‘Sure. Which day? Gramps might be able to take us on Sunday.’
That suited me fine. I didn’t want to race back from rugby again; jumping out of a moving bus is no picnic!
‘Sunday? Okay then.’
‘I’ll book a tee time and let you know, okay?’
‘Sure. And, Andrea … about Helen and her boyfriend? Don’t tell anyone.’
She smiled at me. ‘Course not, David. But do think about what I said – your sister does deserve to know.’ Male 0; Female 3.
I left her in Nutters Lane, heading into her granddad’s house.
When I walked into school the next day I saw the familiar sight of the League trophy sitting proudly in the display cabinet outside the Headmaster’s study. It was always polished and gleaming and I’d seen with my own eyes the Headmaster straighten his tie and smile at his reflection in the dazzling silver. We won it most years, so it had almost become a permanent fixture. Now he could kiss it goodbye thanks to the A team’s pathetic performance. The season was lost. Some other school’s name would be engraved on the trophy this time. Our record lately had been one disaster after another. The tries scored against us were so vast that, when added up, the total looked like a phone number. It was embarrassing, or it would have been if I were still on the team. Me, I was part of the solution, not part of the problem. No, let’s face it – I was the solution. There was one last rugby prize we could win: the Schools Challenge Cup. Thanks to the fact that most of our fixtures for that fell early in the season, we were still in it. The semi-final was coming up soon. If I could get back in the team, I reckoned I could make a difference with my current form. We were up against Blackrock College, who always fielded a strong team, so it wouldn’t be easy. But with Cahill in my position, the Headmaster would have to buy himself a mirror.
All week I trained, not just in after-school sessions but at lunchtime, too. I ran three laps of the sports field while everyone else was stuffing their faces. I went to the school gym to lift weights and did circuit training. During rugby practice I made every tackle as if it were the Cup final. McCaffrey, who was still standing in for Sullivan, gave me a pat on the back. I was determined to show that I deserved a place on the team, that I could win it for the school.
Friday came and report cards were handed out. What with my time off after Helen’s accident and the fact that I’d been practicing golf every evening, I wasn’t so confident about that. I was glad Dad had already bought me my Ping clubs as I reckoned I wouldn’t be getting any rewards for my schoolwork this time round. The reports were always handed out on Friday afternoons. How considerate: making sure we had a whole weekend to have our parents bend our ears over any bad points.
I took mine onto the bus. As usual, it was inside a large brown envelope, sealed and marked: To be opened by the addressee only. The envelope was addressed to Mr &Mrs Stirling. All this made it difficult get a chance to have what Ian would call a gander before the parents pored over it like it was a map of Hidden Treasure. It was difficult to get a pre-emptive look, that is, if you were an idiot who didn’t know how to buy a large brown envelope and print off a sticker addressed to your parents! I did, and had, so now I’d get to see just how bad my weekend was going to be.
I tore open the envelope and scanned the card. Certain words jumped out at me: Satisfactory, Very satisfactory, Improving. Sullivan had given me Satisfactory for History with no comment, so Mum and Dad would never have to know about the time I’d answered him back in class. Things looked good. Better still, certain trigger words weren’t there. Insolent always got Mum and Dad going. Must learn to apply himself was another downer. There wasn’t even our old favourite: Must try harder. Seems I do better at school when I take time off! Then I saw the comments for Games: Excellent. David has regained his form after some poor performances. Excellent was the top rating; St Joe’s didn’t go in for words like brilliant and superb. I kept looking at the Games entry, trying to work out what it meant for my rugby. Surely I would be back in the A team now? There’d been no change when the team lists were posted midweek: Cahill was still in the A team; I was in the B team. Changes were never made before a game, so I’d have to wait until Wednesday to see if I’d regained my place.
As the bus pulled into the village, I put the report card in the new envelope, sealed it and stuck on the address label I’d printed off. The weekend was suddenly looking very good indeed!
Back home, M was chasing Mozart and Tiger round the kitchen and the Genius On Crutches was kicking up a fuss. ‘If those kittens trip me up, I’ll kill them.’
‘Hey, how do blonde brain cells die?’ I asked, scooping up Mozart. I was trying to lighten the mood. You’ve got to tell her. Mum ignored me and Helen gave me a thunderous look.
‘Alone!’ I said and laughed.
I picked up a meringue. They were just the way I like them – crispy on the outside and gooey inside. You’ve got to tell her. I took another. ‘Okay, if you don’t like that one, how about this …What do you call a blonde with a brain?’
Helen scowled. ‘Wash your hands! Those are feral cats you know. You don’t know where they’ve been.’ Tiger leapt towards Helen’s left foot and she shrieked.
‘Oh for the love of …’ I grabbed a dog under one arm and a kitten under the other. ‘What a fuss about nothing!’ I was just heading upstairs when Mum stopped me. ‘Not so fast. It’s report week. Where is it?’
‘Oh yeah, I nearly forgot.’ I pointed Mozart at my school bag. ‘It’s in there.’ Mum dived for it. I tried to put a look of concern on my face, but Satisfactory, Very satisfactory and Improving danced before my eyes. And Excellent, regained his form was the best.
McFeeble had gone to London. Pity. I could have done with a drum roll as Mum called me back.
‘David, this is good.’ She was trying to keep the surprise out of her voice.
‘Naturally, Mother.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Helen held out her hand. I snatched the report card from Mum. ‘No way! It’s confidential.’
‘I always got brilliant reports when I was at school, didn’t I? Mum, tell him. I did.’
‘What do you call a blonde with a brain?’ I asked. ‘A golden retriever!’
You’ve got to tell her …
Not this weekend. I wanted a fantastic performance at rugby, followed by golf with Andrea on Sunday. Next week the lists of teams would go up and I should finish my lucky run with some good news there too. I knew I was being selfish, but looking at Helen, I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words that would break her heart. I just couldn’t.
A ‘Star’
‘Dad, fancy meeting me in the bar after my round of golf?’ I was looking forward to a celebration. After scoring eight tries for the B team the day before – yes, eight, count them – I was charged up and all set for the game ahead.
‘Don’t mind if I do. Who are you playing?’ Dad asked.
‘Just Andrea and Frank Lynch.’
‘That pretty red-headed girl? Well, take a word of advice, don’t be too competitive. Women don’t like it.’
I knew he was right. Helen used to cry when I thwacked a shuttlecock in her face. No matter how many times I explained it was just a tactic in badminton, she still threw a tizzy. I didn’t plan to beat Andrea by much. I’d show her a few moves, make it more of a Master Class, then we’d walk off the course still friends – better friends than we were already. She wasn’t like the opposition at rugby who had to be ground down, chewed up, beaten up psychologically and physically. I didn’t want her crying or upset when I beat her, but I did have ‘Gramps’ to consider. Old though he was, he’d obviously been an ace golfer for decades. He’d beaten me 109 to 106 last time. I couldn’t just coast around or he’d thrash me again. With all my practicing, I should be able to improve my score by three or four points for a win.
I arrived at the Starter’s Office early. I’d been ready for hours. Andrea and Frank arrived, Frank pulling a buggy.
‘Ready to p
lay?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ I couldn’t wait.
Then Frank said, ‘I’m not going to play myself. I’ll walk the course with you and Andy.’
My head swivelled round, looking for Andy Donaldson. This wasn’t the plan. Yes, my long-term goal was to wipe the floor with him, but this was only my second round of golf on a proper course. I wasn’t ready to meet him yet. My first thought was that Andrea had told Frank of my boast and he had arranged a competition between me and Dimbrook’s best juvenile to save the club’s honour. But where was he? There was no Andy in sight, just Andrea with a wide grin on her face.
‘You can be a bit slow, can’t you?’
Oh dear Lord! The sickening truth dawned: she was Andy Donaldson, Dimbrook’s star. Andy Donaldson was Andrea.
‘But … your name’s Lynch,’ I said. ‘Andrea Lynch. Frank’s your granddad.’
‘Yes, but he’s my Mum’s dad. My name’s not Lynch, it’s Donaldson,’ said Andrea. ‘When she said the names, she made quotemarks in the air, like I had done when I’d talked of Andy Donaldson as the ‘star’ of the club. Male 0; Female 100,000,000!
There was nothing more to say. I’d said too much already. I’d dug a big hole for myself. I looked like a complete idiot, so I kept quiet, kept my head down and rearranged the clubs in the bag as Frank Lynch said, ‘We’ll miss tee time if you two keep on talking. Are you ready?’
That was my cue to say sorry, no if I was going to. I could go home and stay hidden for a while. I’d behaved like a moron. I didn’t have much to lose, but if I turned tail and ran, that would be another thing to be ashamed of. I’d stay. One good thing was that at least Frank didn’t seem to know what I’d said to Andrea. She was laughing at me, but he wasn’t in on the joke. And now I had no reason to hold back. I’d have to play the game of my life.
‘Yeah, I’m ready,’ I said, marching up to the first tee.
‘Ladies first,’ said Frank, like I needed reminding. Andy Donaldson placed the ball on the tee and took her driver out of her bag. Even the change of name made her intimidating and by the way she squared up to the ball, I could tell the place was like home to her. The crack as metal hit the ball was another giveaway and the three of us watched as it sailed straight and high.
‘Nice one,’ I muttered. Don’t be patronising was what Helen said if I tried to cheer her up after some pathetic effort at physical fitness. Andrea just gave a little half-smile, as if she couldn’t spare the time to talk.
I took my driver and placed a ball on the tee, feeling like an impostor. She was the golfer; all I’d done was hit a thousand or so golf balls at the range, in the grounds of The Haven and in the sitting room. I’d played more sock golf than real golf. I waited as long as I could before I swung at the ball. We didn’t have to strain our necks to follow its progress: it hardly left the ground and landed about eighty yards up the fairway. Even Dad had done better than that! Frank Lynch said nothing, nor did Andrea. If this was going to be my standard, I’d end up with a score of 400+ and we’d finish the round on Tuesday of next week. I’d break records – all the wrong records.
But my rugby experience had taught me that nerves can ruin the finest player’s game and that, once demoralised, you are your own worst enemy. I had to put my bad start behind me and focus on the game ahead. Most of all, the images of me boasting to Andrea about beating Andy Donaldson had to be forced from my mind. When Frank began giving me more local knowledge about the course, I made myself listen and concentrate.
For me, one poor shot followed another. ‘Andy’ had holed her putt before I’d got near the green. I stuck at it. She wasn’t chatting, just letting her game do the talking. By the time we’d finished the fourth hole I was trying to calculate the likely difference between her final score and mine. She’d get around in just over par-75 or so, which is what professionals manage, while mine would look like a telephone number. I felt like snapping a golf club in two and marching off. Some days you are the pigeon; some days you are the statue.
It wasn’t until the sixth hole, just after I’d teed off, that I heard the satisfying snap of club hitting ball correctly. I began to hope that I wouldn’t be totally disgraced, just roundly humiliated. I made a six on that hole, and Andrea made a five. On the fourteenth, I made par and so did she. That was the high point for me – when I made the same score as her. After that I averaged double bogeys and ended up with a score of 103. I hadn’t whipped Andy Donaldson’s ass. She had a score of 73. She’d whipped mine.
We walked back towards the clubhouse. Andrea was still quiet, but she couldn’t keep the buoyancy out of her step, the buoyancy I knew came from winning. I had to say something.
‘Congratulations. You played well.’ I tried to sound magnanimous, though my voice seemed flat; I couldn’t hide the disappointment.
‘Thanks, David.’
Frank Lynch had stopped to speak to some golfers he knew, so we went on into the clubhouse. Dad was there, leaning on the bar as if he was rooted to it. He raised his glass and started to say, ‘Cheers!’ when he read the look on my face and stopped. ‘What happened? Who won?’ he asked.
‘Andy, here.’ I indicated Andrea, knowing that, whatever the others were ordering, I was going to be eating humble pie.
‘Andy?’ Dad began his oh-so-convincing simpleton impression. ‘You mean, you’re the Andy Donaldson I’ve heard so much about?’
Andrea nodded. ‘’Fraid so.’ She turned to me and asked, ‘And you truly didn’t realise it was me? That I was Andy Donaldson?’
‘No.’
‘Andy Donaldson, the juvenile Cup holder?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Well … because you kept seeing me with golf clubs, heading towards the golf club or the golf range. Because you knew Gramps was a keen golfer …’
‘Okay, okay, I get it.’
‘Admit it, you didn’t think it could be me because I’m a girl?’
That was exactly it. ‘If I apologise, can we forget it?’ I said quickly. Frank had finished talking to the golfers and was heading towards the bar.
Andrea smiled a beautiful smile and put her hand on my arm. ‘Oh David, I don’t need an apology. I’ve got something much better. I’ve got a win!’
Dad laughed. ‘Never forget Davy – the female of the species is deadlier than the male!’
Frank Lynch reached us. ‘Well done both of you,’ he said. Was he having a laugh, too?
‘How’d you make that out?’ I couldn’t help asking.
‘A score of 103 is not half bad. I told you before, lad, you’re a natural.’
A natural what? Ian would have asked, but Andrea said, ‘And 103 was better than my score on my second round,’ which was generous of her, considering.
‘I lost,’ I reminded them.
‘Now, there’s your mistake,’ said Frank. ‘What was your score on that first round we had?’
‘It was 109.’
‘So, you’ve shaved off six points. Golf is essentially a game where you are playing yourself. What is important is improving your own performance. You’re doing that. Rapidly. Well done.’
As Dad bought us a round of drinks, I reflected on this. I wasn’t sure I believed Frank, but it was something.
A few truths
Both Mum and Dad signed my report card – with flourishes – as if it were an international treaty or something. It was a wonder they didn’t hand out commemorative pens. They were overdoing the parental encouragement, heaping praise on me, so I told them to calm down. No point raising their expectations too high. They used to freak if McFeeble got so much as one B grade. I find it’s best to keep their hopes low, that way you avoid them getting disappointed and making your life miserable. They were only interested in the heavy subjects, so neither of them noticed the crucial entry – Excellent. David has regained his form after some poor performances – but I didn’t point it out in case they sussed about my demotion.
‘At last,’ said Dad as we were driving into Dublin
on Monday morning, ‘I don’t have to hang my head in shame when I go near St Joseph’s.’ He began talking about the glory days when Ian was at the school, winning prize after prize and they’d put on concerts in which he play the piano, play the violin and sing at the same time, like some one-man band.
I was staring at the report card. Something was bothering me. Excellent. David has regained his form after some poor performances. Suddenly it hit me: it was Sullivan’s writing. McCaffrey was still running the squad, but Sullivan had written my report card. Why? I thought back to the scene I had witnessed on my way from Abbas’ house. Sullivan kissing the woman in canary yellow on the evening Helen said he was catching up on schoolwork. I’d seen him clearly, but had he seen me? Was he trying to bribe me to keep my mouth shut? No, that was crazy. My Games performance was Excellent. I deserved to be back on the A team. So, why did it make me feel uneasy?
‘Get a move on, Dad.’ The traffic had slowed to a halt a few miles from school.
‘What’s got into you?’
‘Don’t want to miss Assembly …’
On Mondays, the Headmaster read out the teams’ results. I wanted to be there when he informed the whole school that, yet again, the A team had lost and the B team had won. But, more importantly, report cards were handed in before Assembly and I wanted to have a look at Abbas’. If McCaffrey’s writing was on it, that would mean mine was the only card written by Sullivan, then I’d know for sure he was trying to bribe me to stay quiet. The traffic was still unmoving. I leapt out of the car. ‘It’ll be faster to run. See you, Dad!’
I ran through the streets, weaving my way through the suited men and women going to work. A few stragglers in school uniform were dragging themselves towards the school gates as the bell rang. I sprinted the last hundred yards, but the door to Assembly was closed. I’d missed my chance. Now I’d just have to wait until Wednesday when the team lists were posted.
My Nutty Neighbours Page 11
