four tiny explosions, which, as always, caused a ripple of laughter before each member of the family sat back down to discover what awaited them.
Sybil was rewarded with a sewing kit. ‘Always useful,’ she remarked.
For Sidney, a bottle opener. ‘Very satisfactory,’ he declared.
Malcolm didn’t look at all pleased with his India rubber, the same offering two years in a row.
The rest of the family turned their attention to Robin, who was shaking his cracker furiously, but nothing was forthcoming, until a golf ball fell out and rolled across the table.
None of them could have known that this simple gift would change the young man’s whole life. But then, as you are about to discover, this tale is about Robin Chapman, not his father, mother or younger brother.
Although Robin Chapman was not a natural games player, his sports master often described him as a good team man.
Robin regularly turned out as the goalkeeper for the school’s Second XI hockey team during the winter, while in the summer he managed to secure a place in the cricket First XI as a bit of an all-rounder. However, none of those seated around that Christmas dinner table in 1921 could have predicted what was about to take place.
Robin waited until Tuesday morning before he made his first move, and then only after his father had left for work.
‘Always a lot of dry-cleaning to be done following the Christmas holiday,’ Mr Chapman declared before kissing his wife on the cheek and disappearing off down the driveway.
Once his father was safely out of sight, Robin climbed the stairs, pushed open the ceiling hatch and dragged the dust-covered golf bag out of the loft. He carried the clubs back to his room and set about removing the dust and grime that had accumulated over the past six months with a zeal he’d never displayed in the kitchen; first the leather bag followed by the nine clubs, each one of which bore the signature of someone called Harry Vardon. Once he had completed the task, he slung the bag over his shoulder, crept down the stairs, slipped out of the house and headed towards the seafront.
When he reached the beach, Robin dropped the bag on the ground and placed the little white ball on the sand by his feet. He then studied the array of shining clubs, not sure which one to select. He finally chose one with the word ‘mashie’ stamped on its head. He focused on the ball and took a swing at it, causing a shower of sand to fly into the air, while the ball remained resolutely in place. After several more attempts he finally made contact with the ball, but it only advanced a few feet to his left.
Robin chased after it and repeated the exercise again and again, until the ball finally launched into the air and landed with a plop a hundred yards in front of him. By the time he’d returned home for lunch, late, he considered himself to be the next Harry Vardon. Not that he had any idea who Harry Vardon was.
Robin didn’t go back to the beach that afternoon, but instead paid a visit to the local library, where he went straight to the sports section. As he could on
ly take out two books on his library card, he needed to be selective. After much deliberation, he removed from the shelf, Golf for Beginners and The Genius of Harry Vardon.
Back at home, he locked himself in his bedroom and didn’t reappear until he heard his mother calling up the stairs, ‘Supper, boys’, by which time he knew the difference between a putter, a cleek, a niblick and a brassie. After supper he leafed through the pages of the other book, and discovered that Harry Vardon hailed from Jersey in the Channel Islands, which Robin hadn’t even realized was part of the British Empire. He also found out that Mr Vardon had won the Open Championship on six separate occasions, a record that had never been equalled and, in the author’s opinion, never would be.
The following morning, Robin returned to the beach. He placed the book on the ground, open at a photograph of Harry Vardon in mid-swing. He dropped the ball at his feet and managed to hit it over a hundred yards on several occasions, if not always in a straight line. Once again he steadied himself, checked the photograph, raised his club and addressed the ball, an expression regularly repeated in Golf for Beginners.
He was about to take another swing when he heard a voice behind him say, ‘Keep your eye on the ball, my boy, and don’t raise your head until you’ve completed the shot. That way you’ll find the ball goes a lot further.’
Robin obeyed the instruction without question, and was indeed rewarded with the promised result, although the ball disappeared into the sea, never to be seen again.
He turned to see his instructor smiling.
‘Young man,’ he said, ‘even Harry Vardon occasionally needed more than one ball. You have potential. If you present yourself at the Southend Golf Club at nine o’clock on Saturday morning, the club’s professional will try to turn that potential into something a little more worthwhile.’ Without another word the gentleman strode off down the beach.
Robin had no idea where the Southend Golf Club was, but he did know that the local library had always managed to answer all his questions in the past.
On Saturday morning he took the number eleven bus to the outskirts of town and was waiting outside the clubhouse a few minutes before the appointed hour.
Thus began a hobby which turned into a passion, and finally became an obsession.
Robin joined his father as an apprentice at Chapman’s Cleaning Services a few days after he left school and, despite working long hours, he could still be found on the beach at six o’clock every morning practising his swing, or putting at a target on his bedroom carpet late into the night.
His progress at Chapman’s Cleaning Services and at the town’s golf club went hand in hand. On his twenty-first birthday Robin was appointed as a trainee manager with the firm, and a few weeks later he was invited to play for Southend in the annual fixture against Brighton. When he stood on the first tee the following Saturday, he was so nervous he hit his opening shot into the nearest flower bed, and he didn’t fare much better for the next nine holes. By the turn, he’d left it far too late to recover and was well beaten by his opponent from Brighton.
Robin was surprised to be selected the following week for the fixture against Eastbourne. Although still nervous, he put up a far better performance and managed to halve his match. After that, he rarely missed a first-team fixture.
Although Robin began to take over many of his father’s responsibilities at work, he never allowed business to interfere with his first love. On Mondays he would practise his driving, Wednesdays his bunker shots and on Fridays his putting. On Saturdays his brother Malcolm, who had recently completed his apprenticeship with the firm, kept a watchful eye on the shop while Robin kept his eye on the ball, until it had finally sunk into the eighteenth hole.
On Sundays, after attending church – his mother still wielded some influence over him – Robin would head for the club and play nine holes before lunch.
He wasn’t sure which gave him more satisfaction: his father asking him to take over the business on his retirement, or Southend Golf Club inviting him to be the youngest captain in the club’s history.
The following Christmas, his father sat at the head of the table as usual, puffing away on his cigar, but it was Robin who presented the annual report. He didn’t rub in the fact that the profits had almost doubled during his first year as manager, and nor did he mention that at the same time he’d become a scratch player. This happy state of affairs might have continued without interruption, and indeed this story would never have been written, had it not been for an unexpected invitation landing on the club captain’s desk.
When the Royal Jersey Golf Club wrote to enquire if Southend would care for a fixture, Robin jumped at the opportunity to visit the birthplace of Harry Vardon and play on the course that had made him so famous.
Six weeks later Robin and his team took a train to Weymouth before boarding the ferry for St Helier. Robin had planned that they should arrive in Jersey the day before the match so they would have enough time to become acquainted with a course none of them had played before. Unfortunately, he hadn’t planned for a storm breaking out during the crossing. The ancient vessel somehow managed to sway from side to side while at the same time bobbing up and down as it made its slow progress to Jersey. During the crossing, most of the team were to be found, a pale shade of green, leaning over the side being violently sick, while Robin, oblivious to their malady, strolled up and down the deck, enjoying the sea air. One or two of his fellow passengers looked at him with envy, while others just stared in disbelief.
When the ferry finally docked at St Helier, the rest of the team, several pounds lighter, made their way straight to their hotel where they quickly checked into their rooms and were not to be seen again before breakfast the following morning. Robin took a taxi in the opposite direction, and instructed the driver to take him to the Jersey Royal Golf Club.
‘Royal Jersey,’ corrected the cabbie politely. ‘Jersey Royal is a potato,’ he explained with a chuckle.
When the taxi came to a halt outside the main entrance of the magnificent clubhouse, Robin didn’t budge. He stared at the Members Only sign, and if the driver hadn’t said, ‘That’ll be two shillings, guv’, he might not have moved. He settled the fare, got out of the cab and walked hesitantly across the gravel towards the clubhouse. He tentatively opened the large double door and stepped into an imposing marble entrance hall to be greeted by two full-length oil portraits facing each other on opposite walls. Robin immediately recognized Harry Vardon, dressed in plus fours and a Fair Isle cardigan, and carrying a niblick in his left hand. He gave him a slight bow before turning his attention to the other picture, but he did not recognize the elderly, chisel-faced gentleman wearing a long black frock-coat and grey pinstriped trousers.
Robin suddenly became aware of a young man looking at him quizzically. ‘My name’s Robin Chapman,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I’m—’
‘ – the captain of the Southend Golf Club,’ the young man said. ‘And I’m Nigel Forsyth, captain of the Royal Jersey. Care to join me for a drink, old fellow?’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin. He and his opposite number strolled through the hall to a thickly carpeted room furnished with comfortable leather chairs. Nigel pointed to a seat in a bay window overlooking the eighteenth hole, and went over to the bar. Robin wanted to look out of the window and study the course, but forced himself not to.
Nigel returned carrying two half-pints of shandy and placed one on the table in front of his guest. As he sat down he raised his own glass. ‘Are you a one-man team, by any chance?’ he asked.
Robin laughed. ‘No, the rest of my lot are probably tucked up in bed,’ he said, ‘their rooms still tossing around.’
‘Ah, you must have come over on the Weymouth Packet.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘but we’ll get our revenge on the return fixture.’
‘Not a hope,’ said Nigel. ‘Whenever we travel to the mainland we always go via Southampton. That route has modern vessels fitted with stabilizers. Perhaps I shoul
d have mentioned that in my letter,’ he added with a grin. ‘Care for a round before it gets dark?’
Once they were out on the course, it soon became clear to Robin why so many old timers were always recalling rounds they had played at the Royal Jersey. The course was the finest he’d ever played, and the thought that he was walking in Harry Vardon’s footsteps only added to his enjoyment.
When Robin’s ball landed on the eighteenth green some five feet from the hole, Nigel volunteered, ‘If the rest of your team are as good as you, Robin, we’ll have one hell of a game on our hands tomorrow.’
‘They’re far better,’ said Robin, not missing a beat as they walked off the green and made their way back to the clubhouse.
‘Same again?’ asked Nigel as they headed towards the bar.
‘No, this one’s on me,’ insisted Robin.
‘Sorry, old fellow, guests are not allowed to pay for a drink. Strict rule of the club.’
Robin came to a halt once again in front of the large portrait of the elderly gentleman. Nigel answered his unasked question. ‘That’s our president, Lord Trent. He’s not half as frightening as he looks, as you’ll discover tomorrow evening when he joins us for dinner. Have a seat while I go and fetch those drinks.’
Nigel was standing at the bar when a young woman came in. She walked briskly across and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and she left as quickly as she’d arrived.
From the moment she entered the room to the moment she left, Robin had been unable to take his eyes off her. ‘You didn’t tell me you had a goddess on the island,’ he said when Nigel handed him another half-pint of shandy.
‘Ah, you must be referring to Diana,’ he said as the young lady disappeared.
‘An appropriate name for a goddess,’ said Robin. ‘And how enlightened of you to allow women members.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Nigel, grinning. ‘She’s Lord Trent’s secretary.’ He took a sip of his drink before adding, ‘But I think she’s attending the dinner tomorrow night, so you’ll have a chance to meet your goddess.’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 54
