by Jack Murray
A plan began to grow which, to Spunky’s mind, was as devilish as it seemed logical. That it was, in all likelihood, devoid of any sign of good judgement was entirely another matter, and, in this case, someone else’s problem. To be precise: Reggie’s.
Spunky leaned forward causing Reggie to lean forward also. Taking another sip from his glass, he began to outline his plan. What he had in mind was strategically sound but posed some executional challenges.
‘We need to imprison the boy, raise the alarm that he has been kidnapped and then, low and behold, Reginald St John Pilbream saves the day, rescues the boy and watches Miss Mansfield collapse gratefully into his strong arms.
Reggie glanced down dubiously at his arms. Never the most athletic of chaps, the prospect of a young woman, even one as attractive as Miss Mansfield, requiring physical support from him struck Reggie as overloaded, both figuratively and literally, with risk. It was with some trepidation that Reggie raised a finger to interject a couple of perfectly sound points around the plan being as illegal as it was immoral.
Anticipating such bellyaching, Spunky waved away any hint of complaint by reminding Reggie of what seemed to him the key fact to consider.
‘You can’t win the fair maiden’s heart on the golf course. Not off twenty-six anyway. A flanking attack, mark my words, will carry the day.’
The soundness of this principle was unquestionable. Reggie’s complaint was less about the underlying strategy than about the practicality of carrying it out. Realising that Spunky would not listen to sense, at least from him, Reggie tried his own flanking thrust.
‘Shouldn’t we wait until Kit arrives? He’s a chap with a sound grasp of things. I’m sure he can think of something.’
Spunky shook his head and looked at his friend with patient affection.
‘Reggie, old chap, when you look at Kit what, and follow my logic here, do you think a young woman might see?’
‘Well,’ acknowledged Reggie, a little uncomfortably, ‘He’s a good chap.’
‘You miss my meaning. Let me elaborate. Kit is rich, correct?’
‘Yes, he’s certainly minted.’
‘One has to admit, sadly I might add, he’s not ever going to be mistaken for the back end of a horse.’
‘No, I suppose he’s rather good-looking too,’ said Reggie glumly.
‘Showed up well in the war.’
‘A bally hero,’ said Reggie almost on the point of tears.
Spunky realised he was pushing this idea way beyond the limits of Reggie’s self-esteem. He quickly brought the train of thought to a juddering halt.
‘Point is,’ said Spunky with exaggerated patience, ‘what does Kit know about trying to woo a young woman? My word they’re falling over themselves to marry the damn fool.’
‘You mean Gloria will fall in love with him, don’t you?’
This was proving more of an uphill battle than Spunky had bargained for. There were times when his dear friend displayed all the imagination and daring of a hunting hedgehog. On the point of trying an alternative angle of attack he saw his friend’s face register first surprise and then delight.
Entering the bar was a tall man, walking with a slight limp. The man smiled and waved over at Spunky and Reggie.
‘Hello, Kit,’ said Spunky with something less than his usual enthusiasm. ‘We weren’t expecting you until around dinner time.’
‘Caught an earlier train,’ explained Kit arriving at their table which instigated a round of vigorous handshaking.
‘I say, Kit,’ said Reggie, relief soldered into every syllable. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘Oh, just in time for what?’ asked Kit with a smile.
-
Kit sat silently staring at a faraway object through the window. Finally, he turned to Spunky and said, ‘Yes, I can see how the plan might work.’
‘You can?’ exclaimed Spunky in genuine shock. This was close to a first for one of his schemes; they invariably crumbled under the onslaught of cold reality, which usually coincided with Kit’s first exposure to them.
‘Yes, certainly,’ reassured Kit. ‘Tell me, is that the little blighter over there?’
The other two men turned from facing Kit to look out the window. They saw a small boy of around ten or less, and a black Labrador. The boy was swinging a club and deliberately missing the ball. However, the poor dog, in expectation of chasing said ball, was tearing off in search of the phantom projectile before returning dejectedly to the source of his persecution, ever hopeful that the next strike would be the one.
‘Charming little fellow as you can see,’ said Spunky sourly.
‘Indeed, and if I may ask, who are the other runners and riders in the field?’
‘Sorry?’ said Reggie completely confused.
‘One other chap,’ said Spunky taking over again. ‘Name of Hugo Fowles. Bleater of the first rank. Fowles by name and__.’
Kit nodded. Their paths had crossed before. Spunky’s assessment was surprisingly moderate. Reggie added a few other less-than-admirable qualities besides and soon a picture emerged of a man who not only didn’t deserve to best Kit’s friend in a duel of the heart but more pertinently, did not deserve the fair hand of the maiden who could drive a ball in excess of two hundred yards. Straight.
The rival soon arrived at the bar accompanied by Gloria Mansfield. He glanced swiftly over in Reggie’s direction. A sly smile and a knowing wink. This was met with a round of “I Say’s” sotto voce, at the table where the three men had been so happily discussing his downfall. The wink added another level of resolve to the participants in the plan.
Kit rose immediately to say hello to Fowles. Spunky and Reggie watched as the two men greeted one another like long lost buddies from a forgotten war. Kit’s arrival gave Fowles the chance to fluff himself up even more. He introduced Kit to Miss Mansfield. Much to the Reggie’s chagrin, it was abundantly clear that the young lady was very taken with the new arrival. So much so that at one point, Reggie was beginning to doubt the good intentions of his friend.
However, a few moments later he saw Kit pointing out the window in the direction of the putting green. This resulted in a hasty exit by Gloria Mansfield. Clearly Kit had squealed on the young tyke forcing his big sister to rescue the unfortunate canine dupe.
Spunky and Reggie watched Kit chat amiably with Fowles before collecting a round of G&T’s and returning to the table. A few moments later, Fowles left the bar with a steely steadfastness set firmly in his eye.
Reggie looked up expectantly at Kit, but the great man shook his head and checked to see if Fowles had gone. Outside the window an amusing scene was developing. Gloria had arrived and was giving young George a severe ticking off that stopped just short of physical violence. Kit raised his eyebrow at Spunky, who had turned to him with a grin.
Gloria Mansfield then departed the scene carrying the poor dog who was breathing rather heavily by this stage having run several miles on the fruitless quests staged by the vile boy. The Labrador in question was as grateful for the lift as the viewing gallery in the clubhouse was impressed by the ease with which the young woman picked him up and transported him away from psychological harm.
‘Two hundred yards off the tee,’ said Spunky by way of explanation to Kit.
-
An hour later the cry went up, or perhaps more of a gasp. Where is George? Gloria, already on her third G&T, had suddenly realised she hadn’t seen the little beggar for a while. After sending a young caddie off in search of the evil sprite, she was persuaded to have a final snifter before dinner.
The young caddie returned empty handed. This cued a few humorous comments from Hugo Fowles designed to calm the now slightly concerned object of his affection, highlight affectionately what a good-natured devil the child was whilst, at the same time, emphasising his good-man-in-crisis credentials. This seemed to be working after a fashion.
A little more time passed before Reggie arrived, looking somewhat bedraggled.
&nb
sp; ‘Good lord, Pilbream,’ said Fowles, wanting to highlight his love rival’s appearance, ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, old chap.’
Reggie’s next comment started the panic and, inadvertently, ended with the heart of the fair maiden finding its hero.
‘I’ve been looking for George. I can’t find him anywhere.’
Gloria Mansfield’s eyes widened as fear set in. She looked at the jovial countenance of the frontrunner, now sipping his fifth G&T. Fowles lowered the glass from his lips as he realised the impression, he was giving lacked some, if not all, of the man-of-action credentials that were needed in the developing crisis. However, he had an ace up his sleeve.
‘Leave this to me. I will organise a search party,’ he announced decisively. He pointed to the young caddie and ordered him to round up the remaining staff. With that, he set his G&T down, looked Gloria Mansfield in the eye and declared, ‘I will find him.’
Reggie looked on, powerless in the face of such authority mixed with resolve, and a slice of lemon. He trooped sadly over to Spunky and Kit. He sat down dejectedly and put his hands over his face.
‘It’s over. I shall have to stand aside,’ said Reggie, nobly acknowledging the likely success of his rival.
‘What happened?’ asked Spunky, completely confused.
‘I went to find the evil little beggar to do as you suggested, y’know, to hide him away from kidnappers by locking him up somewhere, fake a massive bout of fisticuffs before rescuing said imp and winning the hand of my one true love. But fate has dealt me a pair of twos.’
‘I see,’ said Spunky, who plainly didn’t.
‘Are we to assume you couldn’t find the child, hence you were not able to play out the scene you planned?’ interjected Kit.
‘Right on the money, old bean.’
Kit stood up and suggested they join the search party. In fact, he specified they look somewhere in the area of the tractor shed.
‘It’s where I would put a monstrous little so and so if I was of a mind to get him out of the way for an hour or two. I suggest you make haste there, Reggie. We’ll follow behind.’
There comes a time in a man’s life when the truth of it being darkest before dawn becomes, well, true. A light that had gone out in Reggie Pilbream’s eyes suddenly flickered again. Hope once more grew in the mind and, more importantly, the heart of that stout archaeologist. Before you could say Nefertiti, Reggie was out of the bar, a steely glint in his eye, which did not go unnoticed by Miss Mansfield, who had drained the rest of her drink and was preparing to join the search party. She called out to him as he passed, but Reggie was a man not to be held back.
Spunky eyed Kit wryly as they ambled out of the bar towards the early evening air. It was a beautiful evening. The sky was a purple-blue and seagulls played above, singing the joy of summer, perhaps.
‘You don’t seem in such a rush; old chap. Makes me wonder if this plan hasn’t been adapted slightly from its original design.’
Kit looked at Spunky and replied, ‘I’m not rushing because I don’t want the stump to chaff my leg too much.’
‘I see,’ said Spunky. And this time he did.
-
Spunky’s plan worked brilliantly.
The boy was found, and the hero duly sat beside his betrothed. Gloria Mansfield was a picture of perfect contentment. She had found her Lancelot, her Tristan, her Harry Vardon. Her life was almost complete, although the British Women’s Amateur title would certainly put a ribbon on it. She glanced down at George. Children would have to wait a little.
Spunky looked at Reggie, with a smile redolent in affection mixed with no little relief. The young man was in heaven as he sipped a G&T. He looked across at his former rival, Hugo Fowles. A stab of sympathy pierced his triumphant heart. He gazed upon a face that could not have looked any more dejected than if he’d had a young child beside him continually poking him in the chest which, coincidentally, he did.
Such was dinner that night in the clubhouse at Troon. Spunky turned to Kit, removed a cigar from his mouth and said in a low voice, ‘Well, bloodhound, I have to hand it to you. Some people work by the ordnance survey map of life, but not you. No, you don’t just see the map, you see the whole damn milky way. In short you are a marvel.’
‘Really, Spunky, your plan was flawless.’
‘No Kit, you, sir, are a marvel. It needed your genius to unlock its real treasures.’
The two men looked across at Hugo Fowles again. His face was set in a rictus grin as the pie-faced sprite had now taken to punching his right arm. The simple solution, of course, would have been to swipe the evil imp with his other hand. However, it was currently holding the hand of his fiancée, Gloria Mansfield.
‘You put that bleater up to imprisoning the child, didn’t you? How did you do it?’
‘I merely adapted your brilliant idea,’ replied Kit. ‘It seemed to me right from the off that the match was a mistake. It occurred to me that Fowles was better-suited for the young lady.’ They glanced across the table at Fowles. He had just received a little peck on the cheek from the future Mrs Fowles, which seemed to put him in better fettle. So much so in fact, he accidentally clipped young George on the back of the head. He apologised profusely of course, but his heart didn’t seem in it.
Kit, meanwhile, continued, ‘I suggested to Fowles that the child had an active imagination and a message that sent him to the barn on some pretext of foreign spies might unlock an opportunity to, so to speak, get the frog-faced excrescence out of his poor sister’s hair for a while longer. This would give him time to seal her fate and then act the hero to find him, should he choose to bother.’
‘I’m sure he wishes he’d left hell alone.’
Reggie leaned over to his two friends, ‘A near miss, methinks.’
‘A near miss indeed,’ agreed Spunky.
‘I think I shall exit stage left tomorrow morning bright and early in case anyone has a change of heart.’
‘Where will you go?’ asked Kit.
‘Off to Malta actually,’ responded Reggie, lighting a celebratory cigar. ‘A bunch of us are looking for some lost treasures of the Knights of St John.’
‘Well, I think that merits a toast,’ said Spunky, for whom any occasion merited such a cheerful response.
The three friends clinked glasses to the success of this venture and perhaps of the episode just passed.
2
Turnberry Golf Club, June 1920
Ailsa Craig is a volcanic plug to an extinct volcano, midway between the north of Ireland and Scotland. It looks as though God, in a moment of absent-mindedness, started to build a mountain, lost interest and accidentally swept it away like crumbs off the table as he observed fresh scones arriving. From there it fell into the Irish Sea. It forms a spectacular view along the Ayrshire coastline and can be used by golfers to line up putts, as Spunky Stevens found himself doing on the first hole at Turnberry.
He turned to his caddy, Hamish Anderson, and said, ‘I hope you’re right.’ He took aim, drew his putter back and moments later his ball nestled comfortably in the hole like a schoolboy in bed at midday during the summer holidays.
Spunky nodded to Hamish and gave a steely look of determination towards his opponent, Kit Aston. ‘Hamish is an absolute wonder; I tell you Kit. You’re not going to have it all your own way this year.
Kit laughed agreeably, as memories of their golfing holiday in Scotland came back. Three days, three courses and three fairly comfortable victories against his old friend.
‘I don’t doubt it. You seemed off your game last year. Missing your Mademoiselle Mantoux, perhaps?’ suggested Kit.
Spunky’s eye softened for a moment as he recalled the attractive features and welcoming figure of Angela Malcolm, a girlfriend for barely a week or three who turned out to be a French spy named Angelique Mantoux.
‘Ahh,’ he said wistfully, ‘Yes, I still miss her y’know. My word Kit, the things she could do with a stick of cele
ry and a bottle of gin.’ Kit stood up from his putt, slightly shocked by the implication of Spunky’s reminiscences. Blissfully unaware of Kit’s discomfort, Spunky continued on contemplatively, ‘Never had a better martini, I can tell you.’
‘What did she use the celery for?’ asked Kit, now genuinely curious.
‘To stir it. I don’t know what it did to the gin but my word, afterwards...’
‘Thanks, Spunky,’ said Kit returning to his putt, not wishing to hear more about the demise of the celery stick. He promptly missed the putt.
‘My hole,’ said Spunky cheerfully.
The two friends carried on for another seven holes, the quality of golf deteriorating with the worsening conditions and details of Spunky’s latest conquests. One of the perils of links golf is the impact of wind coming off the sea. Spunky, aided and abetted by Hamish, managed to keep Kit at bay.
Overhead a dark black cloud asserted itself over the grey clouds that had been obscuring the sun for most of the afternoon. A dangerous crosswind was making life difficult for the two men.
Spunky stepped up to the ninth tee, somewhat nervously one might add. The ninth at Turnberry is one of the thirty-two wonders of the world. A hole that clings to the curves of the coastline like a wet swimsuit on an “It” girl. Robert the Bruce’s castle, or what remained of it, lay behind the green.
To reach the green in such a wind, it was necessary to aim the ball to the left of the lighthouse just behind the green. This meant aiming out to sea. Somewhere in the direction of Newfoundland, observed Spunky grimly.
‘Taking your life in my hands here, old boy,’ said Spunky. As if to emphasise this point, a wave splashed noisily onto the sea wall just to the left of the tee box.
Staring like a hunter at his target, which from Kit’s angle looked like a herring in the middle of the steel grey sea, Spunky looked down again at his ball. A waggle of his mashie, a rapid upswing and he sent the ball forward towards the sea. ‘C’mon, old girl,’ said Spunky, hoping the wind would bring the golf ball in towards the hole.
