Abbott was immediately in awe at the sight set out before him. “Jesus, watch the bugger go,” he whispered.
“Like the piston on an 0-6-0 shunter,” said Bradley, a trainspotting anorak, keeping his voice down.
“And not a stitch on,” said Carter, like Bradley keeping his voice down, but not making any attempt to keep the excitement out of it. “Naked as nature intended!”
“Certainly brings back memories,” said Abbott, who at seventy six was even older than Carter.
“No age either, by the look of them,” observed Bradley. “When I was that age I hadn't even had a feel of a titty except through a duffel coat, and even then she made me wear gloves.”
“Yes, we were born fifty years too soon lads,” said Carter, wistfully. “I even missed out on the Swinging Sixties by ten years.”
“Me too,” said Abbott. “But even the Swinging Sixties didn’t swing anything like as much as things do nowadays.”
They looked down fondly and a little jealously on the coupling couple, for it really was a sight to behold. For the act of love is only rarely engaged in by people blessed with such slim, toned and tanned bodies as those of Dean and Gemma, more typically being performed by couples who carry a generous surplus of white flesh, with the result that the union resembles something akin to a third-rate wrestling bout with added juices, rather than the thing of beauty it was with the two young lovers.
The three watched a little longer, then Carter said, “Come on, we'd best be off, it's making me feel randy and that won't do my game any good at all, I don’t know if I’d be able to putt with a hard on.”
“It might help you to keep your head still,” said Abbott.
“It wouldn’t help him keep his arse still,” said Bradley.
And that would have been that. But just at that moment, and accompanied by a joyous moan from Gemma and an enormous grunt from Dean, the couple reached their climax together, and as they came Gemma opened her eyes. And over Dean’s shoulder saw the Red Arrows gazing down at her. She shrieked at least as loud as Fay Wray had when she first set eyes on King Kong, at the same time pointing an accusing finger at them. Concerned for his lover, Dean turned to look at the cause of her anguish. Seeing the three accidental voyeurs he screamed at the top of his voice, “You fucking dirty old men!” at the same time uncoupling himself from his amour and turning to face them.
“Bloody hell!” said Carter.
“Shit! “ said Abbott.
“Bloody shit!” said Bradley
Rage contorting his handsome young features Dean sprang to his feet, shook his fist at the Red Arrows and warned, “Just wait till I get my hands on you, you dirty old buggers!”
Dean was a big lad for his age, six feet two inches tall and well-built, with wide shoulders and a great six-pack, a fact already noted by Carter, hence his anxiety to make himself scarce and with due haste. None of the Red Arrows were anything like so well-built, and if any of them had ever had a six-pack it had long since regressed into a one-pack, and a very large one-pack at that where Abbott and Carter were concerned.
Dean now began to make his way menacingly towards them, and as he showed no signs of letting the wall between them, or his nudity, halt his progress, the Red Arrows knew that the only option open to them was to run for it; to scramble, in Red Arrows parlance. So as one they turned and fled, and on hitting the fairway slipped quite naturally into full Red Arrows mode and peeled off in a sunburst, Abbott heading to his right, Carter to his left, Bradley straight ahead, each of them running as fast as their ancient legs could carry them, which, given that between them they shared an arthritic hip, two arthritic knees, a bad back, a fallen arch, a bunion and two in-growing toenails, wasn’t very fast at all. Dean, having leapt over the wall and observed that the Red Arrows had split up, was faced with the decision of which one of them to chase. Abbott, the fattest of the three, looked to him to be making the heaviest weather of his flight. Dean targeted him and gave chase.
*
Mrs Quayle, Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas, the three ladies entrusted with the task of measuring in the Nearest the Pin competition, were making their way to the thirteenth green. All the ladies were in their fifties. Mrs Quayle was a quite short, petite woman, whereas Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas carried the more generous build more usually associated with lady golfers of their years. Mrs Rattray was especially well-upholstered, and the possessor of two very large breasts and a no less impressively proportioned behind. She had wisely made use of her twin physical attributes in developing her quite individual golf swing, which was a thing of no little power, 'All buttocks, bust and thrust' as one of the gentlemen members had once remarked, and perhaps because of it she boasted a handicap of sixteen, well above average for a lady golfer.
The three ladies were dressed in the pastel shades beloved of all lady golfers, and not a few male golfers, skirts for Mrs Rattray and Mrs Salinas, trousers for Mrs Quayle (who liked to keep her legs covered up whenever possible due to the triple afflictions of cellulite, varicose veins and vanity), whilst each had chosen different styles of headgear for the occasion; Mrs Quayle sporting a red and white striped baseball cap, Mrs Rattray a yellow sun visor, whilst Mrs Salinas had plumped for a flower-patterned floppy sun hat. Each of the ladies carried a folding chair in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. As they ambled slowly along the side of the second fairway it looked for all the world as though they were setting out on a summer picnic, which indeed they were, as all three of them viewed their measuring duties in the Nearest the Pin competition as a very poor second to feasting later on their packed lunch of Mrs Rattray’s special cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches, Mrs Quayle’s delicious homemade quiche and Mrs Salinas’s fairy cakes. Washed down with Darjeeling tea from Mrs Quayle’s flask. Mrs Salinas’s flask carried morning coffee for the ladies, Mrs Rattray’s a refreshing iced fruit cup. On the way to their destination the ladies chatted and chattered.
“Well I don't think you can beat Marks and Spencers for curtains,” said Mrs Quayle.
“Debenhams are very good,” offered Mrs Rattray.
“Oh Debenhams are excellent,” agreed Mrs Salinas. “I bought my dining room curtains from Debenhams.”
“The ones with the plates on?” asked Mrs Quayle.
“No, that's my kitchen curtains. They were from Littlewoods. No, my Debenhams curtains have teapots on them.”
“But of course they do!”
“But then Debenhams don't sell food, do they,” observed Mrs Rattray. “So if you're shopping for food and curtains you're better off going to Marks, as you can get both at the same time. Whereas if you go to Debenhams you can't do that.”
“Or Primark,” said Mrs Quayle.
“Or Primark,” agreed Mrs Rattray.
Now, emerging from behind a small hillock on the edge of the fairway, Abbott, running as though his very life depended on it, which may well have been the case, pursued some thirty yards behind by Dean Shawcross, came into view heading in the direction of the clubhouse and beyond it the exit from the course. The spectacle of a fat red-faced pensioner being chased by a completely naked eighteen-year-old is a sight not often seen on a golf course, but far from stopping the ladies in their tracks they didn't even break stride.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Mrs Salinas trilled, before continuing with more important matters. “British Home Stores are quite good for curtains, too,” she opined, switching in a trice the whole of her attention back to Mrs Quayle and Mrs Rattray and the soft furnishings retail industry.
“And light fittings,” said Mrs Quayle, whose attention had never left the soft furnishings retail industry, despite seeing a young man in full frontal mode.
“Oh yes, their light fittings are excellent,” agreed Mrs Rattray. “They’re the absolute best for light fittings, I got my uplighter from British Home Stores. They do a very tasty prawn sandwich too, excellent mayonnaise.”
*
Mr Captain was making his way back to the first tee
after having paid a visit to the beer tent. Drinks wouldn't be served until the first threesome of Arbuthnott, Bagley and Chapman arrived there after completing the ninth hole, in around an hour's time, but he had wanted to assure himself that everything there was shipshape and Bristol fashion. After all, it would be the venue where he would be entertaining no less a personage than His Worshipful the Lord Mayor of Sunnymere, who was scheduled to arrive at eleven twenty, and he didn’t want to risk anything being less than perfect for the occasion. If Captain's Day was the highlight of Mr Captain's year of office then the Mayoral visit would be the piece de resistance of his Captain's Day.
There had never before been a Mayoral visit in the entire one hundred and ten year history of Sunnymere Golf Club. Mr Captain had checked. There had been members of the golf club who had been Lord Mayor, indeed one of them had been Lord Mayor at the same time as he had been captain, but that was an altogether different thing, so the first ever Mayoral visit would be a huge feather in his cap. His Worship would be paying only a flying visit, true, between opening the new council-funded skateboard & tattooing centre and closing the council-run old folks’ home due to lack of resources, but he would of course be returning in the evening to be guest of honour at the dinner and dance.
Mr Captain had his wife to thank for coming up with the idea. Millicent was a collector of miniature china figurines, and as such was a regular customer of China Times, a gift shop in the town which sold delicate porcelain at indelicate prices. The shop was owned and run by Edna Burroughs, the wife of the current Lord Mayor. Both Millicent and Edna were members of the local bridge circle and over the years had become, if not close friends, then friendly acquaintances. So much so that when Mr Captain had expressed a desire for something that would make his Captain's Day special, something out of the ordinary that would make it stand out from other Captain's Days, Millicent had thought immediately of her connection with the wife of the Lord Mayor, and through her with the Lord Mayor himself. Within twenty four hours, which was as long as it took for Millicent to purchase five hundred pounds worth of porcelain from China Times and for news of her purchase to reach the ears of the Lord Mayor via his wife, the Mayoral visit had been arranged. Mr Captain had been doubly pleased. Not only would the visit of the Lord Mayor bring him much esteem, but it could very well lead to he himself becoming Lord Mayor one day, an ambition he had been harbouring for quite some time.
To become Lord Mayor would of course first necessitate his being voted onto the local town council, which until now had been the stumbling block in the road to his ambitions. So far as Mr Captain could see there were two ways which would ensure that enough of the electorate voted for you to give you a seat on the town council; by becoming a popular member of the community through being a do-gooder who worked hard for those people less fortunate than himself, and who championed the causes of the underdog; or by being recognised as a natural leader of men.
Mr Captain knew that if he were to remain true to his beliefs he could never become a councillor by the former method. He didn't believe in putting himself out for others, quite the opposite, he had always held the opinion that if you worked hard for people less fortunate than yourself they would simply take advantage of you, when what they should be doing is asking themselves why they were less fortunate than you in the first place and damn well doing something about it. As for championing the underdog, let the underdog get up off his idle backside and champion himself if he wanted to make something of himself. However, now that he was captain of the local golf club, and especially now it would be seen by all and sundry that he was a friend of the present Lord Mayor, a man with whom he happened to share the same political leanings, there was every chance he might be recognised as a natural leader of men.
It certainly wouldn't be for want of trying; that much was for sure. The local newspaper had been informed of the occasion and had agreed to send along a reporter and photographer to cover the event, and the local radio station had promised to send someone along to report on the day’s proceedings. After that it would simply be a matter of getting the Lord Mayor to endorse his nomination for the next local elections, and he would be on his way.
*
Having hit their drives at the par four fourth, Elwes and Dawson were standing at the side of the tee waiting for Fidler to tee off.
“Will you be calling in at the nineteenth for a couple later?” asked Elwes of Dawson.
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?” said Dawson.
“Quiet!” barked Fidler. “On the tee!”
Dawson and Elwes stopped talking, respecting their playing partner’s right to total silence while he was making his shot. Fidler hit his drive and anxiously watched the flight of his ball. His tee shot at the previous hole had been much better, more like one of his usual drives, finding the fairway for the first time that day, but this time his drive was just as wild as the first two had been. On this occasion however his ball didn't go out of bounds, but only because a copse of tall trees bordering the fairway stopped it from doing so. The ball ricocheted from tree to tree half a dozen times, much like a ball in a pinball machine. Whenever this happens - as it often does in club golf - and if you are in luck, the last ricochet can deposit the ball on the fairway. Fidler was not in luck and his ball came to rest somewhere, he knew not where, deep in the trees. Dawson and Elwes cringed as they waited for the expected outburst from Fidler. They didn’t have long to wait.
“This is you two, all this,” Fidler raged. “This is your doing. I always hit everything dead straight when I play Top Flight fours!”
“Yes, I'm hitting Top Flight fours pretty straight myself,” said Elwes agreeably, then added, “But then of course I usually am fairly straight.”
“I'd be fairly fucking straight if I was playing Top Flight fours,” Fidler ranted.
“Oh come on George, you can't blame your wild hitting on the type of ball you’re using,” scoffed Dawson.
“It is the bloody ball! It is! I'm as straight as a die with Top Flight fours.”
Elwes goaded Fidler further. “It's a bad workman who blames his tools.”
“It's you two tools who I'm blaming. As well as the bloody ball.”
“You’d better play a provisional,” Elwes advised. He took a ball from his golf bag. “Here, try one of my Top Flight fours since you hit them so straight.” He produced a felt tip pen. “I'll mark it so it can't get mixed up with my Top Flight four.”
“There's no chance of that happening Tony,” said Dawson, as adept at stirring as was Elwes. “Your ball will be the one on the fairway.”
Fidler, just about managing to stop himself rising to the bait, accepted the marked ball from Elwes. After taking a few seconds to compose himself, and taking great care in taking up his stance and lining himself up with the intended target, he finally settled over the ball. He was just about to start taking the club back when the helicopter suddenly appeared as if from nowhere, crossing the fairway some hundred yards ahead, at a height of about thirty feet. Fidler, having been warned by Mr Captain about the helicopter, was not surprised by its appearance, and although annoyed, simply stood back and watched it until it had disappeared from view, then went through the whole setting up procedure again, if anything even more meticulously than before. Then he drove off. This time the ball hit the fairway, plumb centre. Unfortunately, due to a violent hook, it wasn't the fairway of the hole he was playing but the fairway of the eleventh hole, which ran parallel to the fourth.
“Shit!” said Fidler.
“Maybe you could get the helicopter pilot to spot for you?” suggested Elwes.
Fidler fixed him. “And maybe you could keep your fucking great trap of a mouth shut.”
*
Mr Captain arrived back at the first tee just in time to welcome the next three ball of Trevor Armitage, Gerard Stock and George Grover.
“How's it all going then, Mr Captain?” said Grover. “Your Captain's Day?”
“Oh excellent, George.
Quite excellent. All I could have hoped for. I had to put Richard Irwin in his place about the ladies, but apart from that there has not been even a minor blip.”
No sooner had the words left Mr Captain’s mouth than the first minor blip arrived in the shape of Abbott. Quickly followed by a major blip in the shape of the naked Dean Shawcross. Fortunately for Abbott, with Dean by now almost upon him, his route off the golf course took him across the gravel path that led from the clubhouse to the first tee, and when Dean followed him onto the path the sharp gravel chippings dug into his feet and immediately brought him hopping to a stop.
In the meantime Abbott sped on. Dean saw there was nothing for it but to abandon the chase and contented himself with shaking a fist after Abbott and shouting, “Wait till I get my hands on you, I'll tear you apart you dirty old get!” Then he noticed Mr Captain and the others, who were staring at him, open-mouthed. He returned their stares with a hostile glare and said: “And who the hell do you lot think you are staring at?”
Mr Captain could scarcely believe his eyes. A naked man on the golf course? On Captain's Day? He was apoplectic, completely lost for words. Observing that Dean had turned and was about to start making his way back from whence he came he just about managed to find a few. “What...what is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Oh fuck off, Granddad,” said Dean, and started to depart the scene.
Mr Captain was outraged. “Come back here at once!” he called after him. “This instant. Do you hear me? This is private land. You are trespassing.”
Captain's Day Page 6
