My Nutty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  ‘Sure, but …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tiger Woods is a man. This …’ she held the kitten up, ‘… is a female. But you knew that, right?’

  I cursed quietly. Mum had actually been right! I grabbed Mozart and turned him upside-down. I was relieved to see that he was certainly male. Well, at least there were female tigers. It was the slight smile on Andrea’s face I wasn’t so happy about, like I didn’t know the difference between male and female. If ever there was a time to change the subject, it was now.

  ‘So … you and Frank Lynch related then?’ It seemed a safe bet. She’d been at his bungalow when I’d walked by with Joe and Abbas and here she was, bringing messages from him.

  ‘Yes, he’s my granddad.’

  Andrea Lynch. ‘I should thank him,’ I said, ‘for recommending me to the committee.’

  ‘Tell you what. Why don’t you call in now? I’ve got to get home, but Gramps might have time to show you round the course.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I liked that suggestion. I went to the utility room and hoisted my golf clubs over my shoulder.

  ‘You won’t need those,’ Andrea said. ‘He might be able to show you round, but the course’ll be packed on a Sunday afternoon.’

  Disappointed, I set the golf clubs down.

  ‘Why don’t you bring your dog?’ she asked. ‘They’re allowed on the course so long as they’re on leads.’

  If she wasn’t the best-looking girl I’d ever seen, I would have asked, ‘So, what is it with your family and pedigree dogs?’

  I wasn’t going to let M out of my sight. At least this way he’d get his walk and I’d have an expert show me the golf course. Course knowledge is very important in the game of golf. So I agreed and Andrea and I walked over the fields to Nutters Lane. ‘Gramps’ was in. I thanked him for recommending me to the committee and he agreed to show me round the course. We walked for over two miles, with Frank Lynch giving me a comprehensive guide to each hole. By the time we’d finished, I knew the par for each hole, the water hazards and the bunkers. I was so ready to play.

  When I thanked him he said, ‘So, when do you want to play a round?’

  ‘As soon as possible!’

  He thought. ‘How about Saturday morning?’

  I shook my head. ‘I play rugby then. I don’t get back till after two.’

  ‘Right. It will have to be Saturday afternoon. It’ll be crowded, mind. Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Sure!’

  ‘Then Saturday afternoon it is. I’ll phone with a tee time.’

  ‘Great! Thanks!’

  I went home to get some food and my golf clubs. There were still some of Helen’s friends on the premises, but loads of food left because they’re on diets the whole time. I resolved to practice everyday before Saturday.

  Down at the range, the bays were full. I had to wait behind some man in green tartan golfing trousers. He was no beginner and his chipping was accurate, but when he was driving, he couldn’t get a ball as far as the one hundred-and-fifty-yard marker. When I moved into the bay, he leaned back and watched me the way I had watched him.

  After I had sent a dozen balls flying past the two hundred-yard marker, he said, ‘Start young. You youngsters are lucky! I didn’t get a chance to play until I was in my forties. You a member at Dimbrook? Haven’t seen you there.’

  ‘I’ve just got in.’

  ‘You mean you’re new to this game?’

  I nodded. He made a whistling noise through his teeth. ‘Nice one. Andy Donaldson is a great little player, considering, but you’ve got the potential to be first class. Well, keep up the good work.’

  I nodded my thanks as he pulled his bag away. I went on practicing, looking forward to the day when I knocked Andy Donaldson off his perch.

  Minty

  It soon seemed as if Helen had always been on that sofa. If I lay on it for more than an hour or two, Dad sarcastically referred to me as a permanent fixture and Mum asked if I’d lost the power in my legs, but now Helen took over the whole room. She lay there, grimacing with pain when anyone looked in her direction, surrounded by magazines, foul-smelling nail polish and other make-up, surfing through the TV channels, looking for some junk about relationships.

  At night, I had to carry her up the stairs. She moaned the entire way. ‘Be careful. Watch out for my ankle. It hurts, you know.’ I did know because she was telling us the whole time. I cracked a rib once during rugby practice and that was painful enough, so of course I realised that a cracked skull and broken ankle weren’t fun, but then neither was my sister. The more we did for her, the more she acted the invalid; Mum might as well have put on a nurse’s uniform! But what really got me was that Helen talked as if some great injustice had left her like this, not her own crummy driving.

  ‘Surely she’s meant to be exercising by now,’ I said to Mum.

  ‘When the doctor says so.’

  ‘Is she going for a check-up soon?’

  ‘Next week. I’ll have to drive her in. That’s the disadvantage of living so far out, everything involves a journey.’

  ’But I do that journey six days a week and it doesn’t bother me!’

  ‘Well, we can’t all be like you, David.’

  Mum was still a little off with me since the cake incident. I guess having to watch Helen turning herself into a moaning, spoilt brat was penance for putting Ian in a headlock. I hadn’t been punished, though Dad had shouted like crazy when Mum told him, turning it into a scene in vivid technicolor. I got the usual lecture about being irresponsible, likely to end up in Mountjoy prison if I didn’t learn to control my temper, and sending my mother to an early grave. All this because I rescued a cat from drowning.

  Anyway, I wasn’t bothered about all that because my first round of golf was coming up. Frank Lynch had phoned to say my starting time, the tee time, was 2.30pm on Saturday. That meant I’d have to be straight off the bus after rugby, back home to collect my clubs and then onto the course, no time to spare.

  I practiced my putting and chipping every evening, some days going up to the range. When I was home earlier and it was still light, I’d go into the grounds and practice there, saving the €6 it cost at the range.

  Saturday came with rain and wind. At rugby, we trounced the opposition again. They didn’t see us coming. I scored four tries – bam, bam, bam, bam – one after another. I’d showered, changed and was tying my shoelaces with five minutes to catch the bus when Frazier led in the A team. They trailed by quietly, heads down, feet dragging on the concrete floor, so I knew they were a bunch of losers. No need to ask whether they’d won or not. But I asked anyway.

  ‘How did you lot get on?’

  There was no answer from Frazier and his cronies, but a few of the team mumbled something.

  I pushed on. ‘What? What was the score?’

  ‘Thirty-seven to six.’

  ‘Thirty-seven to six? Thirty-seven to … six! Frazier here can’t even count as far as thirty-seven.’ While Frazier glowered, the rest of the B team echoed my disgust. We had our victory to make us superior.

  ‘What went wrong? Were you asleep? Cahill, did you score?’ I asked my replacement. He didn’t answer, just skulked away. ‘I’ll take that as a no!’ I shouted after him. I hoped McCaffrey could work out what the A team was missing: me.

  I was feeling great, until I realised the time. I ran to the bus stop, but I was too late. I’d missed the bus. The next one would get me into Ballykreig at 2.30pm – precisely my tee time. Even if I played in the clothes I wore, my golf clubs were at The Haven. There wouldn’t be time for food either, and I’d burnt up a lot of energy on the rugby field. I spent all the money I had buying burgers and chips and ate them as I waited, cursing, for the next bus.

  It came on time. If it had been late, I’d have had no chance of making my tee time. Lolling onboard, still cursing, as the bus chugged along, I realised that its route took it past Dimbrook before it arrived in the village. If I could get someone from
home to bring my golf clubs to the course and I got off there, I might just make it. Trouble was, there was no bus stop at the club and I did not rate my chances of persuading the grim-looking driver to make an unscheduled stop. I would have to jump off as the bus turned the sharp bend just after the club. If I threw my bag off first, then threw myself off after it, I should roll gently into the soft ditch. It was that or miss my first round of golf. No way! I was going to make a leap for it.

  I phoned home. Ian answered. He wasn’t first in line of those eager to do me a favour, but he was going to be a lot less upset at the sight of me jumping from a moving bus than Mum or Dad.

  ‘You busy?’ I asked, in my friendliest manner.

  ‘Wot der yer want?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘I didn’t tell you how much I enjoyed that bit of music you wrote for Helen,’ I told him. That was honest enough. How much had I enjoyed it? Not one bit. Had I told him? No.

  ‘Wot’re you after?’

  ‘Look, can you just bring my golf clubs to Dimbrook? It won’t take you more than ten minutes.’

  ‘Get ’em yourself.’

  ‘I can’t. I’ll miss my tee time.’

  ‘Your tea time? Why should I care about your stomach?’

  I kept my patience. ‘Tee time, nothing to do with … look, you’ve got to help me out or I’ll be minty.’

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘You know, After Eight mints, after eight – late.’ I’d given him a bit of cockney rhyming slang he didn’t know. I could sense he’d weakened.

  ‘Right! Don’t want a bruvver of mine to be minty … wot’s in it for me?’

  ‘I’ll owe you one.’ I cursed again at the thought of how he’d milk that, but I wasn’t going to give up.

  ‘You’ll owe me big time. Right? Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  The obvious had occurred to him. ‘’Ere, there’s no bus stop by Dimbrook. ‘Ow are you gonna …’

  ‘Can’t hear you. My … battery’s … low …’ I clicked the phone off. My plan was in place.

  A mile or so before Dimbrook, I made my way to the front of the bus. I was going to engage the driver in conversation if I could. I reckoned he’d go slower if he was talking: he looked like the sort of fella who couldn’t walk and chew gum at the same time. I’d thought of a question that would throw him, even though in the process I’d look like a moron.

  ‘Does this bus go to Dublin?’ I asked.

  He stepped on the brakes and stared at me. ‘This place look like Dublin to you, boyoo?’ he asked. We passed the entrance to Dimbrook. Ian was standing by the gates, my golf clubs by his side. The crucial bend wasn’t far away.

  ‘Guess not,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Could you …’

  Then I yanked the door open and flung my bag. The driver yelled something, but I was out! I jumped for the ditch, hit the bank and rolled. The ditch wasn’t as soft as I thought it was going to be. I rolled over some sort of plant that tore my jacket and cut into my arm. When I hit the bottom of the ditch, I felt chilly water soaking my skin. I cursed the rain, stood up and brushed myself down. No injuries, except a sore shoulder and a scratch along my face. I had no time to waste. I retrieved my bag and ran towards Dimbrook.

  Ian stared at me when I reached him. ‘Did you …? Did I see …?’ he started, but I hadn’t time to waste.

  ‘Yup,’ I said, taking my clubs. ‘Thanks for these.’ I tried to steady my breathing as I ran towards the Starter’s Office. I didn’t even have time to check my watch.

  Frank Lynch was waiting at the Office. He was wearing yellow waterproofs, which made him look like a fisherman. Me, I guess I looked more like something pulled out of the sea. The rain was bouncing off Frank and seeping into me.

  ‘You playing like that?’ he shouted in the wind. ‘You’re soaked through.’

  No kidding! ‘Just a bit damp,’ I said, pulling off my jacket and squeezing the water out of it.

  ‘And you’re bleeding!’

  ‘Rugby injury,’ I explained. ‘You should see the other fella.’

  Nothing was going to spoil this moment. I was on a real golf course. This was the beginning, a day to remember. I was going to play with a veteran, someone who knew this particular course like the back of his hand.

  We signed in precisely on time, with not a second to spare, and approached the first tee. Some members were sitting in the bar, looking warm and cosy and staring out of the large window that gave a perfect view of the first tee. Frank Lynch teed up and hit a shot clean and straight.

  I took my driver and hit the ball. It sailed high and landed 170 yards up the fairway, a bit further than Frank’s. What with the wind and rain, I knew that wasn’t bad. He said nothing, just grabbed his golf trolley and headed towards the balls. I followed him, carrying my golf bag over my shoulder. The rain was pouring down my face, but I didn’t mind. Chipping proved difficult in the conditions, but all my putting practice paid off and I was scoring mainly sixes and sevens. Frank was doing the same. Judging from his technique, I guessed he’d been a first-class golfer when he was younger, but he no longer had the strength to drive powerfully, though he was still accurate in his putting. I knew that I could learn a lot from him.

  On the fourteenth hole I made par, which means I did nearly as well as a professional. I averaged par plus two, which is a double bogey to those of us who know the lingo, and ended with a score of 109. Frank scored 106. I’d lost, but I’d lost to an old fella who’d been playing golf for sixty years, and most of it at Dimbrook, so I wasn’t too cut up about it. I’d made a few mistakes, like slicing the ball or over-hitting a few putts, but they were faults I knew I could correct. I wouldn’t lose to Frank Lynch second time.

  As we returned to the clubhouse, the wind propelling us along, we met two men who greeted him.

  ‘This young lad’s just scored 109 on his first round!’ Frank said, making it sound like a boast.

  ‘Well done!’ they both said. One of them added, ‘Good, the club needs some fresh talent.’ My 109 was starting to seem better than okay to me.

  I thanked Frank Lynch and made my way home. It had stopped raining and the skies had cleared. I was actually starting to dry off as I made my way towards home, my clubs over one shoulder and my school bag in the other. I saw Andrea walking along the lane towards me.

  ‘How did you get on?’ she asked. She had known what time Frank and I were playing and I wondered whether she had been waiting to see me when I’d finished. I liked the thought of that.

  ‘I can drive the ball two hundred yards!’ I boasted

  ‘Nice one!’

  She sounded dead impressed.

  ‘I scored 109, but I’ll do better next time.’ She nodded.

  ‘Then I want to play this star they’ve got up at the club.’ Something must have made me crazy. I even did that speechmarks thing with my hands as I said star, like Helen does sometimes.

  ‘Star?’ she said. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘His name’s Andy Donaldson, and one day soon I’m going to whip his ass!’

  Exit, Flimsy McFeeble; Enter, Another Genius

  ‘So what exactly are your opening hours?’ Flimsy McFeeble and I were in the village shop. My brother had confirmed that 24/7 meant twenty-four hours of seven days in the week. In other words, all the time. Even in Ballykrieg it meant all the time. It meant all the time all the time, basically.

  ‘You mean on Tuesdays?’ replied the shopkeeper.

  ‘What? No, not on Tuesdays.’ This was exasperating, like we were in a parallel universe. It was Sunday and he was open, though the Sunday before the shop had been closed. ‘Everyday. We mean, what are your opening hours everyday?’ I explained.

  ‘Depends. Now Tuesdays …’ Ian groaned.

  ‘Never mind. Thanks.’ I handed him the money and McFeeble and I left, laughing as soon as we were out of earshot.

  Ian whistled through his teeth. ‘I can’t wait to get back to civilisation, where people are normal and
predictable.’

  My brother had decided he was going back to London, seeing as Helen was obviously getting better. Soon there would be no thundering music shaking the walls of the house. The lounge would no longer be occupied by my brother playing his grand piano like some demented escapee from a musical lunatic asylum. As soon as Helen got up off her butt, the room would be free for normal use, i.e. for me to use it as a substitute putting green.

  The neighbours hadn’t stopped visiting the house. Even Baseball Cap turned up occasionally, munching Mum’s cakes and calling her Missus. They actually seemed to be becoming friends. Sullivan turned up at all hours, never offering me a lift from school and always arriving at The Haven before me. Often his car would be parked outside when I trailed in, worn out from the bus journey. The house had turned from a bleak spot on the top of nowhere to a community centre.

  So when I arrived in early on the Wednesday after my four tries/109 golf score weekend to find the house empty except for M, Mozart and Tiger, it was a relief. I remembered Mum was due to take Helen for her check-up; where Ian was, I didn’t know. I grabbed a cake or two and sat watching M and Mozart chase each other around. Mozart had a toy I’d bought for the kittens, a little furry animal on the end of a fishing line. He and Tiger could jump higher than the kitchen cupboards to catch the thing, but M was always after it too. He wanted to drag the fur out of it. I was laughing at the way Mozart was leaping up out of M’s reach when Mum’s car drew up. Clatter, clatter, clatter. Helen came in on crutches.