Captain's Day

by Terry Ravenscroft

  “Well I sincerely hope they're better than the last one I bought off you,” said Grover, snootily. “Because it was absolute rubbish.”

  This wasn't the response Tobin had been expecting. 'Let me have a look at them would you?' or 'Have you anything in blue?' or, more hopefully, 'I’ll take half a dozen' being more the sort of reply he'd been looking for, so Grover’s complaint threw him a little. “Pardon, Mr Grover?” he said, after getting over the initial shock.

  “Well it titted, didn’t it.”

  “Titted?”

  “Titted,” repeated Grover. The re-iteration of the unfamiliar word left Tobin none the wiser, judging by the puzzled expression on his face. Grover elucidated. “My wife borrowed it. When I got it back from her she wasn't in it any more but it looked like her tits still were. Completely ruined it of course, there’s no way I can ever wear it again.”

  The last thing Tobin wanted was a dissatisfied customer. In his experience a dissatisfied customer very often became an ex-customer. Which is why he didn’t suggest the first thing to come into his head – that a possible way round the problem was to make a gift of the sweater to Mrs Grover, seeing as how it now had room for her tits in it – but instead employed a little discretion in an attempt to worm his way back into Grover’s good books. “Er… actually, and I’m sure you won’t mind me mentioning this Mr Grover, but I don't think ladies are supposed to wear men's sweaters,” he said, suitably unctuous, before continuing with the learning. “You see ladies sweaters are designed differently than men’s; they're a different shape, to accommodate the breasts. Whereas men's sweaters are….”

  Grover broke in, now getting quite angry about it. “Are you telling me a sweater I paid you the best part of fifty quid for is of such poor quality that it won’t revert back to its former shape just because it’s had a pair of tits in it for a couple of hours?”

  “Well….” said Tobin, searching for but not immediately finding another excuse for what had happened to the sweater.

  Grover didn't give him any more time to come up with one. “Half a dozen Dunlop 65s, if you please!”

  “Yes Mr Grover. At once,” said Tobin, quickly handing Grover a box of Dunlop 65s, then, in another effort to repair the damage. “On the house, of course.”

  “I should bloody well think so too,” said Grover, taking the box and making for the door.

  *

  Fidler drove off the second tee. Taking a triple bogey seven at the first, including the two shot penalty he’d incurred for hitting his first ball out of bounds, had done nothing to improve his temper. However during the short walk from the first green to the second tee he had managed to calm himself down a little, and this time made a much better fist of his drive, the ball on this occasion not veering off line by about a hundred yards to the right and sailing out of bounds, but veering only fifty yards to the right and sailing out of bounds.

  “Shit!” he shouted, as he watched it disappear into the ether and over the perimeter wall.

  “I think another Pinnacle two might be in order, George,” Elwes observed, drily.

  *

  On the third green Arbuthnott had just missed a four-footer to save his par, his ball unfortunately just lipping out of the cup.

  “Oh hard luck, Arby,” Bagley commiserated.

  “The rot’s setting in I see,” observed Chapman, commiseration for Arbuthnott not being on his agenda. “As I seem to recall remarking it would not too long ago.”

  Arbuthnott retrieved his ball from the can, not too disappointed. “Well it's only a bogey,” he consoled himself, “I'm still one under gross.”

  “And it's still early days,” said Chapman portentously, then started the lengthy business of lining up the putt for his par.

  Arbuthnott however was not about to have his convictions shaken by Chapman’s sniping. “It's my day, Gerry. I've told you. It's fated. It is written.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

  The third green at Sunnymere is quite elevated and steeply sloped from back to front. Anyone looking at it from the fairway, or even looking from the front of the green to the back, would see nothing beyond it but the infinity of the sky. Under normal circumstances. Now however, just as Chapman was about to putt, a view that had remained unchanged since the course was laid out over a hundred years earlier was instantly transformed when a large helicopter suddenly erupted from behind the green and commenced to hover some twenty feet overhead, propellers whirling, jet engines howling, a cameraman hanging precariously out of the doorway filming the action on the green.

  “Fuck me!” said Chapman, dropping his putter in alarm.

  Bagley cupped a hand to his mouth and mischievously called in the direction of the first tee, “Chapman's swearing again, Mr Captain!”

  *

  Grover emerged from the pro’s shop where his playing partners for that day, Trevor Armitage and Gerard Stocks, had been waiting patiently for him outside the door whilst discussing their relative chances of lifting the silverware that day, Armitage hopeful, Stocks less so.

  Grover gaily tossed the box of Dunlop 65s up in the air, and caught it. “He'll believe anything, that pro,” he smiled.

  The story of what had happened to his sweater was in fact just that, a story, a lie. Grover had thought for some time that Tobin was just a little bit too cocky with all his sales patter and needed to be taken down a peg or two and the tale of the titted sweater was his way of doing it. That he’d gained a free box of golf balls into the bargain was a bonus.

  “What’s that, Geoff?” said Stocks.

  “Nothing,” replied Grover. But it was far from nothing, and would prove to be as instrumental in spoiling Mr Captain’s Day as Fidler’s habit of always playing Top Flight four balls.

  9.10 a.m.

  R Garland (6)

  T Harris (9)

  J Ifield (9)

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Mr Captain, welcoming to the first tee the fourth threesome that morning. It comprised of Robin Garland, who was the vice captain this year, and his playing partners Terry Harris and Justin Ifield.

  “Well at the moment it is,” said Ifield, in his naturally gloomy voice.

  “Pardon? What was that you said, Justin?” said Mr Captain, aware of what Ifield had said but not why he’d said it.

  “Well it's going to start raining by eleven-o-clock, isn’t it.”

  “Raining?” This was news to Mr Captain and not news he wanted to hear. “Are you sure?”

  “Cats and dogs. Stair rods. Noah's Ark proportions, I believe. Hope you've got your waterproofs with you Mr Captain, you're certainly going to need them. And a pair of wellington boots. Maybe a rowing boat would help, and a couple of distress flares.”

  Mr Captain looked anxiously at the sky. It was quite blue. “But there isn't a cloud in the sky.”

  “Well I'm only telling you what Fred the Weatherman said on television last night” said Ifield. “And I swear by him. Well I would if I was allowed to swear,” he added, artfully, then went on, “A warm night for the time of the year, minimum temperature fourteen degrees, followed by a promising start to the morning, but by eleven-o-clock this will have deteriorated, dark storm clouds quickly forming, leading to torrential non-stop rain for the rest of the day.” His gloomy voice made the forecast sound even gloomier than he had painted it. “Fine tomorrow,” he concluded, adding insult to injury.

  Mr Captain checked the sky again. It looked as though it would never rain again, never mind in less than two hours’ time. But if it had been on the television weather forecast? They could be wrong of course, but they weren’t all that far out usually, and this wasn’t Michael Fish who had done the forecasting but Fred the Weatherman whose meteorological predictions he knew to be reasonably reliable. “You are quite sure about this are you, Justin?” he asked Ifield again.

  Ifield nodded. “Well that's what Fred said. And I've never known him to be wrong yet. Especially where rain is concerned. He’s very good on rain.
It’ll be coming down in buckets, no doubt about it.”

  “And they do say there’s only two things you can be absolutely certain of coming down,” said Harris, knowledgeably. “Rain, and knickers on a honeymoon.”

  Mr Captain disliked crude talk almost as much as he disliked swearing but was so concerned by Ifield’s weather prediction that he didn’t even bat an eyelid at Harris’s coarseness, far less pull him up about it.

  *

  Not only is golf one of the most expensive sports to take up, it is one of the most difficult to play. It is possible, indeed usual, to pay over a thousand pounds to join a golf club, a further thousand pounds in annual membership fees, in excess of five hundred pounds for a set of clubs and a similar amount in competition fees and sundry expenses, and in return for such a high outlay receive nothing for it but utter frustration, if not humiliation. It is some sort of consolation therefore, and an advantage which golf holds over most other sports, that it is a game which is almost always played in pleasant surroundings. Not for golf the bare enclosed environs of a squash court or the monotony of an endless running track, a muddy rugby pitch or the stark tiled surfaces of a swimming pool. No, by and large the amphitheatre in which the golfer plays his sport is of gently rolling pastures or links land, trees and bushes of every known variety lining the fairways as they wind their broad green swathe from tee to green, with perhaps some colourful clumps of gorse and heather here and there, enhanced by little swales and hillocks, maybe a small stream criss-crossing the fairway at various points as it threads a path through the course, with very often a lake or two thrown in for good measure.

  An added attraction is that when a golfer goes about his golf he is much nearer to nature than is the participator in most other sports. There are birds to see and hear, ducks, geese, pied wagtails, jays, kingfishers; there are small mammals to observe, squirrels, rabbits, stoats, weasels, maybe a fox or a deer if one is lucky; there are insects, dragonflies, butterflies and moths; and there are wild flowers and colourful shrubs to see and smell. And as the golfer proceeds on his way through the course, from driving off at the first tee until putting out on the eighteenth green, he can continually drink from his surroundings, take sustenance from them, so that even if he is having a bad day as far as the golf is concerned his journey will not have been a complete waste of time. Not without good reason did Mark Twain once comment that golf is a good walk spoilt.

  Sunnymere Golf Club was especially blessed. A member of a visiting party once remarked that he always enjoyed playing there as the course was so picturesque that he didn't really mind how well or badly he played. Located in the Derbyshire Dales, itself considered by many to be the brightest jewel in England's crown, not only was the golf course itself set in beautiful countryside but it was surrounded by even more beautiful countryside, and as far as the eye could see.

  The area around Sunnymere attracted many visitors, and at 9.10 a.m. on Captain's Day it had attracted two such visitors to the small copse just to the left of the limestone boundary wall bordering the second fairway. They were two young lovers, Dean Shawcross and his girlfriend Gemma Higginbottom, he eighteen years old, she a year younger. Who at the moment were loving. At least that's what Gemma called it. Dean called it getting his end away. And Gemma was loving, and Dean was getting his end away, as naked as the day they were born. In the nuddy as Gemma called it. Strip bollock naked as Dean called it.

  Their coupling in the woods was born of necessity rather than any desire to fornicate al fresco. He wanted to make love, she wanted to make love, but there was nowhere for them to make it. He shared a bedroom with two older and inconsiderate brothers, who, far from keeping out of the way for an hour or so in order that he and his girlfriend might have the privacy of the bedroom to themselves, were far more likely to burst in on their lovemaking just for the fun of it; she had her own bedroom, but along with it a very strict mother who would ‘have none of that sort of thing going off under my roof, young lady'. Whenever the two young lovers had the opportunity to be together it seemed there was always somebody in Dean's house and always somebody in Gemma's house. This was especially true of Gemma’s house if Dean happened to be in it, Gemma’s mother making sure of that. So they made love wherever they could, and today they were making it in the copse by the second fairway at Sunnymere; and going at it as if their lives depended on it.

  *

  Yet another advantage that golf enjoys over most other sports is that it provides almost constant opportunity to engage one’s playing partners in conversation, particularly on the walk between shots. (This maxim applies only to the better golfers who hit the ball reasonably straight, and not of course to the poorer golfers who, once they have left the tee, rarely meet up again until they reach the green.)

  During the game of football a conversation is hardly viable, most talk on the field of play being limited to calling for the ball, shouting 'Our ball!' to the referee whenever the ball goes over a by-line whether the player thinks it is his team’s ball or not, telling a fellow team member to get his bleeding finger out, and calling a member of the opposing team a dirty bastard who will very soon be getting what’s fucking coming to him. Tennis too has few possibilities for a pleasant chat; the players are rarely within hearing distance of each other except when they're both at the net, and on those occasions they are far too busy trying to hit the ball back to exchange the latest gossip. As for boxing, well one certainly gets close enough to the man one is fighting to have a natter, as Muhammad Ali has proved with great wit, but both the wearing of a gum shield and the fact that you are constantly being batted round the head by your opponent does little to encourage any conversation other than the odd cry of “Ow, that hurt!”

  Golf however throws up many chances for a chat and as Garland, Harris and Ifield were making their way up the first fairway together they were taking the first such opportunity the morning’s round had thrown up.

  “I saw the weather forecast last night,” remarked Harris, to Ifield. “The man didn't say anything about the weather turning; on the contrary he said it was going to be bright and sunny all day.”

  “It is.”

  “Then why did you tell Mr Captain it was going to rain?”

  “To give the self-satisfied prick something to worry about,” said Ifield. He smiled. “We don't want him enjoying his Captain's Day too much, do we.”

  “How much longer do we have to put up with the tit for anyway?” said Harris.

  “Another nine months,” said Garland, sadly.

  “Christ, is it that long? You've got time to have a baby in nine months.”

  “I think I'd rather have a baby than stick another nine months of Henry Fridlington,” said Harris. “I could put up with all the morning sickness and sore nipples and eating coal sandwiches.”

  “Me too,” said Garland. “I’m not too sure about the pain of giving birth though,” he added, after a moment’s reflection.

  “That’s exaggerated, Mr Vice,” said Ifield. “Women make out it’s a lot worse than it is so you’ll feel sorry for them.”

  “I think you could be right there,” agreed Harris. “My grandmother used to say giving birth is only like having a good shit. Mind you, she had fourteen children so by the time she had the fourteenth it probably was like having a good shit.”

  “My grandmother actually gave birth to my Uncle Reg when she was having a shit,” said Ifield. “So she’d know for definite.”

  “When she was having a shit?”

  “Yes. Apparently she went to the bathroom for a shit, squeezed like you do, and out came my Uncle Reg along with the shit. She had to haul him out of the lavatory pan by the umbilical cord, smartish. It was only that that stopped him drowning. They were thinking of calling him Lucky before they settled for Reg.”

  They walked silently for a while, possibly marvelling at the twin miracles of childbirth and having a good shit, before Garland thought of another topic he felt worthy of giving an airing.

 
“When I take over as Mr Captain next year I'm going to have a compulsory beer tent. Every player in my Captain’s Day competition will have to get a minimum of four pints of bitter or six shorts down him before he’s allowed to continue his round.”

  “And no ladies,” said Harris.

  “Well only if you can manage one after the four pints of bitter or six shorts.”

  All three of them laughed hugely at Garland's chauvinistic aside, then Ifield produced a packet of sweets from his golf bag and offered them round. “Fancy a mint, Mr Vice?”

  “Do bears shit in the woods?” said Garland, helping himself to a mint.

  *

  True to form Red Arrow member Charlie Carter sprayed his tee shot at the second hole fifty yards to the left, whereupon his ball came to rest ten yards or so into the light rough, close by the wall bordering the fairway. He had almost reached the errant sphere and was wondering what sort of a lie he would find it in when an unfamiliar noise to his right captured his attention. He peered over the wall, down into the little copse, and immediately saw the reason for the strange noise. It was a couple making love, the noise being unfamiliar to him as it had been a long time since Carter, now in his early seventies, had had the pleasure of making love, and had completely forgotten what it sounded like.

  In the Year of Our Lord 2010 the sight of a couple copulating is quite commonplace. One has only to switch on the television set or visit a cinema and it is bound to appear sooner or later, probably sooner, but the sight of two fit-looking young people making love in the flesh, and with such joyful abandon, was not something one saw every day. A considerate man, Carter immediately thought that his playing partners might like to view the spectacle. Consequently he waved to attract the attention of Bradley and Abbott, some fifty and a hundred yards away respectively, and having gained their attention beckoned them over to join him. They made their way over and as they drew nearer to him Carter put a finger to his lips as a warning for them to keep quiet. Once they had joined him, and after Abbott had remarked that he had never been on this side of the course before and how nice it was, especially the rhododendron bushes, Carter drew their attention to Dean and Gemma, who were still going at it like knives.