by Jonathan Coe
‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Bishop, standing just behind him.
‘Very good indeed,’ said Mr Bishop, from the other side of the fairway, where his ball was lodged in the rough.
Mr Hu, the final member of the four, said nothing. He was standing in the centre of the fairway, and began to walk ahead, pulling his trolley behind him, towards his ball, which had landed just short of a bunker.
‘You’re good at this,’ said Sophie, as Ian slid the club back into his bag.
He smiled. ‘Some days are better than others.’
They walked onwards in the sunshine. She put her arm through his.
It had been a source of tension between them, for several months, this new habit of playing golf every Sunday morning. Ian had always enjoyed the game, but now these weekly sessions had become sacrosanct: three hours out on the course, usually with Simon Bishop and his parents, followed by lunch with his mother either at home or in the clubhouse. That, combined with football matches on Saturdays, meant that their weekends were pretty much consumed by sport, and Sophie seemed to spend a good part of each Saturday and Sunday sitting by herself in the flat.
‘The thing is,’ she had said, drunkenly, gazing into what was left of the schnapps in her glass and wondering just how strong it was, ‘that I can’t tell if we’re growing apart or if we’ve always been this far apart and I’ve only just started to notice it.’
Sigrid, the director of the Sky Arts documentary on Vermeer, had leaned forward and touched Sophie on the arm. It was getting on for two o’clock in the morning and they were among the last customers left in a cavernous, dimly lit bar on the Gravenstraat.
‘Having lots of things in common with your partner,’ she said, ‘doesn’t mean anything. Pieter and I had the same interests, the same politics, the same opinions … Where did that get me?’
She had already told Sophie, at some length, the story of her disastrous marriage, which had begun as a union of souls and ended in domestic violence.
‘Pieter turned out to be a shit,’ she said. ‘A lying shit. A cheating shit. A violent shit. Do you think your husband is a shit?’
‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘Definitely not.’
‘Do you love him?’
Sophie paused. It seemed to her an impossible question. ‘I guess …’
‘Do you like him?’
‘Yes.’ Without hesitation.
‘Do you trust him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you trust him with your life?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Then for fuck’s sake hang on to him. So what if he voted Conservative in the last election, and you voted Labour? That’s not what life is about. My ex-husband was a socialist and he kicked me in the face one night because I stayed out late with one of my girlfriends.’
‘Yes,’ Sophie had said. ‘Of course. You’re absolutely right.’
‘If you think you’re growing apart, try getting closer to him. Make the effort. Then he might notice what you’re doing and try getting closer to you.’
Sophie had nodded doubtfully and repeated, ‘Get closer to him …’
‘I don’t know … Go and join him on one of those stupid golf matches. Show willing. How bad can it be? At least you’ll get some exercise and some fresh air.’
And so here she was, a few days later. Spending Sunday morning at the Golf and Country Club at Kernel Magna – somewhere, five years earlier, she would never have imagined even setting foot. And thinking, as she walked arm in arm with her husband in the sunshine, that she had found Deep England at last, and that it wasn’t so bad after all.
‘What do you think he makes of this?’ she asked Ian, nodding in the direction of Mr Hu.
‘I expect they do have golf courses in China,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course, but … this.’ She gestured around her. ‘It’s all so stereotypically English. I wonder if it seems exotic to him.’
‘I’m sure he loves it.’
Mr Hu Dawei was visiting the UK for a few days in order to cement his business relationship with Andrew Bishop, Simon’s father. Andrew had spent his working life in dairy farming, and during that time had transformed what was once a small family farm into an expanding international agribusiness. He was approaching his mid-sixties but showed no sign of retiring or running out of ideas: only recently he had discovered a profitable new export market in China, where British milk enjoyed a good reputation and UHT milk, in particular, was in strong demand. Mr Hu had been staying at the Bishops’ handsome eighteenth-century farmhouse since Thursday, had enjoyed thorough tours of the milking sheds and the processing plant, had spent Saturday afternoon in Stratford-upon-Avon with Mrs Bishop, culminating in a trip to the RSC to see Coriolanus, and this morning was seizing the chance to demonstrate his golfing prowess, which was impressive. (It turned out that he played off a handicap of three.) He was partnering Andrew against Ian and Mrs Bishop – Simon being at work all weekend – and after four holes they were already two up.
‘Come on, Mary,’ said Ian, standing next to his partner as she sized up her next stroke. ‘We can do this. We can pull one back.’
Mary’s ball was lying in the centre of the fairway but had fallen almost fifty yards short of the green. If she pitched the ball within putting distance of the hole this time she could still finish this one in par. But she sliced the ball badly: the length was well judged but it landed just off the edge of the green.
‘Botheration,’ she said.
‘No problem,’ said Ian. ‘All is not lost.’
Despite this reassurance, Mary shook her head as she walked on, chiding herself for letting the side down. Then: ‘I gather you’ve been in Amsterdam,’ she said to Sophie, as they approached the green. ‘Lovely city, isn’t it? I went there with the WI once, many years ago. Did you have a nice time? It’s so important to take a break now and again, isn’t it?’
‘Well,’ said Sophie, ‘it wasn’t a break as such. Although I did –’
‘Andrew and I make a point of getting away every couple of months,’ said Mary, who did not appear to be one of nature’s listeners. ‘Just this year, we’ve been to … let me see … Budapest – Seville, that was heavenly – Bari – extraordinary seafood – Tallinn …’
‘Ah yes,’ said Sophie. ‘We’ve been to Tallinn. Very briefly. It was one of the places Ian and I stopped off on our –’
‘And all with direct flights from Birmingham airport,’ Mary continued. ‘Isn’t that amazing? It’s become quite the international hub in the last few years. We’ve been to corners of Europe we would never have thought of visiting otherwise.’
‘That’s great,’ said Sophie, for want of anything better.
‘Who needs to go anywhere near Heathrow or Gatwick, nowadays? We’ve got the whole of Europe at our fingertips here.’
*
It was not until the seventh hole that Sophie found herself in conversation with Mr Hu. With his ball lying about thirty yards from the green, he pulled out an eight iron and chose a risky shot, straight over a large bunker, but he cleared it without overshooting the green, and the ball landed within comfortable putting distance.
‘I’m no expert,’ Sophie said, ‘but I’d say you were pretty good at this game.’
‘Back home,’ he said, ‘I play two, three times a week. But this is different. This is special.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘This is where golf should be played,’ he said, gesturing around him. ‘In England. England’s “green and pleasant land”.’ They walked on. ‘You teach at university, right? So you know about William Blake?’
‘A bit. More as an artist than a writer, to be honest.’
‘This poem, “Jerusalem” – it’s very beautiful. But it puzzles me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘ “And was Jerusalem builded here”. That’s what he says, right? But there’s no such word as “builded”. It’s not the right word.’
‘I suppose not. But “builded�
�� fits the line better.’
Mr Hu considered this, and smiled admiringly. ‘You see, this is what I like about the English. Everyone thinks you are very safe, conservative people. But you will always break the rules. If it gets you what you want, you are happy to break the rules.’ He laughed in delight. ‘Even William Blake!’
*
It was not until the tenth hole that Sophie found herself in conversation with Andrew Bishop.
‘I’m afraid this must be a rather dull way for you to spend your Sunday morning,’ he said. Once again he had lost his ball in the rough, and she was helping him to look for it.
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘I’ve learned masses of things already.’
‘Really? Such as?’
‘I’ve learned what par means. I’ve learned the difference between a wedge and a driver. I’ve learned that a birdie is one below par and an eagle is two below, and an albatross is three below par but hardly anyone ever gets one of those.’
‘Very good. Though I don’t know how useful all this information is going to be in your line of work.’
‘You never know. Everything is grist to the academic mill.’
‘I suppose so. Ah, here it is! … Oh dear.’
His ball was not just deep in long grass, but was lying so close to the trunk of a yew sapling that it was clearly impossible to play. Andrew had to pick it up and drop it behind his back, forfeiting a stroke as he did so.
‘I’ve also learned,’ said Sophie, as he took out a five iron, ‘that Britain exports milk to China. Which I would never have guessed before today.’
‘Damn.’ He made a mess of the shot: the ball stuttered forward only a few yards, still in the rough. He walked over towards it, carrying the same club. ‘Yes, it’s remarkable, isn’t it? I don’t think I would have guessed it a few years ago. And I certainly wouldn’t have guessed that I’d be one of the ones doing the exporting. It seemed very daunting at first. But my son was a great help in getting everything off the ground. Not Simon – I mean Charles, Simon’s brother. He’s based in Hong Kong, working for HSBC. So he has some knowledge of that part of the world. And do you know what? Once we got down to it, even allowing for the language problems, the paperwork was simpler than what I have to go through with the EU.’
‘Really? That’s amazing.’
‘Not really. Those people in Brussels are a nightmare, you know. The red tape.’ He swung at the ball, which soared cleanly through the air and landed just as cleanly in the centre of a bunker about thirty yards away. Andrew grimaced. ‘An absolute bloody nightmare.’
*
‘Enjoying yourself?’ Ian asked, as they walked together down the fairway of the fourteenth hole. It was a par three and he was in with the chance of a birdie, having made it all the way to the edge of the green with his first shot.
‘I don’t think I’ll be making it a regular thing,’ said Sophie. ‘But it’s been nice.’
‘Well, at least you know what I get up to every Sunday, and it’s not that I’m having an affair.’
They walked on. It was so quiet that Sophie could hear the noise of Ian’s trolley wheels turning, and the fall of her own footsteps on the spongy grass.
‘It’s very peaceful here,’ she said. ‘I can see why you like it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t it be great to be somewhere like this all the time? Somewhere this peaceful.’
‘You mean living somewhere like this?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t that the sort of thing you plan for your retirement?’
‘I was thinking more that it was the kind of thing people do when they’re ready to have kids.’
Sophie stiffened, and quickened her pace.
‘We can’t have this conversation now,’ she said. ‘I’m not ready. You know that.’
Ian stopped still. He stood watching her, hands on hips, as she walked on.
*
For lunch, they were to be joined by Ian’s mother. Sophie had assumed she would be arriving in her own car but in fact, as she and Ian crossed the tarmac outside the clubhouse, she saw an unfamiliar vehicle approaching, with Helena in the passenger seat. The driver appeared to be Grete. Once they were parked, Helena climbed slowly out of her seat with Ian’s help, and then leaned heavily on him as he walked her towards the main door of the clubhouse. Sophie went around to the driver’s side to speak to Grete.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘This is very kind.’
‘I’m always happy to help,’ said Grete. ‘I know she doesn’t like to drive so much any more.’
‘Won’t you come and join us for a drink?’
‘It’s all right, thank you. Really I wanted to have a talk with Mrs Coleman, and this gave me the chance. I’m feeling guilty, to tell you the truth: because I handed in my notice.’
‘Oh no,’ said Sophie. ‘But you’ve become such good friends.’
‘Yes, I like to think so,’ said Grete. ‘I’ve been coming to her house a long time now. Four years. Still, I’m leaving for a nice reason. My husband and I are going to have a baby.’
In the light of her conversation with Ian on the fourteenth hole, this news struck Sophie with special poignancy. Grete was at least five years younger than she was. But she managed to say, with some sincerity: ‘That’s wonderful news. Congratulations. When’s it due?’
‘In five months.’
‘Fantastic.’ She struggled to remember anything about Grete’s husband, apart from his name. ‘Is Lukas still working at the …?’
‘The restaurant, yes.’
‘The restaurant in …?’
‘Stratford. They promoted him to manager.’
‘Fantastic,’ she said again. ‘I’m really happy that everything’s going so well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Grete. As she drove away, Sophie could see that she was smiling a private, inwardly directed smile that she could not help envying.
The clubhouse dining room was not quite as stuffy as she had feared – dress was ‘smart casual’, it seemed, which meant at least that the men did not have to wear ties – but she still felt out of place. For one thing, she was acutely conscious that she and Ian were the youngest people there: she hadn’t seen so much grey and white hair on display since their Legend cruise. The food was on the stodgy side: you had to go up to a counter and stand in a queue, where you would be served slices of well-done beef or pork from the carvery, with heaps of roast potatoes and green vegetables, which Mr Hu, after watching the diner ahead of him for guidance, duly smothered in pools of rich brown gravy, his face betraying a certain puzzlement as he did so.
No background music issued from the speakers during the meal. There was only the quiet, well-bred chatter of about forty elderly men and women who had either just played, or were about to play, three and a half hours of golf.
‘Did your mother tell you Grete’s news?’ Sophie asked, taking her place next to her husband.
‘She did,’ he said.
‘How did she take it?’
Ian glanced at her, mildly surprised. ‘Fine. The agency’ll find her someone else, soon enough.’
‘She might miss her company.’
‘She might.’
‘Perhaps they’ll keep in touch.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Her husband manages a restaurant in Stratford, apparently. We could take her there one day.’
‘Good idea.’ After taking his first mouthful of food, he noticed that Sophie had not yet started to eat, but seemed to be staring ahead of her in a kind of daze. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’m a bit tired. That was one of the longest walks I’ve done in years. And I wasn’t really expecting it to bring me out where it has.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Here,’ she said. ‘In the 1950s.’
Ian smiled indulgently at the joke but made no further comment at first. He busied himself making sure that his mother had enough wine in her glass, and passed her the s
alt and pepper.
In the end he said: ‘You may think it’s the 1950s, but for some people this is a perfectly normal part of Britain in 2015. Don’t knock it just because it’s not what you’re used to.’
‘2015? Really?’ said Sophie, and pointed up at the picture which hung on the wall opposite their table. ‘With that thing looking down at us?’
The picture showed a dozen or so red-coated, top-hatted riders cantering through fields and leaping over hedges in pursuit of a recalcitrant fox, which could be seen running for its life in the corner of the frame, throwing a terrified glance back over its shoulder.
‘Now this,’ said Mr Hu, ‘is something I would really like to see. A traditional British hunt. Perhaps for my next visit, Mr Bishop, you could arrange it? Purely as a spectator, of course. I can swing a golf club but I cannot ride a horse.’
Andrew smiled. ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as that.’
‘Really?’
There was a brief silence while everyone wondered who was going to break the news to him. Finally Mary stepped up to the mark.
‘I’m afraid that fox-hunting is now regarded as a criminal activity in this country,’ she explained. ‘It’s been banned for quite a number of years.’
‘Banned? How strange. I didn’t realize.’ He cut himself a thick mouthful of beef and said, while chewing it slowly: ‘Of course, the British are famous for their love of animals.’
‘It was a law passed by the last Labour government,’ said Andrew, ‘and it had very little to do with animal welfare, and everything to do with class resentment.’
‘Perhaps you can get the law reversed,’ said Mr Hu.
Mary and Helena both gave short, dismissive laughs.
‘After all, you at least’ – this was said in a tone of circumspection – ‘live in a free and democratic country.’
‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken,’ said Helena. ‘England today is not a free country. We live under a tyranny.’
‘A tyranny?’ Feelingly, Mr Hu said: ‘Please, madam, choose your words with care.’
‘I use the term very carefully, I assure you.’
